Title: The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. XX, No. 986, November 19, 1898
Author: Various
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. XX, No. 986, November 19, 1898" ***


[Illustration: THE GIRL'S OWN PAPER

VOL. XX.--NO. 986.]      NOVEMBER 19, 1898.      [PRICE ONE PENNY.]



ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.

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

[Illustration: SWEET SYMPATHY.]

_All rights reserved._]


CHAPTER VII.

Peggy looked very sad and wan after her mother's departure, but her
companions soon discovered that anything like out-spoken sympathy was
unwelcome. The redder her eyes, the more erect and dignified was her
demeanour; if her lips trembled when she spoke, the more grandiose and
formidable became her conversation, for Peggy's love of long words and
high-sounding expressions was fully recognised by this time, and caused
much amusement in the family.

A few days after Mrs. Saville sailed, a welcome diversion arrived in
the shape of the promised camera. The Parcels Delivery van drove up to
the door, and two large cases were delivered, one of which was found
to contain the camera itself, the tripod and a portable dark room,
while the other held such a collection of plates, printing-frames and
chemicals as delighted the eyes of the beholders. It was the gift of
one who possessed not only a deep purse, but a most true and thoughtful
kindness, for when young people are concerned, two-thirds of the
enjoyment of any present is derived from the possibility of being able
to put it to immediate use. As it was a holiday afternoon, it was
unanimously agreed to take two groups and develop them straightway.

"Professional photographers are so dilatory," said Peggy severely; "and
indeed, I have noticed that amateurs are even worse. I have twice been
photographed by friends, and they have solemnly promised to send me
a copy within a few days. I have waited, consumed by curiosity, and,
my dears, it has been months before it has arrived. Now we will make
a rule to finish off our groups at once, and not keep people waiting
until all the interest has died away. There's no excuse for such
dilatory behaviour!"

"There is some work to do, remember, Peggy. You can't get a photograph
by simply taking off and putting on the cap; you must have a certain
amount of time and fine weather. I haven't had much experience, but I
remember thinking that photographs were jolly cheap considering all the
trouble they cost, and wondered how the fellows could do them at the
price. There's the developing, and washing, and printing, and toning,
half-a-dozen processes before you are finished."

Peggy smiled in a patient, forbearing manner.

"They don't get any less, do they, by putting them off? Procrastination
will never lighten labour. Come, put the camera up for us, like a good
boy, and we'll show you how to do it." She waved her hand towards
the brown canvas bag, and the six young people immediately seized
different portions of the tripod and camera, and set to work to put
them together. The girls tugged and pulled at the sliding legs, which
were too new and stiff to work with ease; Maxwell turned the screws
which moved the bellows, and tried in vain to understand their working;
Robert peered through the lenses, and Oswald alternately raved, chided,
and jeered at their efforts. With so many cooks at work, it took an
unconscionable time to get ready, and even when the camera was perched
securely on its spidery legs, it still remained to choose the site of
the picture, and to pose the victims. After much wandering about the
garden, it was finally decided that the schoolroom window would be
an appropriate background for a first effort, but a long and heated
argument followed before the second question could be decided.

"I vote that we stand in couples, arm-on-arm, like this," said
Mellicent, sidling up to her beloved brother, and gazing into his face
in a sentimental manner, which had the effect of making him stride away
as fast as he could walk, muttering indignant protests beneath his
breath.

Then Esther came forward with her suggestion.

"I'll hold a book as if I were reading aloud, and you can all sit round
in easy, natural positions, and look as if you were listening. I think
that would make a charming picture."

"Idiotic, I call it! 'Scene from the Goodchild family; mamma reading
aloud to the little ones.' Couldn't possibly look easy and natural
under the circumstances; should feel too miserable. Try again, my dear.
You must think of something better than that."

It was impossible to please those three fastidious boys. One suggestion
after another was made, only to be waved aside with lordly contempt,
until at last the girls gave up any say in the matter, and left Oswald
to arrange the group in a manner highly satisfactory to himself and his
two friends, however displeasing to the more artistic members of the
party. Three girls in front, two boys behind, all standing stiff and
straight as pokers; with solemn faces and hair much tangled by constant
peepings beneath the black cloth. Peggy in the middle, with her
eyebrows more peaked than ever, and an expression of resigned martyrdom
on her small, pale face; Mellicent, large and placid, on the left;
Esther on the right, scowling at nothing, and, over their shoulders,
the two boys' heads, handsome Max, and frowning Robert.

"There," cried Oswald, "that's what I call a sensible arrangement!
If you take a photograph, _take_ a photograph, and don't try to do a
pastoral play at the same time. Keep still a moment now, and I will
see if it is focused all right. I can see you pulling faces, Peggy;
it's not at all becoming. Now then, I'll put in the plate--that's the
way!--one--two--three--and I shall take you. Stea--dy!"

Instantly Mellicent burst into giggles of laughter, and threw up her
hands to her face, to be roughly seized from behind and shaken into
order.

"Be quiet, you silly thing! Didn't you hear him say steady? What are
you trying to do?"

"She has spoiled this plate, anyhow," said Oswald icily. "I'll try the
other, and if she can't keep still this time, she had better run away
and laugh by herself at the other end of the garden. Baby!"

"Not a ba----" began Mellicent indignantly; but she was immediately
punched into order, and stood with her mouth wide open, waiting to
finish her protest so soon as the ordeal was over.

Peggy forestalled her, however, with an eager plea to be allowed to
take the third picture herself.

"I want to have one of Oswald to send to mother, for we are not
complete without him, and I know it would please her to think I had
taken it myself," she urged; and permission was readily granted, as
everyone felt that she had a special claim in the matter. Oswald
therefore put in new plates, gave instructions as to how the shutters
were to be worked, and retired to take up an elegant position in the
centre of the group.

"Are you read--ee?" cried Peggy, in professional sing-song; then she
put her head on one side and stared at them with twinkling eyes.
"Hee, hee! How silly you look! Everyone has a new expression for the
occasion! Your own mothers would not recognise you! That's better. Keep
that smile going for another moment, and--how long must I keep off the
cap, did you say?"

Oswald hesitated.

"Well, it varies. You have to use your own judgment. It depends
upon--lots of things! You might try one second for the first, and two
for the next, then one of them is bound to be right."

"And one a failure! If I were going to depend on my judgment, I'd have
a better one than that!" cried Peggy scornfully. "Ready. A little
more cheerful, if you please--Christmas is coming! That's one. Be so
good as to remain in your positions, ladies and gentlemen, and I'll
try another." The second shutter was pulled out, the cap removed, and
the group broke up with sighs of relief, exhausted with the strain of
cultivating company smiles for a whole two minutes on end. Max stayed
to help the girls to fold up the camera, while Oswald darted into the
house to prepare the dark room for the development of the plates.

When he came out, ten minutes later on, it was a pleasant surprise to
discover Miss Mellicent holding a plate in her hand and taking sly
peeps inside the shutter, just "to see how it looked." He stormed and
raved; Mellicent looked like a martyr, wished to know how a teeny
little light like that could possibly hurt anything, and seemed
incapable of understanding that if one flash of sunlight could make
a picture, it could also destroy it with equal swiftness. Oswald was
forced to comfort himself with the reflection that there were still
three plates left; and, when all was ready, the six operators squeezed
themselves in the dark room, to watch the process of development,
indulging the while in the most flowery expectations.

"If it is very good, let me send it to an illustrated paper. Oh, do!"
said Mellicent, with a gush. "I have often seen groups of people in
them. 'The thing-a-me-bob touring company,' and stupid old cricketers,
and things like that. We should be far more interesting."

"It will make a nice present for mother, enlarged and mounted," said
Peggy thoughtfully. "I shall keep an album of my own, and mount every
single picture we take. If there are any failures, I shall put them in
too, for they will make it all the more amusing. Photograph albums are
horribly uninteresting as a rule, but mine will be quite different.
There shall be nothing stiff and prim about it; the photographs will be
dotted about in all sorts of positions, and underneath each I shall put
in--ah--conversational annotations." Her tongue lingered over the words
with triumphant enjoyment. "Conversational annotations, describing the
circumstances under which it was taken, and anything about it which is
worth remembering.... What are you going to do with those bottles?"

Oswald ruffled his hair in embarrassment. To pose as an instructor in
an art, when one is in doubt about its very rudiments, is a position
which has its drawbacks.

"I don't--quite--know. The stupid fellow has written instructions on
all the other labels, and none on these except simply 'Developer No.
1' and 'Developer No. 2;' I think the only difference is that one is
rather stronger than the other. I'll put some of the No. 2 in a dish
and see what happens; I believe that's the right way--in fact, I'm sure
it is. You pour it over the plate and jog it about, and in two or three
minutes the picture ought to begin to appear. Like this."

Five eager faces peered over his shoulders, rosy red in the light of
the lamp; five pairs of lips uttered a simultaneous "oh!" of surprise;
five cries of dismay followed in instant echo. It was the tragedy of
a second. Even as Oswald poured the fluid over the plate, a picture
flashed before their eyes, each one saw and recognised some fleeting
feature; and, in the very moment of triumph, lo, darkness, as of night,
a sheet of useless, blackened glass!

"What about the conversational annotations?" asked Robert slyly; but he
was interrupted by a storm of indignant queries, levied at the head of
the poor operator, who tried in vain to carry off his mistake with a
jaunty air. Now that he came to think of it, he believed you _did_ mix
the two developers together! Just at the moment he had forgotten the
proportions, but he would go outside and look it up in the book; and
he beat a hasty retreat, glad to escape from the scene of his failure.
It was rather a disconcerting beginning, but hope revived once more
when Oswald returned, primed with information from the _Photographic
Manual_, and Peggy's plates were taken from their case and put into the
bath. This time the result was slow in coming. Five minutes went by,
and no signs of a picture, ten minutes, a quarter of an hour.

"It's a good thing to develop slowly; you get the details better," said
Oswald, in so professional a matter that he was instantly reinstated
in public confidence; but when twenty minutes had passed, he looked
perturbed, and thought he would use a little more of the hastener.
The bath was strengthened and strengthened, but still no signs of a
picture. The plate was put away in disgust, and the second one tried
with a like result. So far as it was possible to judge, there was
nothing to be developed on the plate.

"A nice photographer you are, I must say! What are you playing at now?"
asked Max, in scornful impatience, and Oswald turned severely to Peggy--

"Which shutter did you draw out? The one nearest to yourself?"

"Yes, I did--of course I did!"

"You drew out the nearest to you, and the farthest away from the lens?"

"Precisely--I told you so!" and Peggy bridled with an air of virtue.

"Then no wonder nothing has come out! You have drawn out the wrong
shutter each time, and the plates have never been exposed. They are
wasted! That's fivepence simply _thrown_ away, to say nothing of the
chemicals!"

His air of aggrieved virtue; Peggy's little face staring at him, aghast
with horror; the thought of four plates being used and leaving not a
vestige of a result were all too funny to be resisted. Mellicent went
off into irrepressible giggles; Max gave a loud "Ha, ha!" and once
again a mischievous whisper sounded in Peggy's ear--

"Good for you, Mariquita! What about the conversational annotations?"

(_To be continued._)



SOME PRACTICAL HINTS ON COSMETIC MEDICINE.

BY "THE NEW DOCTOR."


PART IV.

THE HANDS.

The appearance of the hands is secondary only to that of the face, and
many women pride themselves upon their beautiful white hands. But it
is not everybody who can have white hands. Manual labour will always
make the hands red and rough, and no amount of applications will whiten
them. General servants and laundry women cannot expect their hands to
remain white. It is interesting to see why house labour should injure
the appearance of the hands in this way. In the first place the hands
must get a good deal knocked about by the rough work necessary in a
household. Laying fires, cleaning grates, blacking boots, etc., make
the hands rough from inflicting numerous small injuries upon them. You
all know that if you cut your finger the place remains hard and horny
for some time afterwards, and so hands that are exposed to rough usage
will also get horny and coarse. Then, again, rough red hands, being
less delicate, are better fitted to do hard work, and so Nature, who
cares more for usefulness than for idle beauty, will tend to make the
hands of those who do manual labour hard and coarse. Another reason why
servants so often have red hands is the constant use of soda and water,
which is necessary for cleaning the house. Soda is very bad for the
hands, and this, together with the impossibility of keeping the hands
dry, is another cause of red hands.

With a little care, nearly everybody can have white hands. Even in
those who have to work hard a little care will often do wonders to
keep the hands from becoming very red--not from becoming red slightly,
for nothing will prevent this. When you wash your hands, always dry
them afterwards on a fairly rough towel. In winter you should be very
careful about thoroughly drying your hands, as it takes very little to
produce chaps.

If you are desirous of having white hands, always wear gloves when you
go out. This, indeed, will do more than anything else to keep the hands
white.

In the winter most persons suffer from chaps. These are a more
pronounced and more acute form of "red hands." But they are often very
painful, and if not properly treated are apt to be very persistent and
unsightly.

Prevention is better than cure, and we can do a considerable amount
to prevent our hands from becoming chapped. It is the cold wind
that produces chaps, and so, if you would be freed from this evil,
you should always wear thick gloves when you go out in a strong
north-easter. I have already mentioned that you should dry your hands
very carefully after washing. If you are very liable to chaps, you
should not wash your hands in cold water, but only use warm water, not
hot (for this is worse than cold water for producing chaps), but just
slightly warm. You must also be careful about the soap you use, as
coarse alkaline soaps are very bad, and make chapped hands smart.

