Title: The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. VIII, No. 360, November 20, 1886
Author: Various
Language: English
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NO. 360, NOVEMBER 20, 1886 ***



[Illustration: THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER

VOL. VIII.—NO. 360.      NOVEMBER 20, 1886.       PRICE ONE PENNY.]



THE SHEPHERD’S FAIRY.

A PASTORALE.

BY DARLEY DALE, Author of “Fair Katherine,” etc.

[Illustration: “AND READ IT ALOUD.”]

_All rights reserved._]


CHAPTER VIII.

TWELVE YEARS LATER.

In the early days of the present century, during which period the
events of this story took place, the education of the lower classes
was of the meagrest description; boys like Jack Shelley, with
intellectual capacities above the level of their own class, had none
of the opportunities afforded at the present day of rising from their
humble position. Jack, indeed, was fortunate in getting hold of Fairy’s
books, which he very soon mastered; but in those times young ladies
were taught very little besides history and geography, and a little
French, and Fairy was not fond of study; she liked French, and she was
fond of poetry; history she hated, and but for Jack her ignorance of
arithmetic would have been pitiable. Her taste for poetry hence fitted
Jack indirectly, for Mr. Leslie gave her a Shakespeare on her tenth
Christmas Day, and from the first day Jack caught sight of it he never
rested till he had saved up enough money to buy himself one, which
was his constant companion on the downs. He was an intense lover of
nature as well as of poetry, and his shepherd’s life helped him in this
respect; for during the long hours he passed daily on the lonely downs,
he had plenty of time for observation of all the birds and animal life
he came across. Sussex is a famous county for rare birds, and the
neighbourhood of Lewes in particular is celebrated in this respect; and
by the time Jack was seventeen he was quite an authority on birds; he
knew all about them, what kinds visited the neighbourhood and at what
seasons; which remained all the year round, and which were only rare
and occasional visitors; which bred there, where their nests were to
be found, how they were made, and how many eggs and of what kind each
species laid; the habits and very often the characters of different
birds—all this he knew.

His drawback was he could not afford to buy any good book on birds—they
were all far beyond his means; but Mr. Leslie had “Bewick,” and one of
Jack’s greatest treats was to go and fetch Fairy, when she spent an
evening at the Rectory, and be allowed half an hour’s study of this
most fascinating book.

But besides natural history and Shakespeare, Jack studied mathematics
on the downs; he bought an old Euclid and an algebra in a book-shop
at Lewes, and these, with his Shakespeare and one or two other books,
he kept in a hole in a chalk-pit on one of the downs; and winter and
summer alike, while the sheep grazed he studied. In winter he walked
up and down to keep his blood in circulation, for it was sometimes so
cold that he would have been frozen had he sat still; but in summer he
stretched himself full length on the short turf in some grey hollow,
where he was in shadow.

In some ways a shepherd’s life suited him; it gave him plenty of
leisure for study; he was his own master from the time he left home
in the grey dawn till he returned at sunset; his duties were light,
he had but to follow the sheep, and his dog did all the hard work;
moreover, he had none of the responsibility—that all fell on John’s
shoulders. Then he liked the loneliness of it. Often for days he met no
one except, perhaps, his father, with the rest of the flock, or Dame
Hursey gathering wool, or some other shepherd; but yet, for all this,
Jack hated the life. He hated it because he felt he had the capacity
in him for doing higher work; he hated it because, though his father
was content to live all the year on the chalky slopes, visiting Lewes
at the two sheep fairs, and occasionally on market days, and on the
fifth of November to see the carnival, he was not; he longed to go
beyond those round-topped mountains, to cross that silver streak of
sea he caught a glimpse of on clear days, to see some of the cities
and places he had read of. Above all, he hated it because he felt it
was an insuperable obstacle between him and Fairy; for whom, from that
day when, as an infant, she had clutched hold of his finger, he had
entertained a romantic and ardent affection.

And then he was very proud; and though it was doubtless very foolish
pride, he was ashamed of being a shepherd. He would not have had his
father, for whom he had the greatest respect, suspect the real secret
reason of his dislike to his occupation for worlds, but there it was
all the same. He knew to have refused to become a shepherd would almost
have broken John Shelley’s heart; and so, for his sake, Jack had never
demurred when it was proposed, but he cherished hopes of some day
rising to a higher calling.

Poor Jack! could he but have known how that longing was to be
fulfilled! But Jack no more than the rest of us could afford to look
into the future, neither had he the power—it was as mercifully veiled
from him as from others. To look back on past sorrows is sad enough;
to look forward to coming ones with the same certainty would be
insupportable.

Jack’s seventeenth birthday was a glorious day, and before the sun was
high in the horizon, he, and Fairy, and the two other boys were on
their way to the seaside, with their dinners in a basket. They were
all in high spirits, for a holiday was a rare thing indeed for Jack,
and Willy was nearly always at sea, so it was a treat to have him with
them, especially to Jack, whose favourite brother Willy was. Moreover,
when Willy was there, he would be sure to take Charlie away for part of
the day, and leave Jack and Fairy together, and this was a thing to be
very thankful for in Jack’s opinion, for he considered Charlie a little
nuisance, and had always been very jealous of his brotherly affection
and friendship for Fairy. One thing in particular annoyed Jack; Charlie
always kissed Fairy every night when he went to bed—a thing neither he
nor his father ever ventured to do, nor had Willy ever done so since he
came back from sea; but Charlie kissed her every night in the coolest
way; and when Jack remonstrated with his mother, as he sometimes did
about it, Mrs. Shelley only laughed and said as they were foster
brother and sister, and both still mere children, it was quite natural.

But this day was destined to be a very happy one for Jack; he was the
hero of it, and Fairy gave herself up to making it as pleasant for him
as possible. Her present had delighted him greatly, so he started in
his happiest mood. He was lucky, too, and found a nest of a Cornish
chough in the chalky cliffs, with five little birds, one of which Jack
took home alive and made a great pet of; then, as they neared Newhaven,
he shot a water-ousel with his catapult, to add to his collection of
stuffed birds found in the neighbourhood. Jack was a charming companion
on a country walk; he knew every bird they came across, and his delight
and excitement when they saw a rare or scarce bird was charming to
witness. A flight of crossbills, or a ring-ousel, was a delightful
incident to Jack; and when, in the evening at Newhaven, he actually
descried a stormy petrel skimming over the surface of the sea in its
usual business-like way, as if all the affairs of the nation depended
on it, his delight was unbounded. He had had a glorious birthday, he
declared—only one little shadow was cast across it on their way home,
when, as they reached the top of the down, at the foot of which lay
the shepherd’s house, they met Dame Hursey. Now Jack never could bear
Dame Hursey to approach Fairy! He always connected her in some way or
other, how, he did not exactly know, with Fairy’s arrival, and he had
a very shrewd suspicion that the old wool-gatherer knew far more than
anyone else about Fairy’s parentage. One thing was certain—she was
most curious about the child, and never met either Jack or his father
without talking about her, and trying to find out something about her;
and if she could only speak to Fairy herself, she was quite happy; but
this Jack never suffered her to do if he could prevent it; and seeing
her coming he now tried to hurry Fairy home before Dame Hursey could
catch them up.

“Hi, man, Jack Shelley, stop a minute, will you, and let me have a look
at the little lass?” shouted Dame Hursey in her broad Sussex brogue,
and Jack, much against his will, was obliged to stop.

“Poor old woman, Jack; she can’t do us any harm; why shouldn’t we stop
and speak to her?” said Fairy, who did not keep her pretty manners for
the other sex only, but was just as anxious to charm an old woman like
Dame Hursey, and be as courteous to her as she would have been to Mr.
Leslie or any of the people she met at the Rectory.

“Well, you are fair enough for a princess. We shall have the prince
coming one of these fine days and carrying you off,” said Dame Hursey,
holding the little slender fingers Fairy tendered her in her horny old
palm, and gazing with her piercing black eyes, bright now in spite of
her seventy odd years, at the child’s fair face.

“I hope not; I am very happy here,” said Fairy, laughing.

“But you don’t belong here for all that; you look as much out of your
place here as a black-faced horned sheep would among John Shelley’s
flock of Southdowns.”

“We must be going, Fairy. See, the sun is setting,” said Jack,
impatiently.

“Ah, it is no use your frowning about it, Jack Shelley. You may take
her away now, but you mark my words, as sure as my name is Hursey, the
prince will come and carry the fairies’ child away one of these days,
in spite of all you can say or do to the contrary,” persisted the old
woman, as Jack led Fairy off, feeling very much annoyed at her words.

“Old witch,” muttered Jack.

“Poor old thing! she means well, Jack,” laughed Fairy.

“I almost think she has meant mischief to you, Fairy, ever since
that day after you first came to us, and I was left at home to watch
Charlie, while mother took you to Mr. Leslie. I remember as well as
if it were yesterday; she came in while you were gone, and ransacked
the place to look for your clothes and things. If you had been in the
cradle instead of Charlie, I am sure she would have stolen you.”

“Oh, Jack, how absurd you are! Well, at any rate, I am too big to be
stolen now, so you might let me be civil to her.”

“Civil you can be, but, Fairy, promise me you will never go to her
cottage, nor stop talking to her when you are alone,” said Jack.

“Well, I promise. I am not at all anxious to go to her very dirty hut,
and mother very seldom lets me go out alone, except to and from the
Rectory.”

“I only wish she did; here I have to go out with Fairy whenever she
chooses, whether I like or not,” put in Charlie.

“But you always do like,” said Fairy, at which Jack frowned ominously.

The next week Willy went to sea, and the others were left at home for
the summer, except Fairy, who went to the seaside with the Leslies
for a fortnight in September, the longest fortnight Jack ever spent.
While she was away, Mrs. Shelley took the opportunity of warning Jack
about his growing jealousy of Charlie, which was daily becoming more
apparent, and she flattered herself when Fairy came back that her words
had had some effect, until a little incident occurred to show her she
was mistaken.

