...it's always tea-time...

February

2012-02-01T09:13:00.000+01:00

Still lie the sheltering snows, undimmed and white;
And reigns the winter's pregnant silence still;
No sign of spring, save that the catkins fill,
And willow stems grow daily red and bright.
These are the days when ancients held a rite
Of expiation for the old year's ill,
And prayer to purify the new year's will:
Fit days, ere yet the spring rains blur the sight,
Ere yet the bounding blood grows hot with haste,
And dreaming thoughts grow heavy with a greed
The ardent summer's joy to have and taste;
Fit days, to give to last year's losses heed,
To reckon clear the new life's sterner need;
Fit days, for Feast of Expiation placed!

From "A Calendar of Sonnets" by Helen Hunt Jackson (1891)

What I forgot

2012-01-07T18:20:00.000+01:00

CHAPTER I.

Tom and the Andirons

It was perfectly natural in one respect, anyhow. There was really no reason in the world why Tom should not lie upon the great bear-skin rug in front of the library fire those cold winter nights if he wanted to, nor need anyone be surprised that he should want to. It was indeed a most delightful place to lie in. The bear-skin was soft and in every way comfortable and comforting. The fireplace itself was one of those huge hospitable affairs that might pass in some apartment houses in our narrow cooped-up city streets for a butler's pantry or small reception room—in fact in the summer time Tom used to sit in the fireplace and pretend he was in his office transacting business with such of his sister's dolls as could be induced to visit him there; giving orders to imaginary clerks and bookkeepers and keeping an equally fanciful office boy continually on the run. And then apart from the rug and the fireplace it was a beautiful room in which they were. Tom's father was very fond of books, and, although he was a great many years older than Tom, he had not forgotten how to enjoy the very same kind of books that Tom liked. He was not ashamed to have one little niche of his library filled with the stories which had delighted him in his boyhood days, and which still continued to please him, and, of course, this lent an additional charm to the library in Tom's eyes. It held his heroes, and on some of those drowsy nights when the only sounds to break the stillness of the room were the scratching of his father's pen, the soft humming of some little tune by his mother sitting and sewing by the evening lamp, and the fierce crackling of the burning logs, Tom could almost see these heroes stepping down from the shelves and like so many phantoms flitting in and about the room. In fact, upon one occasion, Tom is convinced he did see these very people having a dance upon the great tiled hearth—but of that you shall hear later.
From "Andiron Tales" from 1906, by John Kendrick Bangs and illustrations by Clare Victor Dwiggins.

My mind is not only simple — it’s tired. In the last post I forgot to write about the other simple books I’ve read this fall. Maybe beacuse I had forgotten the titles (I told you my mind is tired), and when I went over to Gutenberg to check the titles, I forgot what I was looking for, and I started to look at other interesting books!
So here I am with only a vague notion of what I’ve read, and what I thought about it. Yes, I remember that I read “The Enchanted Barn” by Grace Livingston Hill Lutz, but not what I meant to say about it. I’ve written about the author before, and I’m still not quite sure what I think about her. This time I kept notes while I read — notes that now are resting in my other computer. The men in her books are either unlikely gentlemanly, or terrible villans — while the the female protagonist is feminine and ladylike (and usually poor). It sure sounds as cheap pulp literature, doesn’t it?

One of the books I’ve enjoyed is “Dandelion Cottage” by Carroll Watson Rankin. The book was first published in 1904, but this edition was printed in 1977, and had rather modern illustration by Mary Stevens. They are not bad, but I don’t care for them.
I’ve never heard of the book before, but I understand that it is considered a classic — at least in the midwest where it take place. It’s a charming book, and I think I’ll read “The Cinder Pond“, by the same author, which also is available at Gutenberg.

I’m about to start reading “Andiron Tales” — so far I haven’t read much more than the paragraph above. If the rest of the book is as delightful as the beginning, I will not be disappointed.

Simple books for a simple mind

2012-01-01T20:30:00.000+01:00

January.—Now the weather is very cold. There are no leaves upon the trees. The ground is frozen quite hard. Perhaps it is covered with snow. Every thing looks very cold and comfortless. A little boy or girl, when out of humor, reminds me of this month. Bring plenty of wood and make a good fire, that we may warm ourselves.
From “The Twelve Months of the Year, with a Picture for each Month. Adapted to Northern Latitudes”, author Unknown

Well, it’s not very cold — after two very cold winters with plenty of snow, this unusually mild winter is a blessing. We’ve had a few cold spells, but it has never been below -15°C (5°F).