If the chaps are not very bad, a little glycerine and rose-water may be
applied after washing. This is very efficacious in a mild case, but it
is insufficient in more severe grades of the affection. The following
preparation I have found invaluable for severe chaps--sulphate of zinc,
two grains; compound tincture of lavender, one dram; glycerine, three
drams; rose-water to the ounce.

A very much worse affair than chaps is a chilblain. Indeed, a bad
broken chilblain is a very serious and unpleasant matter. Chilblains
may occur in anyone, but they are most common in persons in whom the
circulation is feeble. I have seen a terribly bad chilblain in an
anæmic girl. Moreover, when the circulation is below par, chilblains do
not heal properly, and give great trouble often for months together.

Warm gloves, warm stockings, loose-fitting boots, and flannel next the
skin all over the body, are the best safeguards against this complaint.
As chilblains are a kind of minor frostbite, keeping warm will
necessarily prevent them, but it is very difficult for a person with
feeble circulation to keep warm.

If you have a chilblain coming do not scratch it, for this makes it far
worse. Bathe the part gently in warm spirit and water, and wrap the
finger or toe, whichever it is, in a thick layer of cotton wool. If you
do this you will probably prevent the chilblains from bursting.

There are a large number of messy preparations made of lard, dripping,
tallow, cream, and other "pantry drugs," which are advised for
chilblains. They are none of them any good. A broken chilblain is a
septic wound, that is, it is a wound that contains germs. It should
therefore be treated as a septic wound. Wash the place gently in
diluted carbolic acid lotion (1 in 80), or warm solution of boracic
acid. Then cover the broken surface thickly with powdered boracic acid,
and put on a bandage. If you do this, and attend to your general health
at the same time, you get rid of your chilblains more rapidly than by
any other method.

Warts are more common on the hands than anywhere else. Of their cause
we know but little. Irritation sometimes causes them, and they are to
a certain extent infectious from place to place. We used to be taught
that lady-birds produced or cured them, according to which version of
the story we heard. There is about an equal amount of truth in each
doctrine.

The best way to treat warts is to first soak the hand in hot water,
and clean it thoroughly with soap. Then paint the skin surrounding the
wart with vaseline, and drop on to the wart itself one drop of glacial
acetic acid. Wait one minute, and then well rub the wart over with a
stick of lunar caustic (silver nitrate). This treatment may require to
be repeated, but I have never known it to fail.

(_To be continued._)



GIRLS AS I HAVE KNOWN THEM.

BY ELSA D'ESTERRE-KEELING, Author of "Old Maids and Young."


PART II.

THE WITTY GIRL.

    "She is pretty to walk with,
    And witty to talk with,
    And pleasant, too, to think on."

First let us understand each other.

By the witty girl is not here meant the girl--if such a girl
exists--whose conversation has the high brilliancy which characterises
the conversation of certain men and women.

No. The thing here meant is nothing more than the common domestic
wit-snapper, generally, say her enemies, more of a snapper than a wit,
concerning which statement it is perhaps not unpermissible to say that
he who makes it shows himself to be less a wit than a snapper.

While all but invariably of a character that loses much by the process
of retailing, the wit of the girl here in view will sometimes bear
being brought to book. The samples of it given in this paper are all
authentic and heretofore unpublished. They do not, perhaps, reach a
high standard of excellence, but they who know girls will concede that
they are good girl-wit of the middle order.

Take a case like this: "My name is May. I feel I am reaching the age
when I should be called Hawthorn."

Or take this: "Your mother will miss you when you marry."

"No--then she'll 'Mrs.' me."

Such jests are the _bric-à-brac_ of home conversation, and make it
pretty.

He who listens to the talk between girls and their brothers will
sometimes hear a thing worth noting, in compensation for the many
things not worth noting which--if the truth is to be told--he will also
hear.

The following does not show young Ethel at her best, but it also does
not show her at her worst.

"D'you know, Jim," she said, "that two-year-old babies can marry on
Jupiter?"

"Don't talk bosh, Ethel!"

"But they can. It's this way. A year on Jupiter is eleven years and ten
months of our time, so the two-year-old babies are grown up. Ee--you
didn't know that!"

[Illustration: A runaway match on Jupiter the bride being under age]

Jim said nothing. But when young Ethel exploited her astronomy with
Bob, she found her overmatch. This is precisely what was said by them--

_Bob:_ "One can hear your voice ten miles off, Ethel."

_Y. E.:_ "Make it nine, Bob?"

_Bob:_ "Why?"

_Y. E.:_ "Nine miles is the greatest distance at which thunder can be
heard."

_Bob:_ "TIT-BITS."

The fact is that young Ethel is less an astronomer than a student of
current periodical literature. What matters it, after all, however,
whence she gleans her general information, if her reading enables her
to say--as I once heard her say--with veritable wit, to a girl who was
wearing a primrose brooch--

"Blossom and leaves of the primrose are ---- Radical."

There are funny men in Parliament who have never said anything much
more funny than that.

In her captious mood the witty girl is very terrible. A North Briton
has been thus described by her: "A big, lumpy, pale-faced, red-haired,
freckled Scotchman," and it was a witty, but captious, girl who said of
a certain pianist, a concert given by whom she had attended, "His feet
obscured the platform."

[Illustration: A pianist's great feet]

The literary appreciations of the witty girl are few. She is apt, in
appraising poets, to take them at their weakest rather than at their
strongest. She judges Wordsworth by his "Idiot Boy," and she would be
capable of passing sentence on Cowper as having cut in his door three
holes of different sizes for his tom-cat, his tabby cat and his kitten.

[Illustration: She thinks him a victim of heredity

WORDSWORTH'S IDIOT BOY]

Yet another tendency of the witty girl which must be strongly
deprecated, is to harp on phrases which may have once had a faintly
comical ring, but which have long lost it; such phrases as, "Where
does this live?" applied to inanimate objects, or, "Hang on to this,"
used in reference to objects held in the hand. It would be interesting
to know who first evolved these mild witticisms destined to win such
enduring popularity.

The singular phraseology of girls not minded to confine themselves to
English of the academies has of late been made the subject of much
comment. There follow here some specimens of it in which the facetious
was aimed at, and in some cases not unsuccessfully.

Wordsworth was, by a Scotch Annie, described as a "baa-lamby;" a Welsh
Beatrice described "a most wizened farewell concert;" her impressions
of Holland were summed up by an English Madge in the words "flobby
bread and flobby wall-paper," and an Irish Constance, writing to her
home in Ireland from a school in France attended by her with her
sister Ethel, penned this anomalous statement, "We are here six Irish,
counting Ethel, and six English, counting me."

[Illustration: Wordsworth looking sheepish]

Both these girls were the daughters of an Irishman and an Englishwoman.
She who was accounted of the six English had been born in her mother's
country, while she who was accounted of the six Irish had been born in
that of her father. In drawing the fine line of distinction which made
her English and her sister Irish, the young maid Constance aimed not at
precision but at wit, and, as behoved her father's daughter, she did
not aim at wit in vain. Her letter was read with laughter.

In almost all girls' letters there is a marked quality of phrasing
which, even when not witty, is mirth-provoking. Take the following:

"Papa has just come back from London, and has brought me a very
thin umbrella, with a steel stick running through it, just simply
frightfully elegant; also a pair of shoes, fawn antelope, embroidered
with gold beads. You needn't sniff."

Sniff, indeed? Perish the thought!

"Tinpot" used as an adjective does not spoil the following curious bit
of description penned by a London girl during a stay in Ryde:

"I am enjoying myself very much in a quiet, non-dissipated, tinpot
way--walking on the sea-wall and the pier, reading Carlyle and Marion
Crawford, and making little vests for Kilburn orphans."

[Illustration: A dissipated tinpot]

Only a girl could have written that, and of its kind it is admirable.

An idea largely held by girls, in common with women and men who have a
witty tendency, is that appreciation is a form of ignorance. It was, be
it here called to remembrance, to correct this notion, that Wordsworth
wrote, "True knowledge leads to love," and that Browning wrote,
"Admiration grows as knowledge grows."

[Illustration: Appreciation a form of ignorance]

It is doubtless the circumstance that unkindness is so often confounded
with wit that has led to the fact that of all good gifts the good gift
of wit is the one held in least liking by the majority of persons.
The truth would seem to be that, with wit, as with everything else
not intrinsically bad, the thing of main importance is that it be
handled carefully. Like gunpowder, it has its uses to him who knows how
to avail himself of them. He who does not, would do well to do what
certain savages once did. Having come into the possession of a bag
of gunpowder, they carefully preserved it till the spring, when they
planted it as they did their corn. It did not burst forth when the corn
burst forth; so much the better for the sowers. That gunpowder was very
safely deposited, and much wit might with equal advantage be held over
till the next planting season.

[Illustration: PURE HONEY

BEST BALM]

Another thing. The wit-snapper should always carry about with him a
little balm and a little honey. That was a good sword that Cambuscan
had; it could heal the wounds it gave. Only the wit-snapper who carries
a little balm and a little honey will be as well equipped as was the
knight whose story Chaucer "left half-told."

A further point which calls for passing comment is this. Wit and
merriment do not always go hand in hand; indeed, they are often
sundered wide. Thus, of the world's famous humorists, it is well known
that they were mostly melancholy at the home-fireside. Something
very similar holds good in the case of girls--and there are many
such--who, while witty in society, are deplorably glum in the family
circle, in this unlike a girl of girls whom her father called
"Minnehaha"--laughing water--so merry was she in her home, beyond which
her influence was to be shed so far that she is known to-day from Indus
to the Pole as the friend of Indian women.

[Illustration: Nell Witty]

If they be right who consider, in opposition to Juliet, that something
is in a name, then those among us who hold that such a name as
Juliet tends to annihilate wit in the possessor of it are not mere
fancy-mongers, and we are entitled to a courteous hearing when we
submit that on the other hand the name Nelly, and still more the
variant of it by which it becomes Nell, almost announces the owner of
it to be a wit. This circumstance is quite independent of the fact that
Scott has said, in just so many words, in reference to a particular
case, "Mistress Nelly, wit she has," and if any explanation of it may
be hazarded, the one which will probably satisfy most is that persons
named Nelly or Nell--and the number of such is, happily, legion--are
hardly ever found lacking in whimsicality. In the few cases in which
they are deficient in this quality they should be called--and, as a
matter of fact, they are generally called--Nella, the name Nella being
that form of Nelly or Nell by which all the sparkle is taken out of it.

In conclusion, a word on wits under their physiognomical aspect. That a
certain type of face in general denotes a witty person may be allowed.

"The slightly tossed nose," says one of Thomas Moore's biographers,
"confirmed the fun of the expression."

"The slightly tossed nose" for what the French call "nez retroussé" is
happy wording. Girl-readers of this who have "tossed" noses are, by
their faces, wits. Let this console them, if it so hap that they want
consolation. On the other part, girls with short upper lips have a part
of beauty, but lack a part of wit. Wherefore, if they be vain, let
there be a curb put on their vanity, and let girls with long upper lips
hold up their heads, for a long upper lip denotes wit.



OUR PUZZLE POEM REPORT: "TO A GIRL GOLFER."


SOLUTION.

TO A GIRL GOLFER.

    Take a helpless little ball,
      Drive it into space;
    If perchance you see it fall,
      Try to find the place.
    And, as it is very small,
    Hit again that hapless ball
      With a savage grace.

    If your strength and courage stand
      Such unwonted strain,
    By-and-by your ball will land
      On a little plain,
    Near a hole--you understand--
    Into which you putt it and
      Then begin again.


PRIZE WINNERS.


_Seven Shillings and Sixpence Each._

 Edith Ashworth, The Mount, Knutsford.
 Dr. R. Swan Coulthard, Coventry.
 Mrs. Deane, Lismoyle, Ballymoney, co. Antrim.
 Edith E. Grundy, 105, London Road, Leicester.
 Edward St. G. Hodson, Twyford, Athlone, Ireland.
 G. Honeyburne, 16, Hawkshead Street, Southport, Lancs.
 Louise M. McCready, Howth, co. Dublin.
 Annie Manderson, Waterfoot, Crumlin, co. Antrim.
 F. M. Morgan, The Library, Armagh.
 May Robson, Garry Lodge, Perth, N.B.
 W. Shattock, Hillmorton Villa, Sneyd Park, near Bristol.
 Mrs. Isabel Snell, 51, Mere Road, Leicester.
 Alice Woodhead, Tickhill, Rotheram, Yorkshire.
 Elizabeth Yarwood, 59, Beech Road, Cale Green, Stockport.


_Very Highly Commended._

Florence Ashwin, Rev. S. Bell, Nanette Bewley, M. J. Champneys, Edith
Collins, Nellie R. Hasmer, Helen Lapage, Annie Roberson, A. C. Sharp.


_Highly Commended._

Eliza Acworth, A. A. Campbell, N. Campbell, Rev. F. T. Chamberlain,
Rev. J. Chambers, Mary I. Chislett, N. Chute, Nina Coote, Mrs. Cumming,
R. D. Davis, Wm. Fraser, Percy H. Horne, J. Hunt, Alice E. Johnson,
Mildred E. Lockyear, Winifred Lockyear, Annie G. Luck, Mrs. T. Maxwell,
F. Miller, E. C. Milne, E. Nerve, Edward Roqulski, Gertrude Saffery, S.
Southall, C. E. Thurgar, Aileen Tyler.