One evening in November, as Jack was coming down the High-street
of Lewes, whither he had had to accompany his father, much against
his will, to the last sheep fair, he saw a large bird flying slowly
overhead. He followed it down a by-street, and saw it was getting lower
and lower, evidently tired, until at last it sunk exhausted on the
ground, a few paces from Jack, who secured it without much difficulty.
It was a wild goose come southwards for the winter, and, being
exhausted either for want of food or by its long journey, had become
separated from its companions. By its black, snake-like head and neck,
and the smallness of its size in comparison with other geese, Jack
recognised it at once as a Brent goose, and taking it up in his arms he
ran home in triumph with his prize, which soon revived after being fed.
He clipped its wings and put it with the rest of the poultry, where it
soon became quite at home, and attached itself to Charlie, who always
fed it, and constantly followed him about the premises, sometimes even
into the house.

For some reason or other Fairy took a dislike to this bird; she
declared it looked like an evil spirit, and she was sure it would bring
ill-luck to them. She could not bear to see it about the garden, and
often begged Charlie in Jack’s hearing to keep it shut up with the rest
of the poultry. Charlie, however, delighted in having found a way of
teasing Fairy, and partly on that account, partly because he was really
fond of the bird, he encouraged it to follow him wherever he went.

One morning Charlie came in to breakfast in the greatest distress—the
Brent goose was gone; he had searched the premises, but could not see a
sign of it.

“I am very glad of it. Horrid bird, with its snaky head and neck! I
hated it,” said Fairy.

“Have you done anything with it, Fairy? Do you know where it is?”
asked Charlie.

“Ask Jack,” laughed Fairy; and that was all Charlie could get out of
her.

Jack was on the downs with the sheep, and would not be home till
evening, so Charlie spent the day in searching the neighbourhood for
the Brent goose, but in vain; and when Jack came home Charlie’s first
words were, “The Brent goose is lost, Jack.”

“No, it isn’t,” said Jack.

“I tell you it is; I have been all over the country looking for it, and
I can’t find it anywhere.”

“You didn’t go to the Pells, I suppose, did you?” asked Jack.

The Pells is the public garden of Lewes—a paddock, with a piece of
ornamental water, on which live a beautiful collection of wild ducks,
belonging to the town.

“No, I forgot that; how stupid of me! It is too dark to go now,” said
Charlie.

“And no use either, though the goose is there; I have given it to the
town,” said Jack.

“What a shame, when I was so fond of it! you only did it to spite me,”
cried Charlie, ready to burst into tears, only he was too big to cry
about a goose.

“I didn’t do it to spite you; I sent it away because Fairy hated it,
and you were always teasing her about it. If you want to see it you can
go to the Pells every day if you like and look at it, but I won’t have
Fairy teased about it.”

“You won’t have Fairy teased, indeed! Why, she is much more my sister
than yours; you have nothing to do with her; I am her foster-brother,”
broke out Charlie.

For a moment Jack hesitated, and Charlie put up his arm to ward off the
blow he seemed to expect, but on second thought Jack only turned on his
heel, and with a bitter laugh muttered contemptuously, “Get out of my
way, and don’t talk such stuff, you little idiot.”

They never understood each other, these two brothers. While Charlie
thought Jack a book-worm who encroached upon his relationship with
Fairy, Jack thought Charlie an idle little boy, not over clean, who
would never be anything more than a labouring man to the end of his
days, and who had the impertinence to consider himself on an equality
with Fairy. With Willy Jack got on much better, though Willy was no
cleverer than Charlie, nor any fonder of study; but then he never
roused his eldest brother’s jealousy in the way Charlie did. Mrs.
Shelley, who understood her eldest son better than anyone else did,
always tried to ward off any collisions between the boys, and if that
were impossible, took Jack’s part, which always had the effect of
mollifying him at once. On this occasion she had heard the squabble
between the boys, and as Jack went upstairs to change his clothes
before helping Fairy with her lessons, she persuaded Charlie, who had
been tramping about the country the whole day, to go to bed before Jack
reappeared, promising to bring him up some supper.

But Mrs. Shelley could not be always at her boy’s heels to keep the
peace between them, and as Jack grew into manhood she watched with
anxious heart his growing passion for Fairy, and his increasing
jealousy of his youngest brother. Under any circumstances his love for
Fairy would have made her tremble for him, though at present Fairy was
such a child it was impossible to say how she might feel in the future
with regard to Jack; but Mrs. Shelley thought it far more probable the
child would meet someone at the Leslies than that she would choose
Jack, whom she had known all her life, and whom she seemed to regard
as an elder brother. But when added to this Jack’s jealousy of Charlie
grew side by side with his love, like an ugly poisonous weed by the
side of a beautiful flower, Mrs. Shelley, in spite of the comfort and
joy Fairy was to her, often regretted having taken her in, though, as
she told herself, she really did not know what else could she have done.

A few days after the Brent goose was sent to the Pells, Fairy, on
coming back from the Rectory at four o’clock, found she had left one of
her books behind her, and as Charlie was not to be found, being in all
probability at the Pells, paying an afternoon visit on his goose, Fairy
with some difficulty persuaded Mrs. Shelley to let her go back to the
Rectory alone, declaring she would be home again before dark.

She reached the Rectory safely, got her book, and was just passing the
Winter-bourne, about ten minutes’ walk from the shepherd’s house, when,
rather to her annoyance, Dame Hursey suddenly appeared from a by-lane
and stopped her.

“Good-evening, Mrs. Hursey; I must not stop, it is getting so dark;
mother will be frightened,” said Fairy, trying to pass the old woman,
mindful of her promise to Jack, and secretly rather nervous at her
encounter with the old wool-gatherer in this lonely spot, and in the
gathering gloom of a November evening.

“Mother, indeed! You have a grander lady for your mother than Mrs.
Shelley ever saw the like of, proud as she and her son Jack may be, I
am thinking; but never mind that—one of these fine days Dame Hursey may
tell you some news that will open those pretty eyes of yours, till they
will look bigger than ever. Tell me, child, you can read writing, of
course, can’t you?” said Dame Hursey, pulling aside her coarse apron,
and fumbling among the folds of her tattered linsey skirt for her
pocket.

“Yes, I can read and write too; but I really must be going home; it is
getting so late,” said Fairy.

“Wait a minute, child; I am not going to keep you long. I want you to
read a letter for me I had from my son this morning; maybe there is
something in it I should not care for just everyone to know; I have
been on the look out for John Shelley or gentleman Jack all day, but
I have missed them somehow, and I can’t read writing myself. Ah! here
it is at last,” producing a letter from the bottom of a very capacious
pocket filled with some very incongruous articles—a few coppers, a
piece of cheese, a thimble, a sock she was knitting, some corks, and
various other odds and ends too numerous to mention.

Fairy took the letter, and by Dame Hursey’s instructions read it aloud.
It ran as follows:—

“Dear Mother,

“I am just home from Australia, but I am going back there again at
once. First, I want to see you, as I think you can tell me something I
want to know, so will you meet me on the top of Mount Harry at three
o’clock next Saturday afternoon? I shall be there, and, if you are
living, I shall expect you. Till then I am your affectionate son,

        “GEORGE.”

“Is that all? Every word of it?” asked Dame Hursey, fixing her black
eyes on the child.

“Yes. Shall I read it again?” said Fairy.

“No. Next Saturday afternoon at three o’clock, on the top of Mount
Harry. I shall be there safe enough. Thank you, my pretty one; I shan’t
forget that one good turn deserves another. Good-night,” and the old
wool-gatherer dived into a lane, and was out of sight before Fairy
had recovered her astonishment, when she took to her heels and fled
breathless to Mrs. Shelley, who was anxiously watching at the gate for
her.

(_To be continued._)



NOTICES OF NEW MUSIC.


NOVELLO, EWER, AND CO.

_Beethoven’s Songs._ Vol. I. With both the German words and an English
version. By the Rev. Dr. Troutbeck, to whom we are indebted for so
many excellent translations of words to music.—This truly valuable
collection, including such specimens as “Adelaide,” “The Glory of God
in Nature,” popularly known as “Creation’s Hymn,” will be eagerly
sought for by all singers; particularly when we mention that the
twenty-six songs may be purchased for eighteenpence.

[Illustration]

_Liederkreis._ The opus 39. By Schumann.—A circle of twelve songs,
many well known to you. Amongst them we find the “Frühlingsnacht,”
“Mondnacht,” “In der Fremde,” and other lovely poems.

_Six Duets._ For soprano and contralto. By F. H. Cowen.—Form a most
charming volume, and are published at the same moderate price and in
the same excellent form, with clear type and careful editing.

_Six Vocal Duets_, for the same voices. By Oliver King, a rising
composer, may also be warmly recommended.

_Ten Songs._ By George J. Bennett, a youthful Academy student. Settings
of words by Robert Burns. Are all most fresh and delightful, and add to
a reputation which this hard-working young composer has already firmly
established.

_Three volumes of Piano pieces_, by Fritz Spindler, a well-known
pianoforte teacher and composer in Dresden (forming numbers
of Novello’s Pianoforte Albums), are most useful and artistic
contributions to our store of light piano music. The transcriptions of
subjects by Wagner are very good.


FORSYTH BROTHERS.

_Scales and Arpeggios._ By Harvey Löhr.—These excellent studies
are systematically fingered, and contain many useful hints towards
improving the pianist’s technique.


JOSEPH WILLIAMS.

_The Star of our Love._ By F. H. Cowen.—A graceful, well-written song,
to words by the late Hugh Conway, whose little books have created so
much excitement lately. Compass D to E or F to G.

_Clouds_, and _I love you too well_. Two more songs by the same eminent
composer. Published in one or two keys.

_Three Songs._ Words and music by W. A. Aikin.—Very simple and
effective.

_The Ride of Fortune_ (founded on Shakespeare’s lines, “There is a
tide in the affairs of men,” &c.). By Charles A. Trew.—An excellent
contralto song.