A fire, books, music, tea and a purring cat are the perfekt ingrediens for a pleasant winter - even if it isn’t very cold. After an autumn with a bit too much of almost everything, it’s very healing to to listen to the fire while you nod off, with a book in your lap.
I’ve heard so much about “Miss Silver”, everybody seems to love Patricia Wentworth books about her, but I haven’t read any of the books until now. And I was hooked after the first paragraph! I meant to read them in order, but the first book ("Gray Mask") isn’t available here, so I started with “The Case is Closed”, and have ordered two more in the series. I don’t think I can get hold of them all, but intend to read as many as I can lay my hands on.

TWO THANKSGIVING DAY GENTLEMEN

2011-11-24T16:47:00.003+01:00

TWO THANKSGIVING DAY GENTLEMEN

There is one day that is ours. There is one day when all we Americans who are not self-made go back to the old home to eat saleratus biscuits and marvel how much nearer to the porch the old pump looks than it used to. Bless the day. President Roosevelt gives it to us. We hear some talk of the Puritans, but don't just remember who they were. Bet we can lick 'em, anyhow, if they try to land again. Plymouth Rocks? Well, that sounds more familiar. Lots of us have had to come down to hens since the Turkey Trust got its work in. But somebody in Washington is leaking out advance information to 'em about these Thanksgiving proclamations.

The big city east of the cranberry bogs has made Thanksgiving Day an institution. The last Thursday in November is the only day in the year on which it recognizes the part of America lying across the ferries. It is the one day that is purely American. Yes, a day of celebration, exclusively American.

And now for the story which is to prove to you that we have traditions on this side of the ocean that are becoming older at a much rapider rate than those of England are—thanks to our git-up and enterprise.

Stuffy Pete took his seat on the third bench to the right as you enter Union Square from the east, at the walk opposite the fountain. Every Thanksgiving Day for nine years he had taken his seat there promptly at 1 o'clock. For every time he had done so things had happened to him—Charles Dickensy things that swelled his waistcoat above his heart, and equally on the other side.

But to-day Stuffy Pete's appearance at the annual trysting place seemed to have been rather the result of habit than of the yearly hunger which, as the philanthropists seem to think, afflicts the poor at such extended intervals.

Certainly Pete was not hungry. He had just come from a feast that had left him of his powers barely those of respiration and locomotion. His eyes were like two pale gooseberries firmly imbedded in a swollen and gravy-smeared mask of putty. His breath came in short wheezes; a senatorial roll of adipose tissue denied a fashionable set to his upturned coat collar. Buttons that had been sewed upon his clothes by kind Salvation fingers a week before flew like popcorn, strewing the earth around him. Ragged he was, with a split shirt front open to the wishbone; but the November breeze, carrying fine snowflakes, brought him only a grateful coolness. For Stuffy Pete was overcharged with the caloric produced by a super-bountiful dinner, beginning with oysters and ending with plum pudding, and including (it seemed to him) all the roast turkey and baked potatoes and chicken salad and squash pie and ice cream in the world. Wherefore he sat, gorged, and gazed upon the world with after-dinner contempt.

The meal had been an unexpected one. He was passing a red brick mansion near the beginning of Fifth avenue, in which lived two old ladies of ancient family and a reverence for traditions. They even denied the existence of New York, and believed that Thanksgiving Day was declared solely for Washington Square. One of their traditional habits was to station a servant at the postern gate with orders to admit the first hungry wayfarer that came along after the hour of noon had struck, and banquet him to a finish. Stuffy Pete happened to pass by on his way to the park, and the seneschals gathered him in and upheld the custom of the castle.

After Stuffy Pete had gazed straight before him for ten minutes he was conscious of a desire for a more varied field of vision. With a tremendous effort he moved his head slowly to the left. And then his eyes bulged out fearfully, and his breath ceased, and the rough-shod ends of his short legs wriggled and rustled on the gravel.

For the Old Gentleman was coming across Fourth avenue toward his bench.

Every Thanksgiving Day for nine years the Old Gentleman had come there and found Stuffy Pete on his bench. That was a thing that the Old Gentleman was trying to make a tradition of. Every Thanksgiving Day for nine years he had found Stuffy there, and had led him to a restaurant and watched him eat a big dinner. They do those things in England unconsciously. But this is a young country, and nine years is not so bad. The Old Gentleman was a staunch American patriot, and considered himself a pioneer in American tradition. In order to become picturesque we must keep on doing one thing for a long time without ever letting it get away from us. Something like collecting the weekly dimes in industrial insurance. Or cleaning the streets.