_Honourable Mention._

Mrs. Acheson, Elizabeth M. Caple, Annie J. Cather, J. A. Center, Mrs.
Crossman, Ellie Crossman, Winifred Eady, A. S. K. Ellson, Phyllis
M. Fulford, Agnes Glen, Alice Goakes, Beatrice E. Hackforth, Sadie
Harbison, M. Hooppell, Rose A. Hooppell, Mima How, A. J. Knight, E.
M. Le Mottée, Carlina V. M. Leggett, May Lethbridge, E. E. Lockyear,
E. Lord, E. Macalister, Margaret A. Macalister, Nellie Meikle, C.
A. Murton, Jas. D. Musgrave, Mrs. Nicholls, Henrietta M. Oldfield,
Hannah E. Powell, Ellen M. Price, F. C. Redgrave, Ada Rickards, James
Scott, Violet Shoberl, Mildred M. Skrine, Marriott T. Smiley, Annie E.
Starritt, Ellen C. Tarrant, S. Taylor, Mrs. Walker, W. Fitzjames White,
Florence Whitlock, Emily Wilkinson, Edith Mary Younge, Helen B. Younger.


EXAMINERS' REPORT.

Hitherto we have been in the habit of associating all that was best
concerning the game of golf with the Scottish Nation. In the future
we shall have to remember that out of fourteen golf puzzle prizes,
five went to Ireland and only one to Scotland, and modify our view
accordingly. Of England's share we find it difficult to speak with
becoming modesty.

If the north of the Tweed had been honoured by our earliest presence
we should have found no difficulty in explaining away the National
failure--for how else can it be regarded?--in connection with this
puzzle. "A poem with such a title," we should have said, "must surely
contain advice about our noble game. As we have played it with
considerable success for at least four hundred and fifty years, we can
need no advice, and therefore we will not trouble to solve your puzzle."

But our birthplace was many miles south of the Tweed, and such an
explanation would not appeal to us with any force. The simple fact
remains: Ireland receives one pound seventeen shillings and sixpence,
Scotland, only seven shillings and sixpence, and England--well, modesty
forbids us to say how much!

Not long ago golf was regarded as an occupation for elderly gentlemen
whose time and energies were at the service of any respectable game.
With much impressiveness they used to traverse the links decked in red
coats, the brilliancy of which signified the extremity of the danger to
which the unwary onlooker was exposed.

But a few years have changed all that. Now for one elderly, impressive,
red-coated gentleman to be found, there are many young men who cannot
afford red coats and maidens in plenty who wouldn't wear them if they
could. To this last class our puzzle poem was addressed, not by way of
advice but as a sympathetic intimation that we know all about the game
in which they so freely indulge.

Naturally enough the title was frequently rendered "To a golfer," and
after much serious consideration we decided to accept it. This being
so, some who did not receive prizes will possibly wonder why. The
explanation is simple enough: our ruling left us with so many claimants
for the five guineas that we set aside those who did not trouble to
indent the lines properly.

We wonder how many of the solvers who wrote "helpless" in the first
line really discovered that the p was less than the other letters.
It is also to be observed that the ball in the same line was much
smaller than the others in the puzzle and therefore was intended to be
designated "little." Hence the rhythm required the word "very" in the
fifth line--s--_very small_. So many solvers failed to notice these
points that it is necessary to call attention to them.

It was not even right to leave out the "little" _and_ the "very,"
because then the rhythm of the first verse would not coincide with that
of the second.

Authorities differ as to the spelling of by-and-bye; apparently the
more modern ones prefer it without the e, and of course we accepted
both ways as correct.

The statement in line thirteen does not seem to have been universally
understood. When you are playing golf you do not "put" the ball into
the hole--unless no one is looking!--but you putt it in, which is a
very different matter. Curiously enough, not one solver who wrote "put"
pointed out that the reading involved a mistake in the line.

If any of our readers would like a puzzle on any particular subject or
subjects, let them mention it. Their wishes shall certainly receive
consideration and very possibly fulfilment.



"OUR HERO."

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

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


CHAPTER VIII.

THE THREATENED INVASION.

Though no true-hearted Englishman believed for a moment in the
possibility of his country becoming a French province, all knew that
the threatened invasion might take place.

Many indeed regarded the attempt as almost certain, feeling sure that
Napoleon would never be convinced of his own inability to conquer
England, until he had tried and failed. And while the final result of
such an attempt might be looked upon as a foregone conclusion, yet no
doubt much personal loss and distress would be caused by even the most
unsuccessful invasion of our shores.

On one point all were agreed--that safety lay and could only lie in
getting ready beforehand.

At that date steamboats and railways were unknown, and telegraphs did
not exist. There was happily time, through the slowness with which
affairs moved, after the note of alarm had been sounded, to make
preparations.

An extraordinary burst of enthusiasm throughout the whole country
was the response to Napoleon's threat. Large supplies of money were
freely voted and eagerly given. The regular army was increased, and the
militia was called out; while a volunteer force sprang into being, with
such rapidity that it soon numbered about four hundred thousand men.

These "citizen-soldiers," as it was the fashion to call them, were all
over the country, each place having its own corps. But the regular
troops, drawn from all parts, were stationed chiefly where the danger
seemed to be greatest, between London and the south coast, Sir David
Dundas being in command.

Along the shore were erected batteries and martello towers--the latter
remaining to this day. And since Boulogne was the headquarters of the
French army of invasion, an advanced corps was placed on the opposite
coast, near Sandgate, under General Moore, in readiness to repel the
first onslaught. There the General occupied his time in such splendid
training of the regiments under his control that throughout the long
years of the Peninsular War, after he himself had passed away, the
stamp of his spirit rested upon them, the impress of his enthusiasm and
of his magnificent discipline made them the foremost soldiers in the
British Army. These were the regiments who, as the "Reserve," bore the
brunt of the fighting in Moore's famous "Retreat," and who were known
in Spain and at Waterloo as Wellington's unequalled and invincible
"Light Brigade." Wellington used those regiments for the saving of
Europe; but Moore made them what they were.

To the delight of Jack an opportunity offered itself whereby he might
exchange into one of the Shornecliffe regiments, and he grasped at it
eagerly.

He had for Moore the half-worshipping admiration which is sometimes
seen in a young man towards an older man. Jack would be none the worse
for his hero-worship, since happily he had fixed upon a worthy object.
As yet he had seen little personally of the General, having met him
but two or three times. But long before they came together, he had
cherished an intense interest in the man, an interest awakened first in
more boyish days by Ivor's vivid descriptions of campaigns in the West
Indies and in Egypt, descriptions of which Moore was always the central
figure. Jack had seized with avidity upon all such details.

When at length the two met he could feel no surprise at Ivor's intense
and reverent love for his chief. The soldierly bearing of Moore, his
grace of manner, the power of his unique personality, together with his
chivalrous devotion to his mother and his courteous kindness towards
all with whom he came in contact--these things from the first made a
profound impression upon Jack; and the more he learnt to know of Moore,
the more that impression was deepened. He counted himself thenceforward
ready to live or to die for the General; and one day in a fit of
confidence he said so to Polly.

"Nay, Jack; live for him; do not wish to die for him," pleaded Polly.
"That will be the best."

Jack was not so sure. His imagination had been fired long before by
the story, told to him by Ivor, of a certain heroic Guardsman--a man
who, in the West Indies, had flung himself between Moore and the musket
aimed at him, thus giving his life for that of his officer. But it was
not needful for Jack to explain how much he longed to do the same. He
merely smiled, and remarked, "In all England there is no other his
equal. Of that I am convinced."

To the great disappointment of Jack, the General had been quickly
summoned away on important duty; and intercourse between them came for
the moment to a close. The young subaltern, however, found it possible
to pursue acquaintance with the General's mother and sister; and gentle
old Mrs. Moore had a great deal to say about this most idolised son
of hers, where she found a sympathetic listener. Few listeners could
have been more sympathetic than Jack Keene, who never grew tired of
the subject. Mrs. Moore had other sons beside the General, but it was
noticed that when she referred to him he was always distinctively, "My
son!" not "My eldest son," or "My son John!" This did not touch the
close friendship between Moore and his brothers, one of whom was a
Naval officer of note.

Through those summer weeks of 1803 Polly was longing for Captain Ivor
to come home. It was sad to think of him as a prisoner, forced to
stay against his will in a foreign land. She knew, too, that any day
Jack might be ordered off elsewhere; and one day, as she had feared,
he rushed in, to tell them that he would be leaving immediately for
Shornecliffe Camp, there to await Napoleon's first attempt to land on
English soil.

The news was less a matter of congratulation for them than for Jack
himself. At Sandgate he would be in the very forefront of the peril
which threatened the land. Mrs. Fairbank had to rub her large horn
spectacles more than once; and she was disposed to blame Jack for not
referring the question to herself, before he accepted the offer of an
exchange. Molly looked curiously at Jack, and asked--

"Are you glad to say good-bye to us all?"

"Not glad to say good-bye, but glad to be going. People must say
good-bye sometimes, Molly. And I shall be fighting under one of the
best and bravest men that ever lived. Would not you like that?"

Molly shook her head. "If Roy was here, I should never want to go
away," she said decisively. "But if you care more for General Moore
than for us----"

"Pooh! What nonsense!" retorted Jack; and Polly exclaimed--

"Molly, how can you say such a thing? Jack wants to be one of the first
to fight in defence of England. Do you not see? It is but right. He
would be no true soldier, otherwise. If Captain Ivor were but free to
do the same! Yes, indeed, I do wish it! It is terrible for him to be
cut off from action--but not for Jack to wish to be foremost. O fie,
Molly dear, you must have more sense."

"Polly always understands," murmured Jack; and Molly would have given
much at the moment to have had those words spoken of herself. She hung
her head and was mute. Tender-hearted Polly could never endure to see
anyone sad or abashed, and her hand stole into Molly's as she went on--

"But Molly will understand now. Jack, she and I have this morning
learnt by heart a verse of Mr. Walter Scott's, which 'tis said he has
but just writ. Molly, you shall say the words to Jack, for they are
brave words. Hold up your head, dear, and speak out, as an Englishwoman
should."

Molly obeyed, not sorry for the chance to redeem her previous error,
and to re-establish herself in Jack's good graces, for which she cared
more than she quite allowed to herself. She held her head well up,
therefore, and spouted with considerable effect--

      "'If ever breath of British gale
        Shall fan the tricolour,
    Or footstep of invader rude,
    With rapine foul and red with blood,
        Pollute our happy shore,
    Then farewell, home! and farewell, friends!
      Adieu, each tender tie!
    Resolved, we mingle in the tide,
    Where charging squadrons furious ride,
      To conquer or to die.'"

"Come, that is good. That was well said. You understand too, I see,
Molly. I e'en thought it must be so--you, a British Colonel's daughter!
And you'll both bid me God-speed. And when Napoleon is beaten, and old
England is again in safety, I'll come back, and be grannie's home-boy
once more. Eh, ma'am?"

"Yes, yes, Jack; yes, my dear boy." Mrs. Fairbank did her best to
control her voice, and as usual when agitated she knitted at railway
speed. "You will do your duty, Jack. I am sure of it. And General Moore
will be a good friend to you."

"But now I have somewhat else to show you all, in return for Molly's
poetry," observed Jack in cheerful tones, anxious to prevent a
breakdown on the part of his grandmother. "What do you think it may
be, Molly? Guess, all of you. Must I tell? Well, 'tis nought less than
two letters about our Hero, which his mother let me see. They are writ
some four years since to the General's father, Dr. Moore; the one from
Sir Ralph Abercrombie, and the other from Sir Robert Brownrigg, who was
secretary to the Duke of York, and Adjutant-General. Nay, these are
not the originals, for I can assure you 'twould be no easy task to get
them out of Mrs. Moore's keeping. But she permitted me to take copies
of the same, and they are here. The engagement spoken of was that on
the second of October, in 1799, between the English and the French
in Holland; and General Moore was wounded early in the action, but
nevertheless he fought on until wounded a second time. These, to his
father afterwards, both make mention of his wounds. Shall I read?"

"Pray do so, my dear Jack," said Mrs. Fairbank; and, "O do, Jack!"
entreated Polly.

Jack obeyed.

    "'Headquarters. Zuper Sluys, Holland. October 4th, 1799.

    "'MY DEAR SIR--I cannot suffer the accompanying letter from my
    dear friend, your son, to go to you, without assuring you that the
    wounds he has received are attended with no danger. Mr. Knight,
    the Duke's surgeon, attends him, and gives hope of his speedy
    recovery. The wound in his thigh he received early in the action,
    but it did not prevent him from continuing his exertions for two
    hours afterwards, when a wound in his face obliged him to leave the
    field. It is through the cheek, and I understand has not wounded
    the bone. His conduct in the serious action of the 2nd, which
    perhaps may be ranked among the most obstinately contested battles
    that have been fought this war, has raised him, if possible, higher
    than he before stood in the estimation of this army. Everyone
    admires and loves him; and you may boast of having as your son the
    most amiable man and the best General in the British service; this
    is a universal opinion, and does not proceed from my partiality
    alone.

    "'God bless you, my dear Sir. I hope in a few days to have it in
    my power to tell you that considerable progress is made in Moore's
    cure; and believe me, with great respect and regard,

    "'Very faithfully yours,
      "'ROBERT BROWNRIGG.'"

Jack paused, and repeated thoughtfully, "'Everyone admires and loves
him--the most amiable man and the best General in the British service!'
Yet by nature his is no easy temper, ma'am; of that his mother could
assure me. She said that her son--ever the best of sons to her--gave
her in his boyhood many an anxious hour, by reason of his hot and
impulsive moods, and his readiness to fight. But listen now to the
letter of Sir Ralph himself--

    "'Egmond-on-the-Sea, Oct. 4th.