_Operatic Fantasias._ For violin, with piano accompaniment. By F.
Davidson Palmer Mus.Bac.—Judging from _Il Trovatore_, the number
before us, these fantasias should be often used for concerts and other
entertainments, where a faithful transcription of operatic melodies is
required, untrammelled by too many cadenzas and fireworks for the solo
instrument.

_La Figlia del Reggimento._—This selection is also to be commended. It
is for two violins and piano, and arranged by John Barnard.

_Sarabande_ (ancien style). Pour piano. Par Henri Roubier. _Idée
Dansante._ For piano. By Percy Reeve.—Two dances above the average,
graceful and musicianly.


WILLIAM CZERNY.

_Partita_, in D minor. For violin and piano. By Hubert Parry.—A
scholarly work, made up of six sections:—Maestoso, Allemande, Presto,
Sarabande, two Bourrées, and a Passepied in Rondo form. One might
almost call it a Sonatina of many movements. The partita differs from
the suite in not being restricted to dances only.

_Je l’aimerai toujours._ An easy piano piece for beginners. Composed by
François Behr.

_Intermezzo-Minuet._ A short entr’acte for piano. By G. Bachmann.—This
smoothly-written morceau is included in Czerny’s orchestral series as a
string quartett.

_Adoration._ A meditation upon Bach’s 7th “Small Prelude.” By Oscar
Wagner.—Arranged for piano and violin, or flute or violoncello, with
organ and additional strings, upon the model of Gounod’s similar work,
but scarcely so interesting, and certainly not so spontaneous in
melodic treatment. It is also arranged as an “O Salutaris Hostia” for
voice, violin, piano, and organ or harmonium.

_Stars of the Summer Night._ By Edouard Lassen.

_My All-in-all._ By Theodor Bradsky.—Both these songs have violin
obbligatos, in which the chief fault appears to be that the violin
never rests, not even for a bar.

_Happy Days._ A touching song. By poor Max Schröter. Compass C to F.


PHILLIPS AND PAGE.

_For ever with the Lord!_ Sacred song. By Gounod.—A new song by Gounod
needs only to be mentioned to engage the attention of our readers.
Gounod has been happier in his setting of other English hymns, such as
the “Green hill far away” and the “King of Love my Shepherd is.” But
there are some lovely points in this. It is published in keys suitable
to all voices, both as a solo and a duet, and it also appears in anthem
form for four voices and organ.


J. AND J. HOPKINSON.

_She Noddit to Me._ A song that bids fair to become most popular. The
words by A. Dewar Willock.—Describe the delight of a Scotch body at
receiving a “special bow” from the Queen as she passed her cottage
on the Deeside. The music is by J. Hoffmann, and it is dedicated by
special permission to Her Majesty.

_The Crusader._ A stirring baritone song. By Theo. Bonheur.

_The Goblin._ A cynical poem, set to music by Gustav Ernest, whose
clever works we have before noticed.


E. ASCHERBERG AND CO.

_The Winged Chorister._ The music by Pinsuti.—The chorister in question
(although there is a harmonium part) is not a dying choir boy, but a
robin which has got into the church by some means, and whose “pure,
clear notes,” it is suggested, “would harmonise our coarser tones, and
bear them straight to Heaven.” Our recollection of the robin’s note,
easily imitated by tapping two pennies together, hardly carries out
this lofty idea!

_Let us Wander by the Sea_, and _The Merry Summer Time_. Two duets for
soprano and contralto. By our much lamented countryman, Henry Smart,
whose delicate fancy has in so many ways enriched English music.—The
edition before us is ruined, as far as outward appearance goes, by
vulgar drawings on the covers.

_Aubade Française._ A most elegant serenade in the purely French style.
By M. de Nevers.—Very suitable for a light tenor voice.

_Gavotte des Oiseaux._ A bright little dance for pianoforte. By G.
Bachmann.


F. PITMAN.

_The Musical Monthly._—This last year’s number is as extraordinary
a shillingsworth as ever, containing, in the midst of much that is
unworthy, several good old English airs, some of Mendelssohn’s songs
without words, five songs from the _Bohemian Girl_, of Balfe’s, some
good Scotch songs, etc., etc.

       *       *       *       *       *

We have also received an advance copy of No. 1 of the “Violin Soloist,”
well got up, and containing ten or twelve good solos. It is to be
brought out monthly at a penny per number.

_Canadian March._ For Piano. Solo and duet, and for every other
imaginable combination. Composed by Carl Litolff.


NORTH OF ENGLAND SCHOOL FURNISHING COMPANY.

_150 Exercises and Questions in the Elements of Music._ By I. L.
Jopling, L.R.A.M.—Most thorough and searching test questions,
systematically and exhaustively treated. This little book will prove of
great help in preparing for the elementary examinations of the various
colleges and academies. It is to be used after studying Mr. Davenport’s
primer.


THE LONDON MUSIC PUBLISHING COMPANY.

Six songs by Erskine Allon to words by Sir Thomas Wyatt, who died in
1542.—All that Mr. Allon writes is interesting. In these songs the
accompaniments are as full of charm as the melodies are of quaint
character and grace.


C. KING.

Shakesperian Sketches, for Pianoforte, by Frank Adlam.—Clever
illustrations of passages and scenes in Shakespeare’s plays.


BOOSEY AND CO.

_The Choralist_: 269, “Waiting for the Spring.” 270, “A Winter
Serenade.”—Two capital four-part songs by J. S. Mitchell.—267, “Come,
Lassies and Lads.”—A masterly arrangement in four parts of the good old
seventeenth-century ditty.

_Cavendish Music Books._—In No. 101 we have a selection of American
pieces. To those who wish to know what our cousins on the other side of
the Atlantic are doing in musical composition, we advise a perusal of
this selection. It proves that, at any rate in this kind of art work,
we are more “go-ahead” than they are.

_The Sweet old River._ Song by Sydney Smith.—A smoothly written song,
published in C and E flat.

_Dreams._ Song by Cecile S. Hartog.—Miss Hartog’s compositions are
exceptionally good, and far above the average ballad.

_The Wide, Wide Sea._—One of the best songs that Stephen Adams has
written. Compass, B flat to E flat, or C to F.

_In the Chimney Corner._ By F. H. Cowen.—A song of the Behrend type,
but higher in conception, and rather more hopeful in tone.

_Go, Pretty Rose._ Duet in canon. By Marzials.—We recommend this duet
to all who have sung and admired his other canon, “My true love hath
my heart.” It is a most elegant canon, and very melodious and bright
withal.


STANLEY LUCAS AND CO.

_Grave and Corno._ By Joseph Gibbs (1744), and air and jigg by Richard
Jones (17th century). All for violin and piano.—These really good and
interesting relics of old English composition have been revived by Herr
Peiniger, who has arranged a piano part from the figured basses. Just
as we admire the case of an organ, so may we speak of the admirable
covers to these pieces. They are in excellent taste.

_Five Pictures on a Journey._ By F. W. Davenport.—Well written and
suggestive piano pieces.

_Episodes for the Piano._ By Frederick Westlake.—We have received No.
1, Prelude, and feel sure that the others equally well sustain the
reputation of this esteemed professor of the Royal Academy.



EVERY GIRL A BUSINESS WOMAN.

A PRACTICAL GUIDE TO THE WORLD OF INDUSTRY AND THRIFT.

BY JAMES MASON.


PART II.

We come now to speak about the receiving and the paying away of money.
These are things which, by common consent, are always done in a certain
way. If they are done otherwise it shows either a want of sense or a
want of education.

When money owing to any person is paid, a receipt for it should always
be given—that is to say, it should be acknowledged in writing that the
money has changed hands. If the receiver merely takes it and puts it in
her pocket, she who pays will have no security, except the receiver’s
good faith and good memory, against being called on to pay the sum a
second time.

A receipt may be given in any form of words, but the following are
correct forms for business purposes—

                _LONDON, 15th September, 1886._

    £17 4s. 6d.

    _Received from Miss Rose Hastaway, Chester, the sum of
    seventeen pounds four shillings and sixpence in payment of
    account rendered (or of annexed account.)_

                FLORA MALCOLM.

                _GUILDFORD, 12th July, 1886._

    _Received from Mrs. Trundle the sum of six pounds seven
    shillings and ninepence, in payment of account to this date._

    £6 7s. 9d.
                ELIZABETH BADGER.

On all receipts for money amounting to £2 or upwards you must put a
penny stamp. Not long ago there was a stamp sold expressly for the
purpose, but now a penny postage stamp is used, which is much simpler.
The stamp may be placed anywhere, but is best where the signature is,
the signature being written across it. If the receipt of money is
acknowledged in a letter, the stamp should be put at the end, just
where you sign your name. It is always better, however, to give a
separate and formal receipt.

The Government require that either the name or the initials of the
person giving the receipt be put on the stamp, _together with the true
date of writing_, the object being to show clearly and distinctly that
the stamp has been used. Ordinarily the date is given in a contracted
form, for instance, the two receipts given above would have “15. ix.
86” under the name of Flora Malcolm, and “12. vii. 86” under that of
Elizabeth Badger. Figures representing the amount for which the receipt
is given are often added also.

Whoever gives the receipt pays for the stamp, and the penalty for
refusing to give a duly stamped receipt in any case where the receipt
is liable to duty is £10.

When you receive money as a loan, you may acknowledge it by what is
called an I O U, which is in this form:—

                _CARLISLE, 3rd October, 1886._

    _To Miss Alice Golightly,
    I O U three pounds ten shillings._

                ANNE WINKLE.

I O U’s are not much in favour in business; they are rather friendly
documents than business ones.

An I O U does not need a stamp, whatever the amount may be, as it
is simply an acknowledgment of a debt, and neither a receipt nor a
promissory note—that is, a note giving a promise to pay at a particular
time. Suppose Miss Winkle had written, “_I O U Three pounds ten
shillings to be paid on the 2nd of January, 1887_,” she would have
changed her I O U into a promissory note, which would have required a
stamp.