The Old Gentleman moved, straight and stately, toward the Institution that he was rearing. Truly, the annual feeding of Stuffy Pete was nothing national in its character, such as the Magna Charta or jam for breakfast was in England. But it was a step. It was almost feudal. It showed, at least, that a Custom was not impossible to New Y—ahem!—America.

The Old Gentleman was thin and tall and sixty. He was dressed all in black, and wore the old-fashioned kind of glasses that won't stay on your nose. His hair was whiter and thinner than it had been last year, and he seemed to make more use of his big, knobby cane with the crooked handle.

As his established benefactor came up Stuffy wheezed and shuddered like some woman's over-fat pug when a street dog bristles up at him. He would have flown, but all the skill of Santos-Dumont could not have separated him from his bench. Well had the myrmidons of the two old ladies done their work.

"Good morning," said the Old Gentleman. "I am glad to perceive that the vicissitudes of another year have spared you to move in health about the beautiful world. For that blessing alone this day of thanksgiving is well proclaimed to each of us. If you will come with me, my man, I will provide you with a dinner that should make your physical being accord with the mental."

That is what the old Gentleman said every time. Every Thanksgiving Day for nine years. The words themselves almost formed an Institution. Nothing could be compared with them except the Declaration of Independence. Always before they had been music in Stuffy's ears. But now he looked up at the Old Gentleman's face with tearful agony in his own. The fine snow almost sizzled when it fell upon his perspiring brow. But the Old Gentleman shivered a little and turned his back to the wind.

Stuffy had always wondered why the Old Gentleman spoke his speech rather sadly. He did not know that it was because he was wishing every time that he had a son to succeed him. A son who would come there after he was gone—a son who would stand proud and strong before some subsequent Stuffy, and say: "In memory of my father." Then it would be an Institution.

But the Old Gentleman had no relatives. He lived in rented rooms in one of the decayed old family brownstone mansions in one of the quiet streets east of the park. In the winter he raised fuchsias in a little conservatory the size of a steamer trunk. In the spring he walked in the Easter parade. In the summer he lived at a farmhouse in the New Jersey hills, and sat in a wicker armchair, speaking of a butterfly, the ornithoptera amphrisius, that he hoped to find some day. In the autumn he fed Stuffy a dinner. These were the Old Gentleman's occupations.

Stuffy Pete looked up at him for a half minute, stewing and helpless in his own self-pity. The Old Gentleman's eyes were bright with the giving-pleasure. His face was getting more lined each year, but his little black necktie was in as jaunty a bow as ever, and the linen was beautiful and white, and his gray mustache was curled carefully at the ends. And then Stuffy made a noise that sounded like peas bubbling in a pot. Speech was intended; and as the Old Gentleman had heard the sounds nine times before, he rightly construed them into Stuffy's old formula of acceptance.

"Thankee, sir. I'll go with ye, and much obliged. I'm very hungry, sir."

The coma of repletion had not prevented from entering Stuffy's mind the conviction that he was the basis of an Institution. His Thanksgiving appetite was not his own; it belonged by all the sacred rights of established custom, if not, by the actual Statute of Limitations, to this kind old gentleman who bad preempted it. True, America is free; but in order to establish tradition some one must be a repetend—a repeating decimal. The heroes are not all heroes of steel and gold. See one here that wielded only weapons of iron, badly silvered, and tin.

The Old Gentleman led his annual protege southward to the restaurant, and to the table where the feast had always occurred. They were recognized.

"Here comes de old guy," said a waiter, "dat blows dat same bum to a meal every Thanksgiving."

The Old Gentleman sat across the table glowing like a smoked pearl at his corner-stone of future ancient Tradition. The waiters heaped the table with holiday food—and Stuffy, with a sigh that was mistaken for hunger's expression, raised knife and fork and carved for himself a crown of imperishable bay.

No more valiant hero ever fought his way through the ranks of an enemy. Turkey, chops, soups, vegetables, pies, disappeared before him as fast as they could be served. Gorged nearly to the uttermost when he entered the restaurant, the smell of food had almost caused him to lose his honor as a gentleman, but he rallied like a true knight. He saw the look of beneficent happiness on the Old Gentleman's face—a happier look than even the fuchsias and the ornithoptera amphrisius had ever brought to it—and he had not the heart to see it wane.

In an hour Stuffy leaned back with a battle won. "Thankee kindly, sir," he puffed like a leaky steam pipe; "thankee kindly for a hearty meal." Then he arose heavily with glazed eyes and started toward the kitchen. A waiter turned him about like a top, and pointed him toward the door. The Old Gentleman carefully counted out $1.30 in silver change, leaving three nickels for the waiter.