    "'MY DEAR SIR--Although your son is wounded in the thigh and in the
    cheek, I can assure you he is in no sort of danger; both wounds are
    slight. The public and myself are the greatest sufferers by these
    accidents.

    "'The General is a hero, with more sense than many others of that
    description, in that he is an ornament to his family and to his
    profession. I hope Mrs. Moore and his sister will be easy on his
    account, and that you are proud of such a son.

      "'Yours,
    "'RALPH ABERCROMBIE.'"

This time it was Mrs. Fairbank who quoted words from the letter. She
said, "'With more sense than many others of that description.' Pray, my
dear Jack, what think you Sir Ralph might have meant to signify?"

"Why, ma'am, I take it thus. Many a man is brave and fights well,
who in fact is nought else beside. Whereas General Moore is a man of
extraordinary genius and great nobility of character, one who shines in
whatever society he may find himself, and above all, who is ardently
beloved by everybody that knows him. What else might Sir Ralph signify?"

"To my mind, 'tis a somewhat droll mode of expressing himself, though,
none the less, 'tis clear what he thinks of the General. Were he my
son, I could fain be proud of him. Not that pride is so suitable a
feeling as thankfulness."

"In truth, ma'am, his mother is proud and thankful too. She thinks that
all the whole world holds no man equal to her brave son. And I--I am
disposed to think the same."

Then Jack carefully folded his precious letters, stowed them in his
pocket, and stood up. "Come, Polly and Molly," he said. "There is time
yet for a turn before dinner? We will go to the Pump Room."

Molly looked anxiously for leave, and flew to obey. A walk with Jack
was always delightful. They entered the old Pump Room together, finding
there, as usual, a large assemblage of gaily-dressed ladies and
fashionably-attired gentlemen, some walking about, some lounging on
seats. The ladies wore short-waisted gowns, chiefly of white or figured
muslin, with short cloaks or mantles of bright hues, or short spencers
of silk or coloured crape, and great feathered hats or bonnets, and
plenty of large gilt and silver buttons; and many of the gentlemen were
in tights and long flowered waistcoats and silver-buckled shoes, while
others wore blue coats with brass buttons. Pig-tails too might still be
seen, though soon to be discontinued.

Jack gazed about for several minutes in vain; and then they came face
to face with Mrs. Bryce, Admiral Peirce being her attendant cavalier.

Both were immensely interested to hear Jack's news--how, in less than
a week, he would be off to Sandgate, there to be under the command of
General Moore; and there also, as Jack hoped, to be called upon to bear
the first brunt of Napoleon's invasion.

"Not you, my dear sir," objected the Admiral, with beaming face.
"Before ever Boney reaches English shores, depend on't, he'll render a
good account of himself to our ships of war. Trust gallant Nelson for
that, since he's on the look-out. I doubt me, Boney won't contrive to
give our Navy the slip."

Jack had no wish to get into a discussion. "Well, sir, well, our Navy
and our Army too will both of them do their best," he said. "But he
would be a foolish fellow who should trust all his eggs in one basket,
as the saying is. And should by any chance the slip be given, and Boney
arrive on our shores, why, then the Army will make him render his
account, fairly! Has anybody seen Mrs. Moore, ma'am?" and he turned to
Mrs. Bryce.

Mrs. Bryce had not the least intention of parting hastily with her
second cavalier. To walk about the Pump Room, in view of all her Bath
acquaintances, with a gentleman on either side, was highly desirable.
So Polly and Molly were adroitly dropped behind, and she set off.

"If not Mrs. Moore, Jack, I have seen someone else of passable
interest," she remarked. "Her name is Miss Jane Austen--a well-bred
young woman, I do assure you. And only to think--the good lady has writ
a book, which may by chance be one day printed. 'Twas told my husband
in strictest confidence; and if I had not wormed it out of him----Ah,
ha! Jack--wait till you get you a wife, and then you'll not smile on
that side of your mouth."

"I have found my bride, ma'am. 'Tis my profession," declared Jack.

"Nay, nay, nothing of the sort, my dear sir. Wait a while, and you'll
find your affections engaged in another fashion. Can you be so
hard-hearted as to hold out even now, in the face of all this youth and
elegance? See--there goes a bewitching young woman, though 'tis true
she wears a shocking unbecoming gown! But she's a prodigious favourite,
and she can dance as tolerable a minuet as any young female present.
Then there's young Susie, yonder--something of a hoyden, may be, and
calls herself 'a dasher,' but uncommonly pretty, and prodigiously good
spirits. And if you'd sooner have a blue-stocking--why, I've but to
introduce you to Miss Jane Austen herself."

(_To be continued._)



METHODS OF MOUNTING FOR GIRL CYCLISTS.

BY MRS. EGBERT A. NORTON.


Nothing else, I think, affords one such a good opportunity of judging
of a girl's general capabilities or style in riding as the way in which
she mounts her machine.

In this matter as in so many others a "good start is most important."

Having already mastered the principle of steering, the mystery of the
mount is a matter of balance only.

There are several points which, if borne in mind, will considerably
help the beginner in first attempts, namely--

1. To select a road inclining slightly down-hill.

2. Stand on rather higher ground than the bicycle.

3. Incline the front wheel slightly to the right.

4. Be careful not to check the motion of the machine by too much
pressure on the pedal after it passes its lowest point.

5. Do not catch the left pedal too quickly, or apply pressure before it
passes the top centre.

There are five distinct methods of mounting for skirted riders, two
of which are suitable for beginners only, the other three for more
advanced riders.


I.

Imagine an individual who has some knowledge of riding, but who is
unable to mount alone; refusing all offers of assistance she determines
to assert her independence.

[Illustration: FIG. 1.]

Standing on the left side of the machine with the right pedal just past
its highest point, she steps across the frame, and places her right
foot securely on the pedal, the saddle being so low that she is able
to take her seat easily, the left foot being still on the ground. Then
putting as much pressure as possible on the right pedal and pushing
off with the left foot, she starts the machine--not perhaps without
a few failures first, but _nil desperandum_. Independence must cost
something, and if she will consider, I have no doubt her failure can
be traced to one or the other of the above mentioned causes. But how
tiring the ride will be, and how awkward the whole position, the knees
moving most ungracefully high with each revolution of the pedal--all
defects caused by the saddle being adjusted much too low.


II.

[Illustration: FIG. 2.]

Now if she would only listen, I should advise her to raise her saddle
inches higher until it is nearly on a level with the turn of the hip,
and, if still determined to learn alone, wheel the machine to the
kerbstone or other eminence, to enable her to seat herself in the
saddle, and then push off as before. Her appearance once mounted is now
greatly improved, and when I tell her so, after enjoying a nice little
run with none of the previous feeling of tiredness, she is quite ready
to listen to what further I have to say on the subject. Seeing that it
is quite impracticable to always depend on the help of the friendly
kerbstone, we will try and master mount


III.

[Illustration: FIG. 3.]

Having already learnt the importance of the height of saddle or length
of reach from pedal to saddle, first ascertain that this is adjusted
correctly. When sitting erect in the saddle with the leg straight and
pedal at its lowest point, the heel of the foot should be able to rest
on the centre bar of the pedal with ease. The saddle is now so high
that it is impossible to sit on it with the foot still on the ground,
so for this reason "The Spring Mount" is the term generally given to
this method of mounting. Taking a fold of the skirt in the right hand,
pass the right foot over the frame and place it securely on the right
pedal when it is about half-way between its highest and lowest point,
the left foot resting on the ground close to the machine and well
before the left pedal, stand quite central with the body perfectly free
from the saddle, then by standing on the right pedal the machine moves
forward, the body is raised and drops gently back on to the saddle,
the other pedal rises under the left foot ready for the next thrust
forward, and the deed is done, easily, steadily, gracefully, but from
the first there must be no hurry, no quick jump for the saddle, or
scramble for the left pedal, but first the weight on the right pedal,
then the saddle moves forward under one, and the downward thrust with
the left foot preserves the balance. This is the mount most generally
adopted, with more or less degree of efficiency, and on the whole is
really difficult to improve upon; the only thing that can be said
against it is, that the first position standing with the leg across the
frame and the foot raised is not particularly graceful. Personally I
much prefer mount


IV.

The near-side mount. It is more uncommon and infinitely prettier in
my opinion when well done, than either of the others, but it requires
a little practice to get the skirt to fall well. Stand close to the
machine with the left foot on the left pedal, then firmly holding the
handles throw all the weight on the pedal, at the same time springing
forwards and sideways to the saddle. In first attempts all the fulness
of the skirt invariably falls to the left; this can be remedied as the
machine is in motion by a little forward movement throwing the weight
on pedals and handle-bar, then as the skirt falls straight down, move
centrally backwards to the saddle again. Be in no hurry to reach the
saddle and the skirt will adjust itself. Move well forward with the
downward movement of the pedal, throw the weight on the handles as it
rises, the peak of the saddle will then divide the skirt as you take
your seat and give your first thrust to the right pedal.

[Illustration: FIG. 4.]

This is worth a little practice, as correctly done the skirt needs no
arrangement with the hand, and the mount is certainly quicker and more
graceful than any other.


V.

Is somewhat similar, but is done while the machine is in motion, and is
therefore pre-eminently the mount for busy thoroughfares.

Walking on the left of the machine, give a quick hop with the right
foot, placing the left on the pedal when in any position, then a sudden
pull on the handles, will lift one forward on to the saddle without
checking the motion of the machine.

[Illustration: FIG. 5.]

This is a most useful mount for traffic and for all occasions where
a quick mount is necessary. It will probably require considerable
practice to accomplish successfully, but the feeling of complete
mastery it gives one over the machine is worth some little trouble to
acquire, and when the feat is accomplished, I think you will look back
on the learning of a new method of mounting as another pleasure added
to the many enjoyments of cycling.

[Illustration]



FILED--FOR REFERENCE!


He had let love and life slip past him, and now he lay a-dying, and
love and life lay behind him for evermore.

Lying in his narrow bed, in the room which in all his days of grinding
work, he had never troubled to make homelike or comfortable, his
thoughts wandered back over the years with wearisome persistency. He
had been a successful man. The name of John Saunders was known far and
wide as the name of the shrewdest solicitor of his day; hard-headed,
keen, practical--feared by friend and enemy alike; loved, men said, by
none.

They called him "old Dryasdust" in his own office; they declared that
his heart had withered away in the atmosphere of work and in the
squirrel round of business in which he had lived. Some, indeed, went so
far as to say that Nature had never provided him with a heart at all.

And now he lay dying--a lonely man, in his lonely chambers, looking
wearily back across his life.

His grey head moved uneasily upon the pillows, arranged by his valet
into clumsy discomfort; his eyes glanced restlessly round the room,
turning almost impatiently from its severe dreariness, towards the
window, through which he could just see a glimpse of a tree-top in the
square garden.

He was tired, most dreadfully tired. It was a weariness to think, yet
the busy brain, that in all his busy life had never learnt to rest,
refused now to be stilled. Thick and fast there crowded before his mind
memories of long forgotten cases, recollections of clients long since
dead, worrying details of business, that had long ago been settled and
done with.

His head moved again impatiently. He turned to look for the lemonade
which should have been on the table by his bedside. An angry
exclamation broke from him. The table with the lemonade was placed
exactly where he could not reach it; what was the use of all his years
of labour, of all the wealth he had acquired, if now he could not even
obtain the common necessaries of life?

The electric bell beside the bed was close to his hand. He rang it
furiously, and his valet arrived, panting and breathless.

"Why can't you put the things within my reach?" the old man asked
irritably. "Am I to die of thirst, because you are careless?"

The servant moved the table nearer to his master, handed him the
tumbler, and, in his own mind, considered the pros and cons of giving
warning on the spot. A dim hope of a possible legacy gave the cons the
victory, but the man did not remain in the sick-room a moment longer
than was absolutely necessary. As he confided to the wife of the
porter, in the basement, "Old Saunders was getting that unbearable in
his illness, it was hard to stand him."

The sick man lay quiet after the servant had left him, his eyes fixed
upon the waving green of the tree-tops in the square. A faint curiosity
as to what tree it was that he could see, ran through his mind. Was it
an elm, he wondered?

There had been elms in the meadow behind the old Rectory garden where
he had played as a boy--great elms in which the rooks had built year
after year. It was a long, long time since he had heard the soft
cawing of the rooks. He had a faint remembrance of picking daisies
and buttercups in those fields under the elms, whilst the rooks cawed
soothingly overhead.

A little smile flickered across his hard old face. Perhaps the tree in
the square was not an elm after all. It might be a lime. There had been
limes in another garden, and the bees had hummed amongst their blossoms
on that summer's day when--when---- Why, how many years ago was it?
Forty? Fifty? Could it be forty years? He had been a young fellow then,
at the beginning of his career, and life had been less crammed with
work and business.

He moved restlessly.

Yes! He had been able then to notice the sweetness of a girl's eyes, to
heed the music of a girl's voice.

Pshaw! It was utter folly to let his thoughts wander to so remote a
past. What was the good of remembrance?

And yet---- If he had not been so wrapped up in his work, to the
exclusion of everything human and loveable, he might now have had other
hands than those of Richard his valet to tend him. A woman would have
made his room look less like a prison cell. A woman would not have put
his things just out of his reach. She would not have been in such a
hurry to leave him to himself!