But “neither a borrower nor a lender be”—which is another way of saying
that I O U’s are to be avoided. When the money is repaid, the I O U, of
course, is returned to the person who gave it.

In cases where money is received in payment of an account, and
the acknowledgment is put on the account itself, the account is
“discharged,” as it is called, in any one of the following ways.
The person to whom the account is due writes on it her own name,
and, preceding her name, the words, “_Paid_,” “_Received Payment_,”
“_Received_,” or “_Discharged_,” or—if such be the case—“_Same time
paid_,” or “_Paid by cheque_.”

Or this form may be used. Suppose the amount to be £25 10s. and the
discount five per cent.

    _21st September,_

    _By cash_             £24.4.6
      ” _Discount,_ 5%      1.5.6
                           ------£25.10.0

                MARION FEATLY.

Should you be receiving payment for somebody else, you sign as you
would a letter in similar circumstances. Thus:—

    _Same time paid,
        for MARGARET BELL,
            ELLEN CHAPMAN._

or,

    _Paid by cheque,
        MARY G. GROVE,
            per INA MEADOWS._

Some polite people, in discharging accounts write “_with thanks_” in
the left-hand bottom corner or under their signature. In the case of
tradespeople, it is a courteous phrase that sometimes goes a long way
towards securing another order.

Receipts of all kinds should be kept for at least six years. After that
time you may either continue to keep them or make a bonfire of them.
The reason for your being then free to please yourself is that actions
for unclaimed debt arising out of a simple contract are limited to six
years _from the date of the cause of action_. After six years you are
safe against being called on to pay the money a second time.

Bills are occasionally rendered a second time after being paid, not
the least, perhaps, from an intention to defraud, but simply from
carelessness. People omit to enter the money they receive in their
books, and forget they have got it; and to keep all receipts is a way
of protecting oneself against such a happy-go-lucky style of doing
things.

Receipts should be folded in the same way as letters, and marked on the
outside with all necessary particulars. Thus:—

     _12th August, 1886.
    Griffin and Constable,
          Manchester.
       Washing Machine_
            £3 15s.

If you have a set of pigeon-holes, receipts should have a pigeon-hole
all to themselves; if not, keep them tied up in a bundle and arranged
in alphabetical order.

When you have to make out accounts always do it as neatly as possible.
A neat account has a well-to-do air, and may do as much good to one’s
credit sometimes as a handsome balance at the bank. Hard-up people are
seldom neat either in accounts, or correspondence, or anything else.

Accounts or invoices in business are usually made out on ruled and
printed forms, and are headed with the address of the seller. After
that come the names of the buyer and seller, thus:—

    _MISS RACHEL O’FLINN,
        Bought of LEIGH, GOLDHAWK, AND STILL._

Or the wording may be,

    _MISS RACHEL O’FLINN,
        To LEIGH, GOLDHAWK, AND STILL_,

which mean that Miss Rachel O’Flinn is _debtor to_ the firm named, the
word “debtor” being dropped in practice.

Below the names of the parties the terms of sale are sometimes put:
“_Nett Cash_” or “_Cash in 14 days_,” or “_Accounts rendered monthly_,”
or whatever the conditions are. Then follow the particulars of the
goods sold, the dates when they passed into the hands of the purchaser
being put in the left hand margin.

People who have any money transactions at all, and do not wish their
affairs to get into hopeless confusion, must keep books of some
sort—that is to say, they must adopt a plan of writing down their
transactions in regular order for easy reference.

It may be a primitive method or a very elaborate one—that depends on
the nature and requirements of the business—but some system there
must be, and of book-keeping in at least its general principles every
business woman should make a study. By its means we gain an exact
knowledge of how we stand, we see what comes in and what goes out,
how much we owe and how much other people owe us, and whether we are
putting any of our money into bags with holes.

There are many good books published on the subject of book-keeping, and
by all means study the best treatise you can get; but better than all
books is actual practice. The experience of keeping an account of one’s
own transactions for a week gives more insight than all the books that
have ever been written. In a book, things seem sometimes exceedingly
puzzling, whilst in reality they are simple enough.

The main fact to be grasped in book-keeping is the distinction between
debtor and creditor; you must get it well into your head that _the
person or thing represented by an account is “debtor to” what he, she,
or it receives, and “creditor by” whatever he, she, or it gives or
parts with_.

The simpler business books are the better, so long as they answer the
purpose for which they are intended. They must be clear to the person
who keeps them, and clear also to any who have to consult them. The
utmost care should be taken with them, so as to have no blotting, no
scraping out of figures, and no tearing out of leaves.

There are two ways of keeping books, known as single entry and double
entry. Single entry is called so because each item is entered only once
in the accounts of the ledger, which is the principal book. In double
entry, on the other hand, it is entered twice, to the debtor side of
one account and to the credit of some other account.

In this way, when books on the double entry system have all the sums
on the debtor side and all the sums on the creditor side added up, the
total amounts in both cases are the same. That is, if the books have
been rightly kept and no mistake has been made in addition, like that
of the man who spent a long time trying to make them come right, and
found at last he had made the slight mistake on one of the sides of
adding in the figures of the current year.

The object of double entry is to establish a series of checks so
that mistakes are not likely to occur, and in all establishments of
any importance this is the system adopted. Books kept by the other
and simpler system of single entry afford no check upon themselves.
“Errors in addition,” says Mr. A. L. Lewis, “which are as easy to make
in hundreds of pounds as in pence, errors and omissions in posting or
in carrying forward balances, any or all of which may entail serious
loss, can only be prevented in single entry books by the most careful
checking and rechecking every item, and no one, however sharpsighted,
can always avoid making an error, and even failing to discover it when
made.”

What is called _posting_ in book-keeping is the operation of
transferring items from one book to another, and arranging them there
under their proper heads. The difference between the Dr. and Cr. sides
of an account is known as the _balance_.

Transactions are entered in their books by business people at once.
They never put off making an entry till to-morrow, for they are well
aware that there is no putting any dependence on memory.

They are constantly turning over their books, too, so as to keep their
affairs fresh in their minds, and see in a general way how they are
getting on. Then every little while they go particularly into all their
accounts and strike a balance as it is called—that is to say, make out
a statement of their assets and liabilities, and arrange things for
a fresh start. The word assets, we may as well mention, stands for
property or sums of money owing to anyone, and liabilities means just
the reverse.

There are two mistakes often made in balancing books which a business
woman must take care never to fall into. The first is to include bad
debts—debts of which you are never likely to get a farthing, or, at
best only a few shillings in the pound—on the same footing as if they
were good ones. The second is to calculate that property we possess is
worth what we paid for it, never considering that as a general rule
things decrease in value every year through use and change of fashion
and other causes. The only wise plan is to subtract from the first
cost, every time we balance, a certain sum to represent what is termed
_depreciation of property_. All such deductions should be made with a
liberal hand; no harm is done by estimating ourselves poorer than we
really are, but many a one has been ruined by mistaken calculations,
showing property to be worth a good deal more than it would fetch in
the market.

When one person acts for another in money matters, a statement, called
an account current, should be sent at regular intervals—say once a half
year or once every twelve months—showing the transactions. Here is an
example. For convenience in printing we shall place the Cr. side below
the Dr.; but in practice the two sides should be placed alongside of
each other—the Dr. side to the left, and the Cr. side to the right.

    _MISS WINIFRED HOLT, EDINBURGH, in account current with
        NATHANIEL EVANS, LONDON._

      DR.
      1885.

    June  30. To balance of last account     £9  4 2

    Aug.   3. Cash paid M. Perry on
                your account                  2  2 9

    Sept. 27. Cash paid J. Short on
                your account                  4 12 7

    Dec.  12. Cash paid you                  80  0 0
                                            --------
                                            £95 19 6

                                              CR.

    Aug.   1. By cash received from
                B. Green on your
                account                     £50  0 0

      ”   12. Cash received from W.
                Rae on your account          35  0 0

    Dec.      Balance of account carried
                to your debit in
                new account                  10 19 6
                                            --------
                                            £95 19 6
    _Errors Excepted._
                NATHANIEL EVANS.

    _LONDON, December 31st, 1885._

Here on the Cr. side we have all the sums received by Nathaniel Evans
for Miss Winifred Holt, and on the Dr. side all the payments made to
her or for her by him. Instead of “_Errors Excepted_,” before the
signature, “_E. E._” might have been written, or “_E. & O.E._,” which
last means “_Errors and Omissions Excepted_.” These guarded phrases,
however, may be omitted. You may correct errors afterwards, whether
they are there or not. If accounts of this kind, or, indeed, any
accounts, are thought to be incorrect, the fact should be intimated to
the persons sending them _at once_.

Book-keeping and the making out of accounts requires ability in
calculation. Indeed, no one can succeed in getting a character for
business capacity who has not all the rules of arithmetic at her
fingers’ ends. The use of “Ready Reckoners,” “Interest Tables,” or
such-like compilations, often saves, however, a great deal of trouble,
even when people are quick at figures. Some pretend they can do
without such helps, but they would be better to use them. We ought to
avail ourselves of all the help we can get, and it is absurd to take
roundabout ways of doing things when short cuts will answer the same
purpose.

Besides understanding about the right method of keeping books and
making out accounts, the thorough business woman will know well about
the art of buying. Here we see how a knowledge of business ways may
assist in the upbuilding of happy homes. One who understands the art of
buying will return triumphant from marketing expeditions, and when she
goes shopping there will be no fear of her wasting the contents of the
family purse.

The good buyer does not spend much time in going her rounds. She has
made herself familiar beforehand with the qualities of things, the
methods by which they are adulterated, and the seasons when they are
cheapest, and if the goods shown her are not what she wants, she says
so, and no persuasive tongue can induce her to take them. “Much comment
on the part of the seller,” says an American writer, “she regards as an
incentive to be wary; and all pretences to confidential favours, unless
proved to be such by undoubted documentary evidence, as a reproach to
her understanding.”