They parted as they did each year at the door, the Old Gentleman going south, Stuffy north.

Around the first corner Stuffy turned, and stood for one minute. Then he seemed to puff out his rags as an owl puffs out his feathers, and fell to the sidewalk like a sunstricken horse.

When the ambulance came the young surgeon and the driver cursed softly at his weight. There was no smell of whiskey to justify a transfer to the patrol wagon, so Stuffy and his two dinners went to the hospital. There they stretched him on a bed and began to test him for strange diseases, with the hope of getting a chance at some problem with the bare steel.

And lo! an hour later another ambulance brought the Old Gentleman. And they laid him on another bed and spoke of appendicitis, for he looked good for the bill.

But pretty soon one of the young doctors met one of the young nurses whose eyes he liked, and stopped to chat with her about the cases.

"That nice old gentleman over there, now," he said, "you wouldn't think that was a case of almost starvation. Proud old family, I guess. He told me he hadn't eaten a thing for three days."

By O. Henry

GRAND'THER BALDWIN'S THANKSGIVING

2011-11-23T20:28:00.002+01:00

GRAND'THER BALDWIN'S THANKSGIVING

UNDERNEATH protected branches, from the highway just aloof;

Stands the house of Grand'ther Baldwin, with its gently sloping roof.

Square of shape and solid-timbered, it was standing, I have heard,

In the days of Whig and Tory, under royal George the Third.

Many a time, I well remember, I have gazed with Childish awe

At the bullet-hole remaining in the sturdy oaken door,

Turning round half-apprehensive (recking not how time had fled)

Of the lurking, savage foeman from whose musket it was sped..

Not far off, the barn, plethoric with the autumn's harvest spoils,

Holds the farmer's well-earned trophies—the guerdon of his toils;

Filled the lofts with hay, sweet-scented, ravished from the meadows green,

While beneath are stalled the cattle, with their quiet, drowsy mien.

Deep and spacious are the grain-bins, brimming o'er with nature's gold;

Here are piles of yellow pumpkins on the barn-floor loosely rolled.

Just below in deep recesses, safe from wintry frost chill,

There are heaps of ruddy apples from the orchard the hill.

Many a year has Grand'ther Baldwin in the old house dwelt in peace,

As his hair each year grew whiter, he has seen his herds increase.

Sturdy sons and comely daughters, growing up from childish plays,

One by one have met life's duties, and gone forth their several ways.

Hushed the voice of childish laughter, hushed is childhood's merry tone,

the fireside Grand'ther Baldwin and his good wife sit alone.

Turning round half-apprehensive (recking not how time had fled)

Of the lurking savage foeman from whose musket it was sped.

Not far off, the barn, plethoric with the autumn harvest spoils,

Holds the farmer's well-earned trophies—the guerdon of his toils;

Filled the lofts with hay, sweet-scented, ravished from the meadows green,

While beneath are stalled the cattle, with their quiet drowsy mien.

Deep and spacious are the grain-bins, brimming o'er with nature's gold;

Here are piles of yellow pumpkins on the barn-floor loosely rolled.

Just below in deep recesses, safe from wintry frost and chill,

There are heaps of ruddy apples from the orchard on the hill.

Many a year has Grand'ther Baldwin in the old house dwelt in peace,

As his hair each year grew whiter, he has seen his herds increase.

Sturdy sons and comely daughters, growing up from childish plays,

One by one have met life's duties, and gone forth their several ways.

Hushed the voice of childish laughter, hushed is childhood's merry tone,

By the fireside Grand'ther Baldwin and his good wife sit alone.

Yet once within the twelvemonth, when the days are short and drear,

And chill winds chant the requiem of the slowly fading year,

When the autumn work is over, and the harvest gathered in,

Once again the old house echoes to a long unwonted din.

Logs of hickory blaze and crackle in the fireplace huge anti high,

Curling wreaths of smoke mount upward to the gray November sky.

Ruddy lads and smiling lasses, just let loose from schooldom's cares,

Patter, patter, race and clatter, up and down the great hall stairs.

All the boys shall hold high revel; all the girls shall have their way,—

That's the law at Grand'ther Baldwin's upon each Thanksgiving Day.

From from the parlor's sacred precincts, hark! a madder uproar yet;

Roguish Charlie's playing stage-coach, and the stage-coach has upset!