Again he stirred irritably. He hated the sight of those rustling leaves
now, even though they held some strange fascination for him; but they
reminded him too strongly of youth, and love, and happiness. And he had
wilfully put them all away from him with his own hands. Ah! fool and
blind that he had been! And now--now, he was old and dying--and alone!

The door opened softly. Richard stepped quietly in, and seeing that his
master's eyes were shut, laid a note upon the table, and as quietly
departed again.

"Bother the man!" old John Saunders muttered. "He seems afraid to stay
with me. A letter for me? Strange--very strange." And he stretched out
his hand and took up the envelope.

A faint sense of something familiar stirred within him as he glanced at
the handwriting--a something which he could not quite recall out of the
past. He opened the envelope and drew out the letter almost rapidly. It
was very short.

    "DEAR JOHN,--I wonder if I may still call you that, after all the
    years that have gone by? I would not have troubled you with a
    letter now, but that I heard, only to-day, that you are ill and
    alone. And I thought I must write to you for auld lang syne, and
    ask you whether you would let me come and see you. We are both old
    people now, John; but let me come to see you, for old sake's sake.

    "Yours, as ever,
        "JOAN BENTLEY.

    "P.S.--Did you never get the letter I wrote you more than thirty
    years ago?"

The letter dropped from his hands. The keen grey eyes grew dim.

It was strange that this should have come just when the remembrance had
returned to him of the lime-trees in her father's garden, of the bees
that had hummed among them forty years ago.

His dreary room faded from his sight. It was as if the walls melted
into space, and he could feel the warm air of July blowing round him,
smell the fragrance of the lime-flowers, step upon the softness of the
smooth turf beneath his feet.

He was young again! A man with his life before him, and love within his
grasp.

He could see the tall hollyhocks by the gate--the hollyhocks she
loved. There were tall white lilies there as well. The sweetness of
them filled the air, mingling with the scent of roses that clambered
up the old red wall. The wood-pigeons cooed gently in the copse across
the road, and the rooks cawed as they swung upon the boughs of the
lime-trees.

And Joan's clear eyes looked into his; Joan's voice was in his ear.

"Oh, John, will it be long?" he heard her say. And his own voice, young
and strong, replied:

"No, no, my dear--not long. How could I let it be long, when I shall be
working for you? When I have made enough money I shall come and claim
you. Your father is quite right not to allow a formal engagement till
then. But we understand each other, Joan--my Joan!"

Strange! How the years had rolled away, and the world seemed full
again, as it had seemed then, of Joan--Joan, and only Joan!

The vision slowly faded; the walls of the dull room returned to their
places, the noise of the irritating clock on the mantelpiece replaced
the soft voices of the wood-pigeons; he was an old man again, an old
man who was alone--and dying!

But Joan had not forgotten. Joan's letter lay upon his bed. She had
remembered for forty years; whilst he had forgotten everything, except
the work to which he was a slave.

He picked up the letter once more and read the postscript first--

"Did you never get the letter I wrote you more than thirty years ago?"

Had he received it? What then had happened to it? A puzzled frown
puckered his brow, as he struggled to recall the long past incident.

"I remember now," he exclaimed suddenly and aloud--"I remember! She
wrote to me when I was in the midst of a press of work! Her letter was
filed for reference--my Joan's letter filed for reference!"

His bell pealed through the house, and when Richard appeared, he found
his master partially raised in bed, excited and breathless.

"Send to the office at once," he said; "tell them to send me up the
files of the year ---- immediately! And who brought this letter?"

"A lady called with it, sir. She said she would return for the answer
in about an hour."

"Did she leave her name?"

"Yes, sir--Miss Joan Bentley, she wished me to say."

"When she comes back, bring her up to me"--and the old man sank
exhausted on his pillows, his eyes closed, but a faint smile upon his
lips.

It was less than an hour later when a little tap on the door aroused
him.

"Come in," he said, not opening his eyes, till he heard the soft rustle
of a dress beside his bed. Then he looked up, but it was the woman who
spoke first.

"Why, John," she said brokenly--"why, John!" And all at once the
shyness that had assailed her as she climbed the stairs slipped from
her; the gulf of years that had seemed impassable became as nothing,
and she dropped on her knees by the bed, looking into the tired old
face upon the pillow, with wistful yearning eyes.

He put out his hand almost timidly, and laid it upon hers.

"How sweet the limes smelt, dear," he whispered, "and the bees hummed
all the time among the flowers."

She thought for a moment that he was wandering, but he went on quietly.

"It was your letter that brought it all back. You have been
faithful--all these years--and I--was a fool!"

Her clasp on his hand tightened.

"Did you forget," she asked--"did you forget? Was there someone else?"

The smile flickered out again upon his face.

"No, no, my dear, there was no someone else. There was nothing but my
work--it wrapped me round, it has made me a successful man--and it--has
spoilt my life! They call me Dryasdust, you know," his weak voice went
on. "Somebody told me once that I had no heart."

"Ah, but it wasn't true," she said.

"Wasn't it? I don't know; I was a fool, and blind--I--but now it is too
late, my Joan."

The little caressing words came strangely from the thin lips, but the
hard, old face had softened in some unaccountable fashion.

"Is it ever too late for love?" she asked, and her hand touched gently
the thin grey hair upon his temples.

"I have wasted my life, and yours," he answered drearily. "We might
have been together all these years--all the long, long years--with our
children round us--and now--it is nearly over. I am old, and dying, and
you----"

"I am old too, my dear; perhaps it will not be long before--before----"
her voice faltered and broke.

"Are you old?" he said; "your eyes are just what I remember, and your
voice--it seems to me you are just the same as when I said good-bye to
you under the lime-trees."

"Did you never get my other letter, John?" she said, after a moment or
two. "I sent it to you ten years after you left me, because--because
the silence was unbearable. Did you get it?"

"Yes, I got it; and I was busy--very, very busy. It brought me the
scent of the garden, and the memory of you; and then--then I set it
aside for a more convenient season, and it--ah, Joan!--it was filed for
reference. Forgive me--Joan!"

Her caressing hand stroked his hair more tenderly, though her eyes
filled with tears.

"We shall find it here," he said a little later, when Richard had
deposited a great pile of letters beside him. "I was always methodical
in my work--the letter will be here. Will you look for it?" His voice
was so much weaker, that she looked at him with startled eyes, and the
valet, returning, held a glass of cordial to his lips.

The two were alone again after that. Amongst the pile of old and faded
letters the woman had found her own--the tiny girlish scrap, written
impetuously, in a girl's impatient misery of long ago.

"Send me just one word," it ran--"only one word, to tell me that you
have not forgotten."

A little bitterness surged up within her as she read again the scrap of
faded writing, the old agony out of the past stirred once more at her
heart.

"If I might make a daisy-chain for you, Joan--my Joan! How the rooks
caw to-night! Do you hear them, dear?" The weak voice spoke dreamily;
the bitterness in her heart died away. She laid her face softly against
the tired face on the pillow.

"My poor boy," she whispered--"my poor boy!"

"And the limes--are so sweet," he rambled on. "I think--it is--the
bees--that hum so loudly in my ears. Give me a rose, sweetheart.
It--is getting dark--so dark for you--out here in the garden. You
must go in. The wood-pigeons are quiet now, only how white the lilies
shine--against the darkness; and the bees--the bees are humming still,
and the--limes--are--so sweet."

For a moment the tired voice stopped, then began again:

"Never a someone else, my Joan, only you. And the years slipped, and I
forgot how fast they went; we will have hollyhocks--in our own garden,
dear."

The doctor, summoned by Richard, had entered the room, but he shook his
head sadly, and moved towards the door.

"There is nothing to be done," he whispered to the servant, "we had
better leave them alone. There is nothing we can do."

The room was very still, save only for the laboured breathing of the
dying man. The woman's hand still softly stroked his hair; he lay so
quietly that she thought he had passed out of consciousness into that
strange borderland which is Death's ante-chamber.

The setting sunlight streamed into the room and across his face; the
twittering of the birds in the square, the soft rustling of the wind in
the tree-tops, were borne in at the half-open window.

Suddenly the dying man opened his eyes in full consciousness.

"I knew you would not leave me," he whispered. "I--said--a woman would
stay--with me, it was--you I meant. I--have wasted my life--God forgive
me! You have forgiven, my dear--a faithful woman--has forgiven--I
think--God--will forgive--too--I--am taking"--his voice almost
failed--"my wasted life--with me--to be--to be"--a little whimsical
smile stole over his face--"to be--filed--for--reference."

    L. G. MOBERLY.



OUR LILY GARDEN.

PRACTICAL AIDS TO THE CULTURE OF LILIES.

BY CHARLES PETERS.


[Illustration: _Lilium Speciosum._]

For the last three months cut blossoms of _Lilium Speciosum_ have
decorated our table in the centre of London, and have afforded our
friends and us real delight, creating subject for discussion at the
dinner-table such as we have never known in connection with any other
cut flowers.

Perhaps this has arisen from the fact that the floral decorations
consisted of flowers of one botanical group only, making a truly
consistent nosegay, and creating from its very uniqueness fit subject
for special questionings and interest. Of course in the group there
were several colours. The _Speciosum Album_ and the varieties of white,
the _Speciosum Roseum_ with its varieties of lovely rose-colour, and
finally the deep and rich _Speciosum Melpomone_. Nothing in the way
of table decoration could be more æsthetic and cheerful-looking than
an arrangement of such blossoms, in which we find real white mingled
with a lovely purple red, and with nothing but the right gradations of
colour between.

In the days of old it was the custom to group flowers of every
conceivable colour--reds, blues, pinks, yellow, and others; but now we
know better, two colours or three being the most effective scheme for
table or bouquet effect, and in all our experience we have never found
any general appearance more pleasing than that of our group of _Lilium
Speciosum_.

One of the greatest testimonies to the value of these flowers is that
the buds will develop and open into blossoms of their natural size
while in water in a close room of a London square, and another reason
for their value is that they last two or three weeks if attended to
about every other day, that is, longer than any other cut flower of our
cultivation.

A month ago we took up to town a bunch of _Lilium Speciosum_ from our
little country garden to garnish the dinner-table of a well-known
doctor on the day of his golden wedding. There were, we were told,
many other groups of flowers sent by friends for such an interesting
occasion, but although many were from hot-houses, and some were
valuable orchids, the group of _Lilium Speciosum_, so easy and so
inexpensive to rear, had the place of honour, was admired the most, and
lasted the longest number of days.

But we must not forget to mention an incident which happened to us
while carrying this particular bunch through a City street from the
railway terminus. We became conscious of a footstep close behind us,
and felt that someone was keeping close to the flowers as they dangled
at our side; but walking on unheeding, we presently relaxed our speed,
when the follower made a semi-circle round the bouquet, watching
it greedily until he faced it and us; then he turned and hastily
disappeared, but not before we recognised in the London-dressed man a
young and handsome Japanese! The flowers came from his distant land,
and maybe reminded him of a home, a mother, or a sweetheart, and all so
far away. We have ever since been ashamed of ourselves for not offering
him one of the blossoms for a buttonhole.

The discouraging news given at the end of our first chapter led us to
think: "Lilies will not grow in pots, but some kinds do fairly well in
the open." "Lilies though suitable for pot plants are unsatisfactory
for the flower-bed." Surely it is impossible to reconcile these two
statements. Either one or both opinions must be incorrect. We must
settle this point, and we can easily do so by growing lilies, both in
pots and in the open ground.

We have before told you that we have ourselves grown eighty-seven
distinct kinds of lilies. We have grown them in pots and in the open.
We have obtained great satisfaction from both.

Few flowers are easier to grow in pots than lilies, and as they form
probably the finest of all pot plants the culture of lilies in pots
deserves more attention than it has heretofore received.

There are two ways of potting lilies, each of which has its advantages
and uses, so we will describe both methods.

The first method is the simplest. Take a large flower-pot. No lily
should be grown in a pot less than six inches in diameter. Of course
the pot must vary in size with the size of the plant it has to contain.
_Lilium Concolor_ and _Elegans_ grow well in six-inch pots; _L.
Auratum_ or _Speciosum_ should have an eight or ten-inch pot, while _L.
Giganteum_ will require the largest sized pot procurable or a small tub.

One bulb only should be placed in each pot if absolutely perfect plants
are desired; but very pretty effects can be obtained by growing two or
three bulbs in a large pot or tub.

See that the pot is perfectly clean. Place about an inch depth of
crocks, stones, etc., at the bottom, then put three inches of the
prepared soil in the pot, and over this place a thin layer of peat,
mixed with sharp sand and pieces of charcoal. Take the bulb, examine
it, remove diseased scales and wash it in lime water, as you did in
the case of the lilies you planted out last month. Dust it over with
powdered charcoal and place it in the pot surrounded with sharp sand
and peat. Then fill up the pot with the prepared soil.[1]

In potting lilies, deep potting is to be aimed at. No bulb should be
placed at a less depth than four inches below the surface. Large bulbs
require to be six, eight, or even twelve inches below the surface of
the soil. The reason for this deep potting is that the flower stems
send out roots above the bulb, and it is essential that these roots
should be below the surface of the soil.

The second method of potting bulbs is similar in all respects to the
above, except that the pots are not filled up at once. When you have
placed the bulb in the pot you add a little soil, but leave the top of
the bulb exposed. When growth commences, which will be shown by the
appearance of roots and flower stems, you fill up the pots with the
prepared soil.