She makes it a rule to deal with respectable people only, knowing
that by that course she is best served, and you never find her very
sharp-set on bargains. She knows better.

On the subject of bargains Mr. Charles Dickens, in his “Dictionary of
London,” has some wise remarks. They specially refer to the metropolis,
but they are applicable to all large towns over the country. Everywhere
skilfully-baited traps are set for the unwary, though it is in London
that the traps catch most victims and rogues reap the best harvest.

Bargains, Mr. Dickens points out, are to be met with, of course, but
only by those who know very well what they are about. The numerous
“bankrupts’ stocks,” “tremendous sacrifices,” and so forth, are just so
many hooks on which to catch simpletons.

“One of the commonest tricks of all is that of putting in the window,
say, a handsome mantle, worth eight or ten guineas, and labelled,
say, £3 15s., and keeping inside for sale others made up in precisely
the same style, but of utterly worthless material. If they decline to
sell you the actual thing out of the window, be sure that the whole
affair is a swindle. See, too, that in taking it from the window they
do not drop it behind the counter and substitute one of the others—an
ingenious little bit of juggling not very difficult of performance.

“Another very taking device is the attaching to each article a price
label in black ink, elaborately altered in red to one twenty or five
and twenty per cent. less. This has a very ingenuous air. But when the
price has been—as it commonly has—raised thirty or forty per cent.
before the first black ink marking, the economy is not large.

“Of course, if you do buy anything out of one of these shops, you will
take it with you. If you have it sent, be particularly careful not to
pay for it until it arrives, and not then till you have thoroughly
examined it.

“When a shop of this kind sends you ‘patterns,’ you will usually find
a request attached not to cut them. Always carefully disregard this,
keeping a small piece for comparison.

“There are, however, some houses where, if you at all understand your
business, real bargains are at times to be had.”

The business woman is not often to be seen at auctions either, and if
ever she does go, she makes sure beforehand that the sale is to be
conducted on strictly honourable principles, and presided over by
an auctioneer who is above suspicion. She is well aware that there
are many unscrupulous individuals who, under cover of an auctioneer’s
licence, lend themselves to transactions the reverse of honest.

For example, in company with a band of “followers,” as they
are called—back-street brokers and “general dealers” of shady
character—auctioneers of this sort take a dwelling-house, and cram
it with worthless furniture. Then, after a month or two, the whole
is seized under a fictitious “bill of sale,” to give the affair an
appearance of genuineness, and the trashy goods are disposed of by
auction to the unsuspicious public, the rogues dividing the spoil.

Another plan is to get possession of a shop in a frequented
thoroughfare, and, day after day, beguile innocent folk to enter the
premises, and then wheedle and bully them into bidding for and buying a
lot of rubbish at four or five times more than its actual worth. It is
quite a mistake to suppose that goods disposed of “under the hammer,”
as it is termed, must necessarily sell for less than their real worth.

These mock auctions are swindles pure and simple, and what the
initiated call “rigged sales” are not much better. These take place at
auction rooms of more or less legitimate position, are usually held
in the evening, and consist chiefly of articles vamped up or made
expressly for the purpose. No one should go to them who wants to get
value for her money.

In all dealings with tradespeople, a good business woman will do her
best to pay cash. As she does this, she always goes to ready-money
shops. Shops that give credit must charge higher prices, for they must
have interest for the money out of which they lie; and, besides, they
must add to the price of their articles to cover the risk that some of
their customers will not pay. Those who do pay, pay not only for the
credit they get themselves, but for the failure of others.

Now and again, however, to postpone paying one’s debts has an
advantage, as was the case with a merchant whom Southey, the poet,
once met at Lisbon. “I never pay a porter,” said this merchant, “for
bringing a burden till the next day; for while the fellow feels his
back ache with the weight he charges high; but when he comes the next
day, the feeling is gone, and he asks only half the money.” But it is
not often that one has the chance of getting a reduction in this way.

The cash buyer has many advantages, not the least being an easy mind
and a knowledge at all times of what she is worth. Let every girl,
then, keep in mind for the rest of her days the remark of the American
writer, who said, “I have discovered the philosopher’s stone. It
consists of four short words of homely English—‘Pay as you go.’” The
easiness of credit has been the ruin of many people, by inducing them
to buy what they could not hope, unless by a miracle, ever to pay for.

So much for the business woman in her dealings in a private capacity
with business people. In a business capacity, however, one must
sometimes both give and receive credit. But, it cannot be said with too
strong an emphasis, the less of it the better.



VARIETIES.


THE COMPOSER AND THE SEA-CAPTAIN.

When Haydn, the composer, was in London, he had several whimsical
adventures, and the following is one of them:—A captain in the Navy
came to him one morning, and asked him to compose a march for some
troops he had on board, offering him thirty guineas for his trouble,
but requiring it to be done immediately, as the vessel was to sail next
day for Calcutta.

As soon as the captain had gone, Haydn sat down to the pianoforte, and
the march was ready in a few minutes. Feeling some scruples, however,
at gaining his money so very easily, Haydn wrote two other marches,
intending first to give the captain his choice, and then to make him a
present of all the three, as a return for his liberality.

Next morning the captain came and asked for his march.

“Here it is,” said the composer.

The captain asked to hear it on the pianoforte; and having done so,
laid down the thirty guineas, pocketed the march, and walked away.

Haydn tried to stop him, but in vain—the march was very good.

“But I have written two others,” cried Haydn, “which are better—hear
them and take your choice.”

“I like the first very well, and that is enough,” answered the captain,
pursuing his way downstairs.

Haydn followed, crying out, “But I make you a present of them.”

“I won’t have them,” roared the seaman, and bolted out at the street
door.

Haydn, determined not to be outdone, hastened to the Exchange, and,
discovering the name of the ship and her commander, sent the marches on
board, with a polite note, which the captain, surmising its contents,
sent back unopened.

The composer tore the marches into a thousand pieces, and never forgot
this liberal English humourist as long as he lived.


TABLE-TALK.—_Welsh rabbit_ is a genuine slang term, belonging to a
large group, which describes in the same way the special dish or
product or peculiarity of a particular district. For example, an _Essex
lion_ is a calf; a _Fieldlane duck_ is a baked sheep’s head; _Glasgow
magistrates_ or _Norfolk capons_ are red herrings; _Irish apricots_ or
_Munster plums_ are potatoes; and _Gravesend sweetmeats_ are shrimps.


A FOOLISH INVESTMENT.—It is foolish to lay out money in the purchase of
repentance.—_Franklin._


RULING AND SERVING.

    I am ashamed that women are so simple....
    To seek for rule, supremacy and sway,
    When they are bound to serve, love, and obey.—_Shakespeare._


A HARD TASK.—It is often difficult to control our feelings; it is still
harder to subdue our will; but it is an arduous undertaking to control
the contending will of others.—_Crabb._


THE ART OF AUTHORSHIP.—The great art of a writer shows itself in the
choice of pleasing allusions.—_Addison._


AFFECTATION.—Affectation is an awkward and forced imitation of what
should be genuine and easy, wanting the beauty that accompanies what is
natural.—_Locke._


THE HAPPY AND THE DISCONTENTED.

Some people, not to be copied, live in a perpetual state of fret. The
weather is always objectionable; the temperature is never satisfactory.
They have too much to do, and are driven to death, or too little, and
have no resources. If they are ill they know they shall never get well;
if they are well they expect soon to be ill. Their daily work is either
drudgery, which they hate, or so difficult and complex that they cannot
execute it.

In contrast to these, we meet sometimes with men and women so bright
and cheery that their very presence is a positive pleasure. They
discover the favourable side of the weather, of their business, of home
surroundings, of social relations, even of political affairs. They
will tell you of all the pleasant things that happen and give voice
to all the joy they feel. Of course, they are sometimes annoyed and
worried by petty troubles, but the very effort they make to pass them
over silently diminishes their unpleasant effect upon themselves and
prevents the influence from extending.


THE GOOD-TEMPERED WIFE.

A man in Sussex whose wife was blessed with a remarkably even temper
went over the way to a neighbour one evening and said—

“Neighbour, I just should like to see my wife cross for once. I’ve
tried all I know, and I can’t make her cross no way.”

“You can’t make your wife cross?” said his neighbour. “I wish I could
make mine anything else. But you just do what I tell you, and if that
won’t act nothing will. You bring her in some night a lot of the
crookedest bats you can get, them as won’t lie in no form, and see how
she makes out then.”

The bats (or pieces of wood) were accordingly brought in, as awkward
and crooked and contrary as could be found. The man went away early to
work, and at noon returned to see the result of his experiment. He was
greeted with a smiling face and the gentle request—

“Tom, do bring me in some more of those crooked bats if you can find
them; they do just clip round the kettle nicely.”—_Rev. J. C. Egerton._


CHOOSING A WIFE.—Benjamin Franklin recommends a young man in the choice
of a wife to select her “from a bunch,” giving as his reason that when
there are many daughters they improve each other, and from emulation
acquire more accomplishments, and know more than a single child spoiled
by parental fondness.


WITHOUT RELIGION.—Friends who have no religion cannot be long our
friends.—_Mozart._


REFRESHING SLEEP.—“Sound sleep” is usually considered a healthy state
of repose; but it is an observation of Dr. Wilson Philip that “no sleep
is healthy but that from which we are easily roused.”


MASTERS AND SERVANTS.—There is only one way to have good servants; that
is, to be worthy of being well served. All nature and all humanity will
serve a good master and rebel against an ignoble one.—_Richter._


BEWARE OF BAD HABITS.—Let players on musical instruments beware of bad
habits. Mozart, speaking of a girl whom he heard at Augsburg in 1777,
says, “She will never master what is the most difficult and necessary,
and, in fact, the principal thing in music—namely, time; because from
her infancy she has never been in the habit of playing in correct time.”