Established bulbs and bulbs of the hardier lilies are best potted by
the former method, but for bulbs received from abroad, especially those
of the more tender species, the second method of potting is to be
preferred.

Now that you have potted your lilies the question arises, Where shall
you keep the pots? For the majority of lilies the best place is either
a garden or a balcony. Lilies are too tall growing for window plants
and it is totally unnecessary to coddle them up in rooms.

There are some lilies which will not come to perfection out of doors
in our uncertain climate, except in very favourable seasons. These
kinds, many of them among the finest of the tribe, will, however, grow
admirably in a conservatory or room.

If lilies are grown in rooms, they should be put out of doors every
fine day, as they require sun to mature their flowers.

The lilies which are not sufficiently hardy for the open air are,
_Wallichianum_, _Harrisii_, _Philippinense_, _Neilgherrense_,
_Formosanum_, _Nepaulense_, and _Catesbaei_. (With the exception of
_Neilgherrense_, all these lilies will grow well out of doors in our
southern counties in exceptionally fine seasons.)

November is over; our lilies are planted. How are we to treat them
before the flowering season arrives?

Lilies out in the ground require but very little attention until the
shoots appear. In severe winters _Lilium Giganteum_, _Cordifolium_,
_Speciosum_, and one or two others, should be protected by bracken or
other litter; but lilies stand the frost remarkably well, and rarely
suffer from this cause before the flower shoots appear. Lilies grow all
through the winter, forming roots. _Lilium Candidum_ puts up an autumn
growth of leaves, and occasionally other lilies do the same. When the
shoots appear more attention is required. Those kinds which send up
shoots in January, February, or March may need slight protection, such
as a hand light, from frosts. As the season advances you must guard
against two great enemies--slugs and drought. A dry April, not at all
an unusual occurrence, will often do great damage in the lily garden.

During growth lilies require a very large amount of water. In a dry
season it is a good plan to water them every day. An insufficient
supply of water is one of the commonest causes of failure with lilies.

With lilies in pots only an occasional watering will be required before
the shoots appear. As soon as this stage is reached they should be
watered daily until the flower-buds appear.

If only we could guard against slugs! These are the greatest of
all pests to the lily grower, and though there are many infallible
preventives against slugs used and sold, not one of them answers its
purpose. Soot is usually regarded as the best agent to use to prevent
slugs from eating the tender spring growth of lilies. The soot is
thickly dusted round the plant, and as slugs very much dislike any
powder which adheres to their slimy bodies, they will not venture
across the sooty track. No, they will not cross the soot--at least
not until the soot gets damp, as it does after the first heavy dew
or shower of rain. As soon as the soot gets wet it is no longer a
deterrent to slugs. Lime is also recommended to be used in the same
way as soot; but it, too, fails to serve its purpose when it has once
become damp.

Then have we no way to keep down the ravages of slugs? Yes!--we have
one way, a very excellent way, but a most tedious and unpleasant one to
carry out. The only effective way of thwarting the ravages of the slugs
is to pick off by hand the culprits, while they are gorging themselves
in the evening.

[Illustration: The stem and bulb of _L. Auratum_ showing the relative
quantity of roots given off above and below the bulb.

(_From a photograph. Reduced to a quarter of original diameter._)]

Go out as soon as the sun is set with a lanthorn and a gallipot filled
with strong brine, and visit each lily-shoot in succession. You will
see the slugs congregated on your pets by hundreds, from the little
tiny fellow of one-quarter of an inch long, who is eating your best
lilies in order that he may grow into a larger and more capacious
enemy, to the slimy monster of six inches long, who is attempting
to fill his vast maw with lilies of great value. All are there, all
devouring your best specimens, as though you were their most hated
enemy--as indeed you will be if you want your garden to look gay.
These slugs are not, as one would suppose, dirty feeders, but they are
gourmands of the deepest dye. They are not content with the outside
or decaying leaves--not they--they want the very tenderest tops of
the young shoots! When the lilies are about a foot high, they will
not eat the leaves at the base, they must needs crawl up the stem to
feed on the tender growing top of the plants. But now you can have
your revenge. Pick off with your fingers[2] every slug you can see, be
he little or great, and put him into the brine. The brine kills and
dissolves them in a very short time.

Some gardeners place cabbage-leaves, etc., on the ground as "traps"
for slugs, but alas! the tender lily shoot is far more tickling to the
palate of a slug than any cabbage-leaf!

The damage which slugs can do to lilies is incredible, and unless
these pests are summarily dealt with, every lily in a garden may be
decapitated ere the summer commences. One reason why lilies in pots do
so well is that it is not so easy for the slug to get at them.

The lilies are singularly exempt from the ravages of animals other than
slugs. The aphides or green flies are, however, often very troublesome.
We will refer to this pest when talking of the treatment of lilies just
before and during the flowering stage.

The leaves of some lilies are sometimes eaten by the larvæ of the Lily
Beetle (_Crioceris Merdigera_), but as this insect is a great rarity in
England, we will not describe it.

There is neither animal nor plant which is exempt from disease, and
the lily has inherited this universal tendency to disease. There are
not many common diseases of lilies, and very few even of these do much
damage to more than one or two kinds. But some of these diseases give
great trouble to the lily grower, and often tax his patience to the
utmost.

Some lilies are very prone to a form of mildew which, beginning as
a minute spot of discolouration on one leaf, eventually destroys
the whole of the foliage and flower-buds, and turns a beautiful,
well-grown, apparently healthy lily into a brown slimy stick.

This disease usually begins to show itself about the middle of May.
A small grayish transparent spot appears on one leaf, and in about a
month it has spread and completely destroyed the plant. Not all lilies
suffer from this disease, and of those which are liable to be attacked,
not all suffer to the same extent. Of all lilies, _Lilium Candidum_
is the most frequently attacked, and in this lily the disease usually
destroys the deciduous portion of the plant altogether. The other
members of the Eulirion group of lilies: _L. Brownii_, _Wallichianum_,
_Washingtonianum_, etc., are also frequently attacked, but are rarely
much injured by it. It also occurs on _L. Speciosum_, _L. Superbum_,
_L. Canadense_, and, indeed, most kinds of lily; but in these it rarely
attacks the flower-head and does not, in our experience, do much harm.
We have never seen the disease in _L. Auratum_, _L. Tigrinum_, or _L.
Longiflorum_.

Of the cause of this calamity we know but little, but we rather think
that it is often due to growing lilies in soils which are too poor
or are exhausted. This, indeed, seems highly probable in the case of
_Lilium Candidum_, the most frequently attacked of all lilies, for it
is grown by most people without any care being given to it, and made to
shift in a dry sandy garden exposed to the full blaze of the sun and
scarcely ever watered. Where lilies can have a good rich soil, with
plenty of water, the disease is very uncommon.

Once established, this disease is very difficult to cure. Syringing
with solution of sulphuretted potash, or of sulphur boiled in lime
water, will sometimes stop it, but too frequently the disease runs its
course to the bitter end. If you uproot the plant and examine its bulb
and root, you will find both quite healthy-looking.

There is another disease which, though not so devastating to the lily
garden as the last, is yet very exasperating and even more fatal in its
results.

Here is a beautiful strong growing _Lilium Auratum_, eight feet high,
just showing its flower buds, and showing a large series of beautiful
glossy leaves. Next week we notice that the lower two or three leaves
are yellow and withered. Every day more and more leaves die, and
eventually what was once a beautiful plant is now a naked stalk with a
girdle of fallen yellow leaves and buds around it. Dig up the plant and
examine its bulb and roots. The base of the bulb is gone! And its place
is taken by a mass of evil-smelling pulp. Swarms of little thread-like
worms will be seen twisting about all over the diseased portion. It
seems natural to think that these worms are the cause of the evil, but
we do not think that this is so. The worms are the result, not the
cause of the disease.

[Illustration: _Lilium Hookeri._]

_Lilium Auratum_ and _L. Speciosum_ are the two lilies which mainly
suffer from this disease, but other kinds are occasionally attacked.
When once manifest, no treatment has any effect. Take up the plant
as soon as you are certain that this disease has started, thoroughly
wash the bulb in water, and let it soak in lime water for three days.
Then thickly cover with powdered charcoal, and replant. If you do this
the bulb may recover, and send up a good spike of blossoms next year.
If you have bought good bulbs, and have planted them as we directed
last month, you need not fear that you will lose many plants from this
disease. Of one hundred and six lilies which we had in pots this year
we have only lost one from this cause.

Yet another disease to irritate and discourage the lily grower! Look at
this _Lilium Humboldti_. Its leaves are well developed, and it already
shows five flower-buds, but on closer observation you will see that the
stalks which support these buds are black and withered. Or see this _L.
Martagon_, which shows a head of twenty blossoms. Touch these blossoms,
or gently shake the stem, and five or six buds drop off! These buds,
you will observe, have a black rotten base!

[Illustration: _Lilium Roseum._]

This disease is caused by three or four causes. If the bulbs have been
planted in a poor or dry soil, or if the spot is unsuitable, you will
lose many of your lilies from this cause. Bulbs which have not been
properly ripened often disappoint you in this way. Again, if you delay
planting your bulbs till February or March, you must expect to be
treated in this way. But the most common cause of all is the presence
of mildew among the scales. You can guard against this by paying
attention to the methods described in our last number.

There are three other ways by which lilies may disappoint you. They may
either not come up at all, or they may come out but fail to produce
flowers, or they produce flowers which are damaged and are deformed or
discoloured.

The first of these untoward results is usually due to the bulb having
rotted in the ground. You can do nothing for this but bear the loss
philosophically. You should remember, however, that some lilies,
especially _Lilium Longiflorum_, often lie dormant for a year, but come
up the next year better than ever.

No lily will flower every year, and some lilies require a year or two
to get accustomed to a new home. These will not flower the first year.
As a rule, when a bulb does not send up a flowering shoot, the bulb
itself grows to a very large size.

It is most annoying to see a lily which promises well belie itself
and produce either a deformed or a cankered flower. The cause of the
first is almost always green fly. To this we will refer later. The
cause of the latter is either too poor soil, abuse of liquid manure, or
continuous rain just before the flowers open.

Lilies like the rain. If the weather were arranged to please a lily,
it would rain every day from the time when the shoot appears till the
flowering period has arrived. But lilies object to rain from the time
that the buds begin to change from green to white, or whatever colour
the bud will eventually become, until the flower is fully opened. It
is here that lilies grown in pots have the pull over those grown in
the open ground, for if a spell of rainy weather occurs at the wrong
time, the pots can be taken indoors or placed under shelter, which is
impossible in the case of lilies grown in the open. But something can
be done for the lilies which are exposed to the weather. The buds can
either be wrapped round with oiled paper, or else they can be sheltered
by an old umbrella tied to a stick. By this latter means we have saved
many valuable lilies from disaster.

Lilies vary much in their powers of enduring excessive rain at the
flowering period. _Lilium Auratum_, _Candidum_, and some others are
nearly always ruined when they happen to flower in a spell of rainy
weather. _Lilium Giganteum_, _Concolor_, _Tigrinum_, and many others
stand rain at their flowering time with ease.

Do not be frightened at this chapter of possible calamities. Although
it comes so early in our series, do not let it damp your enthusiasm.
These diseases have to be described, and we have described them, but
though they are, unfortunately, far from uncommon, if you grow lilies
carefully you will not lose many from any of these causes. We have
grown many hundred lilies, we have seen all these adverse conditions,
but they have not damped our ardour. We lose a few lilies every season,
but then there are plenty which give us full satisfaction; and lilies
are such gorgeous plants! If you were to lose half of your stock, and
the other half were satisfactory, you would not complain at the result,
for the good half would delight you and your friends as no other
flowers would.

(_To be continued._)

FOOTNOTES:

[1] In our last number we will give a tabulated account of the various
prepared soils necessary for each species both when grown in pots and
in the open ground.

[2] Some persons very naturally object to taking hold of such slimy
customers with their hands, but their enthusiasm for their plants will
soon overcome such scruples. It is very tedious work to remove these
pests with sticks or forceps.



THREE GIRL-CHUMS, AND THEIR LIFE IN LONDON ROOMS.

BY FLORENCE SOPHIE DAVSON.


CHAPTER II.

THE PLAN OF OPERATIONS.

As we have seen, the incomes of our three friends amounted altogether
to £270 a year. In the winter months the accounts for the rent of the
rooms, coal, gas, candles, and similar expenses came to £1 3s. 6d. each
week, as the following accounts set forth--

                                      £ s. d.
  Rent of rooms                       0 12  0
  Abigail's wages                     0  2  6
  Gas-stove                           0  1  0
  Oil for lamp                        0  0  4
  Candles (½ lb. at 6d. a lb.)        0  0  3
  Coals for sitting-room              0  1 10
  Washing-bills (personal)            0  3  0
  Washing-bills (house linen)         0  2  7
                                     --------
                                     £1  3  6
                                     --------

For about a month in the year the three were away, Marion in her own
home in Nottinghamshire, and the Orlingburys staying with different
friends and relations. Ada Orlingbury had only three weeks holiday
in the summer, and not quite a week at Christmas, but was busy with
her type-writing all the rest of the year. Jane had a far longer rest
from her cookery classes than Ada from her work, and Marion had longer
holidays than either. When all were away they paid rent for their
rooms just the same, but, of course, had no other household expenses.
Marion was a very economical housekeeper and understood how to keep
down expenses as low as possible, whilst still having everything
comfortable. We must admit that very acceptable "helps" arrived
sometimes from their friends in the country. It might be a large box
of eggs, or a "hand" of pork, or perhaps a bag of apples, but this did
not happen very often. Once a week they had a dinner without meat, but
this was no hardship to any of the three, for all liked vegetables,
fruit and fish, and this arrangement made things much easier for the
housekeeper.