CULPABLE CARELESSNESS.—It is more from carelessness about truth
than from intentional lying that there is so much falsehood in the
world.—_Dr. Johnson._


MARRYING FOR MONEY.—A strong-minded woman was heard to remark the other
day that she would marry a man who had plenty of money though he was so
ugly she had to scream every time she looked at him.


A FOOLISH MOUSE.

    A mouse that always trusts to one poor hole
    Can never be a mouse of any soul.

            —_Pope._



RECEIVED FOR THE PRINCESS LOUISE HOME.


MONA and Mila, 2s.; Lizzie Smith, 2s.; Mary, Maggie, and Ada, 3s.

Work for the bazaar to be held (D.V.) next summer, from Miss E. N.
Nixon, Fanny Gough Pope, Caroline M. M. Hog (second contribution),
Little Dot, Gretta, E. G., E. Morgan, E. Stroud, Cornie Trevena, Lucy,
Madge S., Mona and Mila, A Servant in Torquay, A Welsh Maiden, A
Village Maiden; W. C. Newsam, 100 pieces of music.

For the Home, The South Hampstead High School for Girls, 22 valuable
articles of clothing; Anon, a parcel of books.



A WIFE’S WELCOME.

BY RUTH LAMB.


    At last thou art come, and I once thought to tell thee,
      How I mourned in thine absence and longed for thy voice;
    How I thought of thee, looked for thee, prayed for thy coming,
      Yet now thou art here I can only rejoice.

    When the bright sun is hidden by dark clouds o’erhanging,
      All Nature seems mournful and weeps at the sight;
    But when they are passed she resumes all her gladness,
      And, forgetting his absence, she smiles with delight.

    It is thus with my heart. All my sorrow forgotten,
      The memory has fled with the cause of my pain;
    I think not, I speak not of aught save the present,
      And rejoice that at last thou art with me again.



[Illustration: THE INCORRIGIBLE.


    POL.                 “If at home, sir,
    He’s all my exercise, my mirth, my matter:
    Now my sworn friend, and then mine enemy;
    My parasite, my soldier, statesman, all;
    He makes a July’s day short as December;
    And, with his varying childness, cures in me
    Thoughts that would thick my blood.”

    _Winter’s Tale_, Act 1, Scene 2.]



THE BIRDS.

_Words by J. T. COLERIDGE._      DUET.       _Music by C. A. MACIRONE._


[Music:

    Do you ask what the birds say? Do you ask what the birds say?
    You ask what the birds say, the Sparrow, the Dove,
    The Linnet, the Thrush, say, “I love, and I love!”

    You ask what they birds say,
    You ask what the birds say,
    “I love, and I love!”

    In the winter they’re silent,
    In the winter they’re silent, the wind is so strong.
    The wind is so strong,
    What it sings, I don’t know, but it sings a loud song.

    But green leaves and blossoms,
    And sunny warm weather,
    And singing and loving,
    All come back together.

    But green leaves and blossoms,
    And sunny warm weather,
    And singing and loving,
    All come back together.

    But the Lark is so brimful of gladness and love.
    The green fields below and the blue sky above.
    That he sings, he sings, he sings, and forever sings he,
    “I love my love, and my love loves me!” he sings,
    And forever sings he,
    “I love my love, and my love loves me!” he sings,
    and forever sings he, “I love my love, and my love loves me!”]



MERLE’S CRUSADE.

BY ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY, Author of “Aunt Diana,” “For Lilias,” etc.


CHAPTER VII.

THE FASHION OF THIS WORLD.

I have said that from the first moment I had felt a singular attraction
towards my new mistress. As the days went on, and I became better
acquainted with the rare beauty and unselfishness of her nature, my
respect and affection deepened. I soon grew to love Mrs. Morton as I
have loved few people in this life.

My service became literally a service of love; it was with no sense of
humiliation that I owned myself her servant; obedience to so gentle a
rule was simply a delight. I anticipated her wishes before they were
expressed, and an ever-deepening sense of the sacredness and dignity
of my charge made me impervious to small slights and moved me to fresh
efforts.

I was no longer tormented by my old feelings of uselessness and
inefficiency. The despondent fears of my girlhood (and girlhood is
often troubled by these unwholesome fancies), that there was no special
work for me in the human vineyard, had ceased to trouble me. I was a
bread winner, and my food tasted all the sweeter for that thought. I
was preaching silently day by day my new crusade. Every morning I woke
cheerfully to the simple routine of the day’s duties. Every night I lay
down between my children’s cots with a satisfied conscience, and a mind
at rest, while the soft breathings of the little creatures beside me
seemed to lull me to sleep.

It was a strangely quiet life for a girl of two-and-twenty, but I soon
grew used to it. When I felt dull I read; at other times I sang over
my work, out of pure lightheartedness, and I could hear Joyce’s shrill
little treble joining in from her distant corner.

“I wish I could sing like you, Merle,” Mrs. Morton once said to me,
when she had interrupted our duet; “your voice is very sweet and true,
and deserves to be cultivated. Since my baby’s death my voice has
wholly left me.”

“It will come back with time and rest,” I returned, reassuringly, but
she shook her head.

“Rest; that is a word I hardly know. When I was a girl I never knew
life would be such a fatiguing thing. There are too many duties for
the hours; one tries to fit them in properly, but when night comes the
sense of failure haunts one’s dreams.”

“That is surely a symptom of overwork,” was my remark in answer to this.

“Perhaps you are right, but under the circumstances it cannot be
helped. If only I could be more with my darlings, and enjoy their
pretty ways; but at least it is a comfort to me to know they have so
faithful a nurse in my absence.”

She was always making these little speeches to me; it was one of her
gracious ways. She could be grateful to a servant for doing her duty.
She was not one of those people who take everything as a matter of
course, who treat their domestics and hirelings as though they were
mere machines for the day’s work; on the contrary, she recognised their
humanity; she would sympathise as tenderly with a sick footman or a
kitchen-maid in trouble as she would with any of her richer neighbours.
It was this large-mindedness and beneficence that made her household
worship her. When I learnt more about her former life, I marvelled at
her grand self-abnegation. I grew to understand that from the day of
her marriage she had simply effaced herself for her husband’s sake; her
tastes, her favourite pursuits, had all been resigned without a murmur
that she might lead his life.

She had been a simple country girl when he married her; her bees, her
horse, and her father’s dogs had been her great interests; to ride with
her father over his farms had been her chief delight. She had often
risen with the lark, and was budding her roses amid the dews.

When the young rising politician, Alick Morton, had first met her at a
neighbouring squire’s house, her sweet bloom and unconscious beauty won
him in spite of himself, and from the first hour of their meeting he
vowed to himself that Violet Cheriton should be his wife.

No greater change had ever come to a woman. In spite of her great
love, there must have been times when Violet Morton looked back on
her innocent and happy girlhood with something like regret, if ever
a true-hearted wife and mother permits herself to indulge in such a
feeling.

Mr. Morton was a devoted husband, but he was an autocrat, and, in spite
of many fine qualities, was not without that selfishness that leavens
many a man’s nature. He wanted his wife to himself; his busy ambition
aimed high; politics was the breath of his life; unlike other men in
this, that he lived to work, instead of working to live.

These sort of natures know no fatigue; they are intolerant of
difficulties; inaction means death to them. Mr. Morton was a committee
man; he worked hard for his party. He was a philanthropist also, and
took up warmly certain public charities. His name was becoming widely
known; people spoke of him as a rising man, who would be useful to his
generation. If he dragged his wife at his triumphal chariot wheel, no
one blamed him; these sort of men need real helpmeets. In these cases
the stronger nature rules: the weaker and most loving submits.

Mrs. Morton was a submissive wife; early and late she toiled in her
husband’s service; their house was a rallying point for his party. On
certain occasions the great drawing-rooms were flung open to strangers;
meetings were held on behalf of the charities in which Mr. Morton was
interested; there were speeches made, in which he largely distinguished
himself, while his wife hovered on the outskirts of the crowd and
listened to him.

He kept no secretary, and his correspondence was immense. Mrs. Morton
had a clear, characteristic handwriting, and could write rapidly to
dictation, and many an hour was spent in her husband’s study.

This was at first no weariness to her—she loved to be beside him and
share his labours. What wife begrudges time and work for her husband?
But she soon found that other labours supervened that were less
congenial to her.

Mr. Morton was overworked; the demands on his time were unceasing.
Violet must visit the wards of his favourite hospitals, and help him
in keeping the accounts. She must represent him in society, and keep
up constant intercourse with the wives of the members of their party
during the season. She worked harder even than he did. Her bloom faded
under the withering influence of late hours and hot rooms. Night after
night she bore, with sweet graciousness, the weary round of pleasures
that palled on her. It was a martyrdom of human love, for, alas! in the
hurry of this unsatisfactory life, the Divine voice had grown dim and
far off to the weary ear of Violet Morton; the clanging metallic earth
bells had deadened the heavenly harmonies.

Sometimes a sad, pathetic look would come into her eyes. Was she
thinking, I wonder, of the slim, bright-eyed girl budding roses in the
old-fashioned garden, while the brown bees hummed round her? Was the
fragrance of the lilies—those tall, white lilies of which she so often
spoke to me—blotting out the perfume of hothouse flowers, and the heavy
scents of the crowded ball-room?

It was a matter of intense surprise to me that Mr. Morton seemed
perfectly unconscious of this immense self-sacrifice. He could not
be ignorant, surely, that a mother desires to be with her children,
and that a woman’s tender frame is susceptible to fatigue. Selfish
as he was, he loved her too well to impose such intolerable burthens
on her strength, if he had only known them to be burthens. But her
cheerfulness blinded him. How could he know she was overtasked, and
often sad at heart, when she never complained, when she sealed her lips
so generously?

If she had once said, “I am so tired, Alick; I cannot write for you,”
he would at once have pressed her to rest; but men are so dense, as
Aunt Agatha says. Their great minds overlook little details. They take
in wide vistas of landscape, and never see the little nettles that are
choking up the field path. Women would have noticed the nettles at
once, and spied out the gap in the hedge beside.

I had not been many weeks in the house before I found Sunday was no
day of rest to my employers, and yet they were better than many other
worldly people. Mrs. Morton always went to church in the morning,
and, unless he was too tired or busy, Mr. Morton went too. They were
careful, too, that their servants should enjoy as far as possible
the privilege of the day. The carriage was never used, so the horses
and the coachman were able to rest. They dined an hour earlier, and
invited only one or two intimate friends to join them, and there was
always sacred music in the evening. But there was no more leisure for
thought on that day than on any other. In the afternoon Mr. Morton
wrote his letters and read his paper, and Mrs. Morton had her share of
correspondence; the rest of the afternoon was given to callers, or Mrs.
Morton accompanied her husband for a walk in the park. She was always
very careful of her toilet on these occasions, and if it were Travers’s
Sunday out, my services were in requisition. I had once offered to
assist her, and I suppose I had given satisfaction. More than once Mr.
Morton had found fault with some part of her dress, and she had gone
back to her dressing-room with the utmost promptitude to change it.

“I have not satisfied my husband’s taste, Merle,” she would say, as
cheerfully as possible; “will you help me to do better?” And she would
stand before the glass with such a tired look on her lovely face, as I
brought her a fresh mantle and bonnet.

I hate men to be over critical with their wives, but I suppose it is a
greater compliment than not being able to see if they are wearing their
best or common bonnet. I confess it must be trying to a woman when a
man says—and how often he does say it?—“What a pretty gown that is, my
dear. Have I seen it before?” when the aggravating creature must know
that she wore it all last summer, and perhaps the previous summer too.

I found out that Mrs. Morton was ill-satisfied with the way they spent
Sundays.

I remember one Sunday evening I was sitting in the twilight with Reggie
on my lap and Joyce on her little stool beside me. I had been teaching
her a new verse of her hymn, and she had learned to say it very
prettily. We were both very busy over it, when the door opened, and
Mrs. Morton came in.

Joyce jumped up and ran to her at once.

“I know it, mother—my Sunday hymn—it is such a pretty one.”

“Is it, my darling? Then, suppose you let mother hear it.” And Joyce,
folding her hands in her quaint, old-fashioned way, began very readily:

    “I love to hear the story
      Which angel voices tell,
    How once the King of Glory
      Came down on earth to dwell.
    I am both weak and sinful,
      But this I surely know,
    The Lord came down to save me,
      Because He loved me so.”

“Very pretty indeed, Joyce,” observed Mrs. Morton, rather absently,
when the child had finished. But Joyce looked up in her face wistfully.

“Do you ever say hymns, mother dear?”

“I sing them in church, my pet.”

“But you never teached them to me, mother; they are all nurse’s hymns,
the little one and the long one, and the little wee hymn I say with my
prayers. Would you like to hear my little wee hymn, mother dear?”

“I will hear all you know, my darling.” But there were tears in the
beautiful eyes as she listened.

“How nicely she says them! I am glad you teach her such pretty hymns,
Merle,” as the child ran off to fetch Snap, who was whining for
admittance. “Somehow it seems more like the Sunday of old times up
here—so quiet, so peaceful. We must do as the world does, I suppose;
but these secular, bustling Sundays are not to my taste.”

Her words jarred on me, and I replied rather too quickly, considering
my position, “Are we obliged to follow a bad fashion? That is indeed
going with the crowd to do evil.”

She looked up in some surprise. It must have been a new thing to the
petted mistress of the household to hear herself so sharply rebuked.

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” I exclaimed, penitently; “I had no right to
say that; I forgot to whom I was speaking.”

“Do not distress yourself, Merle,” she returned, in her sweet way; “it
is good for all of us to hear the truth sometimes. It was foolish of me
to say that. I only mean that in our house it is very difficult not to
follow the world’s custom.”

“Very difficult indeed,” I acquiesced; but she continued to look at me
thoughtfully.

“Do not be afraid of saying what is in your mind; you may speak to
me plainly, if you will. You are my children’s nurse, but I cannot
forget that in many ways we are equals. You never intrude this fact on
my notice, but it is none the less apparent. I know our Sundays are
terribly secular,” as I continued silent; “sometimes I wish it were not
so, for my children’s sake.”

“Not for your own sake, Mrs. Morton?”

A distressed look came over her face.

“I seem to have no time to wish for anything.”

“I could well believe that; but, Mrs. Morton, it seems to me as though
we owe some duty to ourselves. If we neglect the highest part of
ourselves we are committing a sort of mental suicide. How often has
Aunt Agatha told me that!”

“How do you mean?” she asked, anxiously.

“We all need a quiet time for thought. It always seems to me that on
Sunday one lays down one’s burthens for a time. It is such a rest to
shut out the world for one day in the week, to forget the harass of
one’s work, to take up higher duties, to lift one’s standard afresh,
and prove one’s armour. It is just like abiding in the tents for
shelter and rest in the heat of battle.”

I had forgotten the difference in our station, and was talking to my
mistress just as though she were Aunt Agatha. Something seemed to
compel me to speak; I felt a strange sort of trouble oppressing me,
as though I saw a beautiful soul wandering out of the way. She seemed
moved at my words, and it was several minutes before she spoke again.

“Your words recall the old Sundays at my own dear home,” she observed,
presently. “Do you not love Sundays in the country, Merle? The very
birds seem to sing more sweetly, and the stillness of which you speak
seems in the very air. My Sundays were very different then. We lived
near the church, and we could hear the chiming of the bells as we
walked through the village. I taught in the Sunday-school; I recollect
some of the children’s names now. Father always liked us to go to the
evening service. I remember, too, we invariably sang Bishop Ken’s
evening hymn. One evening a little robin found its way into the church.
I remember Mr. Andrews, our vicar, was just reading that verse, ‘Yea,
the sparrow has found her a house, and the swallow a nest for herself,
where she may lay her young,’ when we looked up and saw the little
creature fluttering round the chancel. Oh, those sweet old Sundays!”
And here she broke off and sighed.

I thought it best to say no more, and leave her to those tender
memories. A word in season may do much, but I was young, and had no
right to teach with authority. I suppose she understood my reticence,
for she looked at me very kindly as she rose from her seat.

“It does me good to come up here, Merle; I always have a more rested
feeling when I go down to my duties. If I did not feel that they were
real duties that called me I should be very unhappy.”

She bade her children good-night, and left the nursery. What made me
take up my Bible, I wonder, and read the following verse! “In this
thing the Lord pardon Thy servant, that when my master goeth into the
house of Rimmon to worship there, and he leaneth on my hand, and I bow
myself in the house of Rimmon, the Lord pardon Thy servant this thing.”

(_To be continued._)



ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.


EDUCATIONAL.

CHATTERBOX.—Your acquirements are satisfactory, and might gain for you
perhaps £30 per annum. But these are to be weighed against two serious
drawbacks—extreme youth, and consequent lack of weight and authority
with your pupils, and complete lack of experience in reading their
several characters and bodily condition, and the modifications and
changes of method requisite to suit these different subjects under
your training. Teaching lessons is but a small part of the duties of
a governess. The characters of her pupils have to be carefully read
and moulded, their manners and habits trained according to those of
polite society, and she should discover what natural gifts should
be cultivated and what studies should be remitted, more or less.
At sixteen you are scarcely more than a child yourself, and quite
such in inexperience. Thus, you are really only fit for a visiting
governess, teaching under the direction of the mother; and if you take
a residential situation, it could only be at a low salary.

DESIREE.—If you wish to prepare yourself for being a nurse at home, we
recommend you a careful study of a small manual, often named for the
purpose, “Sick Nursing at Home” (L. U. Gill, 170, Strand, W.C.). When
you could be examined on that you will have made great progress towards
efficiency. You do not name your age. Had you done so, we could have
advised you further.

DAUGHTER OF GENTLEMAN FARMER (Dublin).—If you have artistic taste and
can design, and, in addition, have a delicate touch, write either
to the City and Guilds Technical Institute, Exhibition-road, South
Kensington, S.W., or to the Polytechnic, Regent-street, W., where
classes for wood-carving are held. Address the secretary in both
cases. If you think of training for the teaching of children under the
Kindergarten system, there are many schools for the purpose. Write to
the Misses Crombie, 21, Stockwell-road, S.W., with a view to entering
the college established by the British and Foreign School Society. Or
else to the secretary, Home and Colonial Training College, in Gray’s
Inn-road, W.C.


MUSIC.

M. L. P.—It is to be regretted on your own account, if not on that of
others, who might be glad to avail themselves of your musical society,
that you should contemplate giving it up without first inducing someone
to take your place. Your society, we imagine, is already entered in a
directory of girls’ clubs, shortly to appear, and too late now to be
omitted.

OLD MAN’S DARLING.—You will often find songs in our paper. It is sad
to hear that you “get wild with your nose,” which at seven or eight
o’clock p.m. “gets puggy.” What can that mean? As we cannot hope for
the pleasure of witnessing such a phenomenon, we advise you to consult
your mother about it. If an hereditary “pug,” we do not understand why
it should be otherwise during the day.

COURTLEROY.—We are obliged to you for the information you give
respecting the tonic sol-fa system. It was invented by Miss Glover, of
Norwich, and afterwards improved upon by John Curwen, in about the year
1847; but the Tonic Sol-fa College was established a year earlier than
that.

ROMOLA.—The class of music known us the “cantata” was invented by
Barbara Strozzi, a Venetian lady.

A GREEK GIRL.—1. The song you name is one in the Christy Minstrels’
collection, and is, we believe, one of the late Stephen Foster’s, who
died in March, 1864. He was the originator of that class of music. You
write English so well, that we should have thought you a countrywoman.
2. If you wish to see the prettiest parts of England, you should visit
some parts of Surrey, Devonshire, Derbyshire, Cumberland, Westmoreland,
and portions of Wales. We are glad you are partial to the English,
and that you appreciate our series of articles on good breeding and
etiquette. Your writing is good, and thoroughly English.