Marion had quite grasped the fact that the best way to keep down the
bills was to economise with the butcher's bill, for meat is the most
expensive item of all. They had soup very often, as nice soup can be
made for so little. They indulged largely in savoury dishes of macaroni
and rice, some recipes for which we shall give in the course of this
account of the girl-chums and their doings.

Once a week, on Wednesday evenings, they went to a choral society
to which they belonged, and, as they had to start at seven o'clock,
instead of sitting down to dinner at that hour, they found it more
convenient to have a sort of "high tea" on that evening and to have hot
milk and cake or porridge when they came back.

We must not forget to say that on alternate mornings they had porridge
for breakfast, which Marion cooked the day before in a double saucepan,
whilst she was seeing to her other cookery and which was warmed up in
the morning. They generally supplemented this with scones, which Jane,
with her superior knowledge of food-stuffs, pronounced to be very
nourishing. On Sundays they dined at two o'clock. For this meal they
often had meat pie, as that could be made the day before and heated,
or eaten cold, as they preferred, or they chose something that did not
take long to cook, such as cutlets.

Marion found her path made easy by some of the tradesmen with whom
she dealt, who were very accommodating to her wishes, and never
in the least resented her subtle knowledge of ways and means, as
they undoubtedly did in the case of some other of their customers'
housekeepers of many years' standing and very much Marion's seniors in
years! Mr. Calvesfoot, the butcher, for instance, let her have fat for
rendering down at 2d. a pound, and so she was able to have a constant
supply of excellent dripping for frying and for pastry at the slightest
possible cost. She started her stock with four pounds at the beginning,
and by straining it each time after using it, and by rendering down one
and a half pounds of fresh fat each week and adding it to the stock,
she always had plenty of good dripping. To do this she cut up the fat
and put it in a saucepan with a little water, and then let it cook
until the water had boiled away and the fat had melted, leaving nothing
but crisp little brown bits; the liquid fat was strained off and the
crisp brown bits saved for Abigail, by whom they were esteemed a great
luxury. To others Mr. Calvesfoot was adamant, and declined to part with
the fat under double the sum, but Marion (who was asked the extra price
at first) refused to take "No" for an answer, and asked him calmly why
he could not let her have it cheaply as well as the soap-boilers whose
carts she had seen waiting before his shop early in the morning, and
who she knew only gave him a penny a pound for it.

At the exhibition of so much knowledge he was dumb, and fell in with
her views with much meekness, as no doubt he would have done for his
other customers if they had not allowed themselves to be beaten so
weakly.

She always provided a hot dinner as she found that, with proper
management, it cost no more than a cold one, and it was infinitely more
appreciated. She had learnt just how much was required of any given
thing, and so there was no waste. The little that was left over from
their dinner was always worked into the next day's meals, or else was
finished up by Abigail on the alternate days when she had dinner at
"The Rowans."

Here we have the list of a week's dinners in February.

On Sunday they had a light supper at half-past eight, consisting of
cocoa, boiled eggs, and bread and butter.

Saturday and Sunday were the only days on which they were at home to
tea.

The breakfast for the week, on non-porridge mornings, consisted of
brawn, which Marion had made a fortnight before, when they had had half
a pig's face sent them from the country. The brawn was excellently
flavoured.


DINNERS FOR THE WEEK.

_Sunday._

    Beef and Kidney Pie.
    Baked Potatoes.
    Pineapple in Syrup.
    Rice Mould.

_Monday._

    Cabbage Soup.
    Boiled Beef and Kidney Pudding.
    Boiled Potatoes.
    Cabbage.
    Jam Tarts.

_Tuesday._

    Irish Stew.
    Apple Pie.

_Wednesday._ (High Tea Night.)

    Stuffed Herrings.
    Scones.
    Cocoa.

_Thursday._

    Potato Soup.
    Curried Fish.
    Ginger Pudding.

_Friday._

    Stewed Rabbit and Forcemeat Balls.
    Brussels Sprouts.
    Baked Potatoes.
    Swiss Roll.

_Saturday._

    Brown Soup.
    Boiled Potatoes.
    Boiled Artichokes.
    Tapioca Pudding.

The beef pie which they had on Sunday and the beef pudding of Monday
were both made out of a pound and a quarter of beef skirt, which,
costing only ninepence a pound, makes just as good gravy as rump steak,
and if cooked long enough is very tender. The half that was used for
the pie was cut into rather thin pieces, and half the kidney was cut
in dice; then all was dipped in pepper, flour, and salt, and put into
a saucepan to stew gently for an hour before it was used for the pie.
Marion always did this now, as she had noticed that if the meat was put
raw into the pie, the pastry got overcooked before the meat was done.
It was not necessary to do this with the pudding, however, as that
could be boiled for a very long while--in fact, was all the better for
long boiling.

For the pastry for the pie she used half a pound of flour mixed with a
good teaspoonful of baking powder, and three ounces of dripping rubbed
in lightly. Her hands seldom got hot, so she made delicious pastry,
and as she was careful not to pour in too much water, when mixing the
flour and dripping to a dough, it was not tough. She mixed in the water
quickly and lightly, using a knife to begin the mixing and finishing
with her hands, keeping it as cool as possible while it was being
made, and being very careful not to squeeze it, or work it about more
than was absolutely necessary. The pastry was rolled out quickly and
lightly, and the pie was baked in a good hot oven, and it was voted a
great success. The pineapple needed no cooking, being the contents of
a sixpenny tin turned on to a glass dish. The ground rice mould was
made with a pint of milk brought gently to the boil with two ounces of
castor sugar and a bay leaf to flavour, two ounces of ground rice were
mixed smoothly with a little cold milk while this was happening, and
stirred into the milk on the fire; the mixture was stirred and cooked
for a few minutes and the bay leaf taken out, then it was poured into a
wetted mould to be turned out when cold.

On Monday Marion made the quarter of a large cabbage do for the soup,
and the rest she cooked as a vegetable. The cabbage for the soup was
cut up small and put into boiling water for three minutes to take away
the disagreeable smell; then it was drained and put with a small onion
sliced, a bunch of herbs, a small piece of butter, a teaspoonful of
salt, and simmered for twenty minutes; half a pint of warm milk was
added, and a beaten-up egg strained in. The soup was then stirred over
the fire for a few minutes to cook the egg, but was on no account
allowed to boil for fear of its curdling, as happened, alas! on one
occasion when Marion left her handmaid Abigail to watch it for a minute
or two.

All stews were done in a brown earthenware stewing jar that was one of
her most cherished possessions. While the stew within it was cooking,
the jar stood in a dripping tin containing water in the oven; by this
means the contents of the jar never boiled, though the water outside it
might do so, and if the stew cooked long enough it was always perfectly
tender. As the heat of the fire did not hurt the look of the jar,
the stews were always served in it, which arrangement had the double
advantage of saving time and keeping the dish hot. The Irish stew of
Tuesday was made with one and a half pounds of scrag of mutton, three
pounds of potatoes, and half a pound of onions, all sliced and cooked
gently for two hours. There was a good deal over, so it was used on
Thursday, with the addition of a few more potatoes, half a pint of
water, a gill of milk, and a piece of celery, to make a delicious
potato soup. The milk was added last after the soup had been rubbed
through a sieve and re-heated. For the apple pie a pound of apples of a
good cooking sort were used, and these turned a beautiful amber colour
in the pie. They had such a good flavour of their own that no cloves
were needed to assist them.

The herrings on Wednesday were boned, spread with veal stuffing, rolled
up, brushed with milk and rolled in brown crumbs, then packed in a
greased dripping tin and baked for twenty-five minutes. They made a
substantial meal; on the next day there were one and a half one over,
which were sliced up and put into the curried fish. The scones were
mixed with milk that was slightly sour, as they are always lightest
when so made.

The forcemeat balls that went with the rabbit on Friday were made of
veal stuffing, fried separately, and served on a hot plate instead
of going in the jar with the rabbit. The Swiss roll was made in the
morning before the rabbit was put to cook. The brown soup of Saturday
was made by frying lightly some pieces of carrot, onion, turnip and
celery in a little dripping, and then pouring in the gravy from the
rabbit, and adding any pieces or bones that were left. The lid was
put on, and the soup simmered an hour and a half; then it was rubbed
through a sieve, returned to the fire, brought to the boil, and
thickened with an ounce of flour mixed with a little cold gravy.

When Marion looked through her accounts (which she kept scrupulously)
on Saturday, she found that her food expenses had been as follows:--

                                          £ s. d.
  1¼ lbs. beef skirt                      0  1  0
  ½ lb. ox kidney                         0  0  5
  ½ lb. mutton suet                       0  0  3
  1½ lbs. scrag of mutton                 0  0 10½
  1 lb. fat for rendering                 0  0  2
  1¼ lbs. buttock steak                   0  1  3
  Rabbit                                  0  1  5
  6 herrings                              0  0  6
  8 lbs. potatoes                         0  0  8
  1 lb. sprouts                           0  0  2
  1 lb. artichokes                        0  0  1
  1 large cabbage                         0  0  2
  Tin cocoa                               0  0  6
  1 lb. cod (tail end) for curry          0  0  5
  12 eggs                                 0  1  0
  Milk                                    0  1  9
  1½ lbs. fresh butter at 1s. 4d.         0  2  0
  1 lb. brown sugar                       0  0  1¾
  1 lb. loaf sugar                        0  0  2
  ½ lb. bacon (to cook with rabbit)       0  0  4
  Flavouring vegetables                   0  0  2
  ½ lb. tin mixed coffee and chicory      0  0  9
  ¼ lb. tea                               0  0  6
  8 loaves at 3¾d.                        0  2  6
  1 quartern household flour              0  0  5½
  Sundries (ground rice for mould, etc.)  0  0  6
                                         ------------
                                         £0 18  1¾
                                         ------------

With this account of her expenditure she was perfectly content. Her aim
was to keep the money spent on food below ten shillings a head, and
this week she was well within the margin.

(_To be continued._)



ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.


MEDICAL.

ESTHER.--Feed the child on milk diluted with an equal quantity of
barley-water. Do not give her any patent foods, as these are one of the
most fertile causes of rickets. A little meat gravy or a very small
amount of chicken or hashed mutton might be given to her occasionally
with advantage. A teaspoonful of rich cream twice a day is useful as a
preventive from rickets.

TORQUAY.--Why concern yourself with troubles which may never occur?
How can you tell that you will have such anxieties as you suggest?
The chances are very much against it. Again, the measures you mention
are exceedingly prejudicial to your own health, for many of the most
intractable cases of hysteria can be traced to this cause.

A LOVER OF BEAUTY.--You should try either brilliantine, cantharidine
pomade, or a hair-wash made of rosemary to make your hair soft and
wavy. You must not, however, be disappointed if you find that no
preparation will produce the kind of hair that you desire.

NELLIE.--You cannot expect a physician to know what is the matter with
you if you make a point of hiding your symptoms. We can only tell you
that your trouble is probably either due to diabetes or to some local
ailment. For the rest you must go to your doctor and tell him all about
yourself. Your trouble may be one which a very little simple treatment
may readily cure, but you may be suffering from an extremely serious
disease, which you are allowing to run its course unheeded from a silly
conventionalism. If you do not like to tell your own doctor about
yourself, go to a stranger in a distant part. But pray get someone to
treat you!

A WORKING WOMAN.--It is never easy to be sure as to the cause of
noises in the head. So many unhealthy conditions may produce this
most distressing symptom that it is quite a long work to exclude all
possible causes save one, and so to come to a definite conclusion.
You ask us whether the noises that trouble you proceed from the ears
or head, but there is another possible cause of the trouble that you
have not considered; that cause is anæmia. This is very commonly
indeed associated with noises in the head, usually surging, rushing,
or hissing noises. Moreover, the noises are always more pronounced
after exertion or fatigue. This agrees well with your own account,
and we therefore think that as your general health improves, as it
will do with proper treatment, the noises will gradually decrease
and eventually disappear. The fact that your hearing is not at all
affected, is a strong point against the noises being due to disease
of the auditory nerve. It is not, however, an absolutely certain test
of the condition of the nerve. When noises in the head are due to
brain disease, they are almost invariably accompanied with severe and
frequent, if not constant, headaches. The treatment that we advise is
for you to attend to the general laws of health and diet. As regards
drugs we think that you would derive most benefit from tabloids of
bone marrow. These can be obtained from any chemist. The dose is one
tabloid crushed up in a little milk three times a day after meals.
They must be taken with great caution at first; on the appearance of
trembling, headaches or profuse perspiration, the use of the tabloids
should be discontinued for three days. If taken with care, this remedy
is exceedingly efficacious and is perfectly safe.

LITTLE VILLAGE DOCTOR.--Your friend is suffering from one of those
nondescript diseases which are so common, so difficult to clearly
understand or explain, and so very refractory to treatment. We are
not all born with the same amount of vital energy, and some of these
indefinite illnesses which last for so long a time may simply mean that
the suffering individual has not been endowed with sufficient life. We
can only, therefore, give you some general information which may or
may not prove of value to your friend. In THE GIRL'S OWN PAPER many
articles have appeared on the subject of healthy living; and during the
present year we hope to publish several more papers on the chief laws
of health. It is obedience to these laws which is of utmost value in
cases such as that of your friend. It is doubtful whether any drugs are
likely to do her good. Those drugs which partake more of the nature of
food may be useful. Cod-liver oil, maltine, thick cream, or possibly
bone marrow, might be worth a trial.

JESSIE.--Probably you are suffering from flat-foot, and your doctor
wished to take an impression of your foot to decide what form of boot
you should wear. For the treatment of flat-foot is chiefly a question
of well-made boots which bear some resemblance to the human foot. You
will find an account of flat-foot in an article on "clothing" which
appeared in last year's GIRL'S OWN PAPER. Puffiness of the ankle is
very common in kidney disease; but as the ankles may swell from very
many causes, of which kidney trouble is one of the least common, it
would be rather rash to conclude that your kidneys were affected
because your ankles were weak and swelled slightly.


STUDY AND STUDIO.

A ROSE FLOWER.--We are sorry we cannot praise the verses you send. What
is the meaning of

    "If all His love I fully earned,
      He'd guard me every hour"?

No one can be said to "fully earn" all the love of God. "Saw" and "fro"
do not rhyme, and "lightning" is not spelt with an "e."

ASPHODEL.--"Memory" is the better of your two poems. You have much to
learn as to rhythm and metre. Also you should keep your verbs (in one
statement) in the same tense. "The spring is breaking" and "The earth
looked forth" do not correspond. It is difficult to draw comparisons,
but we are afraid your verses are not quite up to the average of those
sent us, although we have read much worse attempts.

SMILLOC.--We should advise you to write to the Secretary of the Welsh
Male Choir, enclosing a stamp for reply. We do not know the song sung
at High Wycombe. If you cannot trace the Welsh Choir to any address,
write to the Secretary of the Flower Show, High Wycombe, asking where
you should direct your inquiry.

MONTROSE.--The most beautiful volume of sacred poetry with which we are
acquainted is _Verses_, by Christina G. Rossetti (Society for Promoting
Christian Knowledge). It contains 225 pages, and the price is (about)
2s. 6d. There are many miscellaneous collections, the price of which
you can learn from any bookseller, e.g., _The Book of Praise_, compiled
by Sir Roundell Palmer; _Lyra Anglicana_, _Apostolica_, _Germanica_,
_Christiana_.

C. A. M.--There are a great many classes for correspondence. We have
mentioned in this column that R. G. P., Fairview, Four Oaks, Sutton
Coldfield, gives correspondence lessons at 1s. per lesson. Particulars
of instruction by correspondence can be obtained from the Secretary,
Association for the Education of Women, Clarendon Building, Oxford.
There are also the Queen Margaret Correspondence Classes; apply Hon.
Secretary, 31, Lansdowne Crescent, Glasgow; and the St. George's
Correspondence Classes; apply to the Secretary, 5, Melville Street,
Edinburgh. We applaud your wish to improve your arithmetic, and hope
you will try in one of these directions.

ALEXANDRA CARAGEORGIADES (Cyprus).--Thank you for your pleasant little
letter. The _Girls' Outdoor Book_ is illustrated. If your friend Miss
Mitchell reads this, she will know you send your love to her.

WYMONDHAMITE.--Many thanks for your suggestions. We have already
received answers concerning "The Doctor's Fee," but are grateful to
you for your kind letter. Your answer and inquiry appear in "Our Open
Letter Box."


OUR OPEN LETTER-BOX.

VIOLET wishes to know the author of two verses beginning,

    "It is in loving, not in being loved,"
            "The heart is blest."

We cannot find them among Dr. Bonar's "Hymns of Faith and Hope," though
Violet suggests they are by him.

BRIAR ROSE asks for a book of recitations containing "The Little Hero"
and "The Sioux Chief's Daughter."

WE have two answers to "LENNOX." One is from "C. J. HAMILTON," who
complains of her misquotation, and gives George Macdonald's lines as
follows:--

    "Alas! how easily things go wrong.
    A sigh too much, or a kiss too long,
    And then comes a mist and a weeping rain,
    And life is never the same again.

    Alas! how hardly things go right.
    'Tis hard to watch on a summer's night,
    For the sigh will come, and the kiss will stay,
    And a summer night is a winter day."

"BERTHA" sends us "the whole of the poem" as quoted in a book entitled
_The Everyday of Life_, by the Rev. J. R. Miller, D.D. To the verses
already transcribed, which we ourselves recognise as the only ones from
the pen of George Macdonald, she also adds that quoted by "Lennox" and
another.

    "And yet how easily things go right,
    If the sigh and the kiss of the winter's night
    Come deep from the soul in the stronger ray
    That is born in the light of the winter's day.

    And things can never go badly wrong
    If the heart be true and the love be strong;
    For the mist, if it comes, and the weeping rain
    Will be changed by the love into sunshine again."

It sounds to us as if these two verses had been added by some
over-zealous friend, but we may be mistaken.

"NINETTE" (Budapesth) asks for an English book containing "The Song of
the Shirt" (Thomas Hood), and also "Somebody's Darling."

ASSANDUNE asks for a recitation, "The Tired Mother."

WE have also two answers to "Ethel Rimmer." The poem by Christina
Rossetti beginning

    "When I am dead, my dearest,
      Sing no sad songs for me,"

is set to music by Malcolm Lawson, and appeared in the _Strand Musical
Magazine_ for 1895, vol. 1 (June number); suitable for mezzo-soprano;
so says CLARA J. NICHOLSON. "WYMONDHAMITE" says that the lines have
been set by Arthur Somervell, and published by J. and J. Hopkinson, 34,
Margaret Street, Cavendish Square, W., price 2s. nett. "Wymondhamite"
asks, on her own account, for six lines by Helen Marion Burnside,
enshrining the following ideas in a birthday wish: "She commends her
friend to the love of God because her own is too weak and too finite,
and winds up with wishing her as much earthly prosperity as is good for
her."

IRISH SHAMROCK inquires for a cheap song-book in which she could find
the song, without music, "Kate O'Shane," by Luiley; "Ellen O'Leary,"
and "Dermot Astore." "Cast thy bread upon the waters," we may inform
her, is not from a hymn, but is a line from the Bible: Ecclesiastes xi. 1.
The whole passage has been set to music.

SOLDIER'S DAUGHTER informs "Kate" that there is a poem on Kate Barlass
called "The King's Tragedy," by Christina Rossetti. Guided by this
hint, we have ascertained that "The King's Tragedy" is by Dante Gabriel
(not Christina) Rossetti, and is to be found in the collected edition
of his poems. The Queen called out to Kate, "Bar the door, lass," and
she thus obtained her name. Perhaps this poem may be the one required.


MISCELLANEOUS.

J. L.--If it be merely weakness of the eyes, bathing frequently in a
weak solution of vinegar and cold water will be found strengthening;
a change of employment, writing being less trying than reading, and
knitting and coarse crochet-work than plain sewing. When the eyes
are tired and ache, change your occupation at once; set the house or
drawers or books in order; take a turn in the garden, or a walk out of
doors, and look at distant objects. Read our "New Doctor's" Medical
answers on these subjects.

CHINESE WHITE.--We regret we have not space to give you the long list
of printers and publishers for which you ask.

MISS M. CARLEY.--Married or unmarried you may wear a mourning ring
wherever you find it will fit the best.

A. B. C.--For getting rid of the pest of little red ants that infest
cupboards, we have recommended the use of a solution of alum, but we
have just been advised to employ it hot. The right proportions are
as follows:--Take two pounds of alum, dissolve it in two or three
quarts of boiling water, and let it stand on the fire until the alum
has disappeared; then apply it with a brush, while nearly boiling,
to every joint and crevice in your closets, wooden bedsteads, pantry
shelves, and also to those in the floor, and of the skirting boards and
wainscotes. When you have your ceilings whitewashed, add plenty of alum
to the lime, and when your house paint is washed, use cool alum water,
which is obnoxious to cockroaches. Sugar barrels and boxes may be kept
free from ants by the simple plan of drawing a wide chalk band round
the edge of the receptacle, taking care that the band be unbroken, or
else the vermin will cross over the broken line.

STAR-GAZER.--The largest telescope, at present existing, is that at the
Lick Observatory, having an object glass of thirty-six inches diameter.
Next follows that at Pulkova, Russia, having a glass of thirty inches.
The next below that is at the University of Virginia, of twenty-six
inches. Harvard possesses the fourth in size, with a twenty-four inch
glass; and the fifth is that of Princeton College. That of Yerkes, the
latest of the celebrated productions at Cambridge, Mass., is rated at
forty inches in diameter. But all the American Telescopes, even the
last-named, are eclipsed by the forthcoming monster of Paris, exceeding
even the Lick by eleven inches. It will be 186 feet in length, and on
view, ready for use, in 1900, at the proposed _Exposition_. The image
is to be received on a level mirror, 75 inches in diameter.

DAISY.--Do not be misled by the advertisements, offering high wages
to female emigrants, as domestic servants at Johannesburg and the
Transvaal. A government "caution" has been issued.

ROBERT.--You seem to be getting on very well with your class of boys,
and to manage them satisfactorily. We can only suggest that you should
select a book for them occasionally, out of which you might read, such
as Dr. Smiles' _Self-Help_, and also that you relate to them something
about brave and noble men like General Gordon and many others. A boys'
magazine will sometimes help you to think of topics, such as the _Boy's
Own Paper_. You might get a penny number now and then.

CURIOSITY.--Why not take _Cottage Gardening_, published weekly by
Cassell & Co., price ½d. There are plenty of small manuals which you
will find advertised in it.

JOHN DORY.--There will be another eclipse of the moon this year, which
will be total, and visible at Greenwich on December 27th; but of the
sun, the two that are due will be invisible at Greenwich. There have
been three each, of the sun and moon, this year. The first record of
a solar eclipse is to be found in Chinese history, and took place
about 2169 B.C., in the reign of Shingkang, when the unfortunate
astronomers, Ho and Hi, were put to death for not having predicted
the phenomenon. The famous eclipse, predicted by Thales of Miletus,
and which (according to Herodotus) interrupted the battle between the
Medes and Lydians, occurred on May, 28th, 585 B.C.; Sir G. B. Airy is
our authority for the date; as also for those of Xerxes, B.C. 478, and
Agathocles, B.C. 310. These are the earliest of which we have authentic
records.

A NEW READER.--The mirror glass used in painting is silver-plated
and bevelled. The latter makes the work look richer. The glass need
not be new, but it must be thoroughly cleaned, either with spirits
of turpentine and a chamois leather, or covered with wet whiting and
rubbed away with the leather when dry. Then polish well, and leave
quite clear. The tracing on the mirror is done from a design with red
carbonised paper, and then retraced with a reed pen and lithographic
ink to fix it for painting. The colours used are the ordinary tube
colours employed in oil painting.

FLUFFIE and BUSY BEE.--Recipes for rock, a cream toffee, will be found
in vol. xvii., page 695, and also in vol. xviii.

PRISCILLA.--At a double wedding the two brides go up the aisle with
their father, or brother if no father be living, one on each arm. The
bridesmaids follow, the elder sisters going first. The bridegrooms may
wear white or pale grey gloves.



OUR PUZZLE POEMS.

FOREIGN AWARDS.


PREPOSITIONS.


_Prize Winners (Half-a-Guinea Each)._

 Helen Shilstone, Ellangowan, Fontabelle, Barbados.
 Mrs. Talbot Smith, Adelaide, S. Australia.


_Very Highly Commended._

J. W. W. Hogan (Penang), Laura O'Sullivan (Rangoon).


_Highly Commended._

Mrs. G. Marrett (Hyderabad).


_Honourable Mention._

M. Browne (Oudh), Elsie V. Davies (Australia), Clara J. Hardy
(Australia), Lily Harman (Benares), Elizabeth Lang (France), Maud C.
Ogilvie (Deccan), Hilda D'Rozario (Bangalore).


A SHORT STORY IN VERSE.


_Prize Winner (One Guinea)._

Elizabeth MacPherson, Umbango, Tarcutta, N. S. W., Australia.


_Very Highly Commended._

Lizzie Cameron (S. Africa).


_Highly Commended._

Nellie M. Daft (Portugal), E. Violet Davies (Australia), E. H.
Glass (Oudh), Mrs. Hardy, Clara J. Hardy (Australia), Caroline Hunt
(Tasmania), M. R. Laurie (Barbados), Maud C. Ogilvie, K. Prout
(Deccan), E. Nina Reid (New Zealand), Mrs. Sprigg (Cape Colony).


_Honourable Mention._

Ethel Beven (Ceylon), Winifred Bizzey (Canada), Gertrude Burden (S.
Australia), Milicent Clark (S. Australia), Lillian Dobson (Australia),
Maggie Douglas (N. Zealand), John A. FitzMaurice (Australia),
"Gertrude" (Transvaal), Lily Harman (Benares), L. Hill (Argentine
Republic), Miss Horne (N. Zealand), Margie C. Lewis (Johannesburg),
J. McDougal (Jamaica), Mrs. Daisy McFedries (N. Zealand), Mrs. S. F.
Moore (W. Australia), Mrs. E. E. Murray (Australia), Violet Sellers
(Portugal), J. S. Summers (Bombay), Mrs. H. L. Thompson (St. Vincent,
W. I.), Herbert Traill (Bombay), Fred. Walker (W. Australia).

       *       *       *       *       *

Transcriber's note--the following changes have been made to this text:

Page 115: Worm changed to Warm.





*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. XX, No. 986, November 19, 1898" ***

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