MISCELLANEOUS.

POPSEY.—Perhaps Blackwood’s “holdfast” would prove satisfactory in
securing the scraps on your screen. We imagine that you are not very
careful in brushing the gum or paste quite over the corners that you
complain curl up. Very little of the above-named “holdfast” will be
required to make the scraps adhere firmly.

TENNYSON.—The precise origin of the office of “Poet Laureate” does not
appear to be known. There was a _Versificator Regis_ in the reign of
Henry III. Chaucer was Poet Laureate by his own appointment, and he
subsequently received an annuity from Richard II. Some twenty-one poets
succeeded him in the office. The immediate predecessor of Tennyson
was William Wordsworth, and he was succeeded by Dr. Robert Southey.
Tennyson, who was born in 1809, received the appointment in 1850.

ALICE GREY.—See page 519, vol. vi., for description and illustration
for a supper table. Add some chickens and a ham, and you could make
it do for your plain wedding breakfast. The bride and bridegroom sit
together and lead the way to the dining-room, and place themselves in
the centre of the long table opposite the wedding cake. The father of
the bride takes the bridegroom’s mother, and seats himself next his
daughter, and the bridegroom’s father takes the bride’s mother, who
sits next the bridegroom. The bridesmaids generally sit opposite the
bride and bridegroom.

MARCELLE’S question was answered on page 704, vol. vii. The poem,
“Pleasures of Memory,” is by Samuel Rogers.

A DELICATE COUNTRY LASSIE.—1. We have read your nice little letter with
much interest and sympathy. It is pleasant to hear that our advice has
been helpful to you, and we only wish your health would improve. But
we think you might lay the matter before God in faith, and ask Him to
cure you and raise you up, according to the promise, “the prayer of
faith shall save the sick.” See St. James v. 15, and Matt. viii. 17.
2. The 26th June, 1874, was a Friday. Write to the secretary, Lifeboat
Institution, 14, John-street, Adelphi, W.C.

EARNEST INQUIRER.—It is impossible for us to tell you when the
Government will legislate in behalf of shorter hours work for shop
assistants. To work from 9 a.m. to 10 p.m. on ordinary days, and
from 9 a.m. to 12 p.m. on Saturdays, is slave-driving indeed. We can
only wonder that ostensibly respectable tradesmen could be guilty of
treating their assistants in so cruel a manner, and that in a Christian
country. They ought not to need legal coercion in a matter of mere
humanity.

E. A. A. B.—Almeida is the name of one of the strongest fortresses of
Portugal, in the Province of Beira, and on the north-east frontier
of Spain. It was taken by the Spaniards in 1762, and afterwards
surrendered. Massena captured it from the British in 1810, and
Wellington re-took it the following year, and restored it to Portugal.
As the Spaniards had once captured the fortress, they naturally
commemorated their victory and great acquisition by naming an avenue
after it in Madrid. You spelt the name incorrectly.

D. M.—The origin of the designation of those days beginning on July
3rd and ending on August 11th, as dog days, has nothing to do with
dogs becoming mad from the heat and lack of water. In the time of the
ancient astronomers, the heliacal rising of Sirius, the dog-star,
occurred in July, and superstition attached to his rising the rabies in
dogs. But this was quite untrue, for this disease is not produced even
under tropical suns in mid-summer, where the animals are not inoculated
with the virus of one already itself bitten. If no biting were
permitted there would be no more mad dogs. Besides, it is not during
the excessive heat of July that dogs do go mad, the colder months of
winter and early spring being far more usual seasons for it.

CHRISTINA S.—Perhaps you set yourself too much to do. In the Christian
life it is often so, and then you are discouraged because you fail. The
first rule seems to be, To love your brother as yourself; for if you
cannot act unselfishly, kindly, and affectionately towards those you
see, you cannot love the God you have not seen. Begin with thinking of
everybody around you first, and in that love and service, combined with
faith, you will, in time, see God, for God is love.

AN ANXIOUS ONE, PRIMROSE.—There is a valuable book published by the R.
T. S., 56, Paternoster-row, E.C., “A New Introduction to the Study of
the Bible,” by Barrows, which you would find it an advantage to study.
But do not make it the habit of your mind to fret about dogma; turn to
the practical side of religion, and serve the Lord Christ by your daily
life and conversation.

PRIMROSE LEAGUE.—Having given your sister the best advice, you are not
bound to do more, but try to win her by love with patience. It would be
better for her to have a governess at home than to go to school.

M. A. B. Z. E.—Look at any of our completed volumes and you will find
the index is a list of the subjects written upon in the G.O.P., with
the page on which they are to be found added. The first of April, 1872,
was a Monday.

AN ENGLISHWOMAN IN RUSSIA.—You will need to write many stories and
to gain much experience in writing before you produce one fit for
publication. We could not give advice about publication; but you will
find the addresses of all London publishers in a London directory;
and you must follow the example of Charlotte Brontë, and all our best
writers almost, _i.e._, to try and try again until you gain a hearing.
There is no royal road to success. You would probably find Vincent’s
“Dictionary of Biography” in Haydn’s series a useful book.

SHINING LIGHT (?).—“R. S. V. P.” are the initials of the French
sentence “Répondez s’il vous plait,” _i.e._, reply if you please. They
are put in the corners of invitations to various entertainments.

HAPPY MINNIE.—The inner skin of the broad bean pod is said to be a cure
for warts, if rubbed on gently several times a day.

IRENE AYNSLEY.—1. In England drive to the left, but on the Continent
and in America one keeps to the right. We do not know the custom in New
Zealand, but doubtless it is the English. 2. Can you not get a small
book on fancy knitting?

REX.—Certainly call on and visit your pupils’ mothers, if invited. You
do not need any other introduction. Unless introduced to the friends
met in the street, it is well to walk on a short distance and wait.

EIN UNARTIGES MADCHEN.—1. Punch and Judy dates its origin to one of
the old mystery plays, _Pontius Pilate and the Jews_. The story as we
represent it is attributed to Silvio Fiorillo, an Italian comedian
of the seventeenth century. The moral is decidedly bad, as the evil
is made to triumph over the good, and defies and defeats all law and
justice. 2. Slope your writing more from right to left.

ONE WHO IS WAITING.—The story you tell us of a cat taking care of two
chickens when her kittens were taken from her is very wonderful; but we
believe it has its parallel in one told by Sir John Lubbock, of a cat
that brought up two ducklings, and was distracted at seeing them take
to the water. We much approve of the wishes and feelings you express,
and you have our sympathy. We wish you God-speed.

WINIFRED H.—1. Grey is a very delicate colour, and probably the rain
has extracted the dye, and nothing could restore the loss but having
the material redyed in a darker shade. 2. It is not necessary that the
name of a writer should appear; but the difficulty is that we cannot
accept the articles and stories of unknown writers. We rarely take
those of authors who have not made their names as such.

“TRULY SWEET EIGHTEEN” (?).—We should say that, as a descriptive name,
“Truly Vain” would be _truer_. If you find that you earn too little
by dressmaking, perhaps you could turn your four years’ experience
of that trade to good account by adding to your acquirements that of
hair-dressing, and then you could take a situation as lady’s-maid.

HUMBLE MINOR.—We never heard of an infant who would not go to his
mother voluntarily, unless to go to a wet-nurse, whom he might
naturally suppose, if he could not think, was his real mother. If
he have a fearful temper, and be not a screamer from teething, or
any other pain, he should be gently corrected for his violence. Some
children scream themselves into fits. Children should have the best and
richest _unwatered_ milk.

ONE IN TROUBLE.—It is well that you only broke one looking-glass, and
that your father only tries to comfort you. Be more careful in the
future, and do not listen to silly “prophets of evil.” Those who trust
in God’s care and commit themselves to Him in well-doing, need not
“take thought for the morrow” in an anxious way. It would be a want of
faith.

OAK TREE.—Do as your mother wishes. You are not yet nineteen, and are
under her authority. But perhaps she might spare you to go out for a
few hours daily, to take children out for a walk, and teach them to
write, read, sew, and some few other lessons. If not, she might let you
assist in some shop where the hours were not long. Perhaps you might
hold a little class of children at home.

CHARITY.—1. We do not know to what your mother refers by that name, but
you will find allusions to the “Book of Life” in the Epistle to the
Philippians iv. 3, and in the Book of Revelations iii. 5, and in five
more places. 2. If you wish some day to be a doctor, begin by studying
a shilling manual called “Sick Nursing at Home” (Gill, 170, Strand,
W.C.), and then join an ambulance class.

ELLA MARY.—What are known as “Mystery plays” are referred for their
origin to the pilgrims who journeyed to the East in the eleventh
century. The earliest known in England took place at Dunstable early in
the following century. The oldest extant dates to the reign of Edward
III. The “Chester Mysteries” date back to 1327. Those of the French
only commenced in the fourteenth century.

THE OWNER OF “MUFF.”—1. We do not undertake to teach quadrupeds, though
we endeavour to teach bipeds, but these latter only provided they be
not “muffs,” as that would be beyond our patience, and perhaps our
ability, for there are more “muffs” than those that walk on four legs!
2. The 1st of September, 1873, was a Monday.

PHLOX.—Fidgets in the legs usually arise from acidity, and perhaps
indigestion. You should take some anti-acid, such as magnesia, before
going to bed, if suffering much. A doctor should prescribe for you, as
you seem out of health. Avoid sweet things, and any food that produces
acidity in the system.

PALE FACE.—We do not know what could now be done to give you a pair of
straight legs, unless you could have them exchanged, and screw on a
pair of wooden ones. Wear a full skirt, and the defect may be concealed
to a great extent, especially if you take pains in walking well.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Transcriber’s note—the following changes have been made to this text:

Page 116: opus 3 Schumann to “The opus 39. By Schumann.”

systematicaly to systematically—“systematically fingered”.

Page 118: one to own—“one’s own transactions”.]



*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. VIII, No. 360, November 20, 1886" ***

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