Joe, black-eyed and laughter-loving, Grand'ther's specs his nose across,

Gravely winks at brother Willie, who is gayly playing horse.

Grandma's face is fairly radiant; Grand'ther knows not how to frown,

though the children, in their frolic, turn the old house upside down.

For the boys may hold high revel, and the girls must have their way;

That's the law at Grand'ther Baldwin's upon each Thanksgiving Day.

But the dinner—ah! the dinner—words are feeble to portray

What a culinary triumph is achieved Thanksgiving Day!

Fairly groans the board with dainties, but the turkey rules the roast,

Aldermanic at the outset, at the last a fleshless ghost.

Then the richness of the pudding, and the flavor of the pie,

When you've dined at Grandma Baldwin's you will know as well as I.

When, at length, the feast was ended, Grand'ther Baldwin bent his head,

And, amid the solemn silence, with a reverent voice, he said:—

"Now unto God, the Gracious One, we thanks and homage pay,

Who guardeth us, and guideth us, and loveth us always!

"He scatters blessings in our paths, He giveth us increase,

He crowns us with His kindnesses, and granteth us His peace.

"Unto himself, our wandering feet, we pray that He may draw,

And may we strive, with faithful hearts, to keep His holy law!"

His simple words in silence died: a moment's hush. And then

From all the listening hearts there rose a solemn-voiced Amen!

By Horatio Alger, Jr., 1875

AN OLD-FASHIONED THANKSGIVING.

2011-11-22T20:44:00.004+01:00

AN OLD-FASHIONED THANKSGIVING.

By Louisa M. Alcott

SIXTY years ago, up among the New Hampshire hills, lived Farmer Bassett, with a house full of sturdy sons and daughters growing up about him. They were poor in money, but rich in land and love, for the wide acres of wood, corn, and pasture land fed, warmed, and clothed the flock, while mutual patience, affection, and courage made the old farm-house a very happy home.

November had come; the crops were in, and barn, buttery, and bin were overflowing with the harvest that rewarded the summer's hard work. The big kitchen was a jolly place just now, for in the great fireplace roared a cheerful fire; on the walls hung garlands of dried apples, onions, and corn; up aloft from the beams shone crook-necked squashes, juicy hams, and dried venison—for in those days deer still haunted the deep forests, and hunters flourished. Savory smells were in the air; on the crane hung steaming kettles, and down among the red embers copper sauce-pans simmered, all suggestive of some approaching feast.

A white-headed baby lay in the old blue cradle that had rocked seven other babies, now and then lifting his head to look out, like a round, full moon, then subsided to kick and crow contentedly, and suck the rosy apple he had no teeth to bite. Two small boys sat on the wooden settle shelling corn for popping, and picking out the biggest nuts from the goodly store their own hands had gathered in October. Four young girls stood at the long dresser, busily chopping meat, pounding spice, and slicing apples; and the tongues of Tilly, Prue, Roxy, and Rhody went as fast as their hands. Farmer Bassett, and Eph, the oldest boy, were "chorin' 'round" outside, for Thanksgiving was at hand, and all must be in order for that time-honored day.

To and fro, from table to hearth, bustled buxom Mrs. Bassett, flushed and floury, but busy and blithe as the queen bee of this busy little hive should be.

"I do like to begin seasonable and have things to my mind. Thanksgivin' dinners can't be drove, and it does take a sight of victuals to fill all these hungry stomicks," said the good woman, as she gave a vigorous stir to the great kettle of cider apple-sauce, and cast a glance of housewifely pride at the fine array of pies set forth on the buttery shelves.

"Only one more day and then it will be time to eat. I didn't take but one bowl of hasty pudding this morning, so I shall have plenty of room when the nice things come," confided Seth to Sol, as he cracked a large hazel-nut as easily as a squirrel.

"No need of my starvin' beforehand. I always have room enough, and I'd like to have Thanksgiving every day," answered Solomon, gloating like a young ogre over the little pig that lay near by, ready for roasting.

"Sakes alive, I don't, boys! It's a marcy it don't come but once a year. I should be worn to a thread-paper with all this extra work atop of my winter weavin' and spinnin'," laughed their mother, as she plunged her plump arms into the long bread-trough and began to knead the dough as if a famine was at hand.

Tilly, the oldest girl, a red-cheeked, black-eyed lass of fourteen, was grinding briskly at the mortar, for spices were costly, and not a grain must be wasted. Prue kept time with the chopper, and the twins sliced away at the apples till their little brown arms ached, for all knew how to work, and did so now with a will.

"I think it's real fun to have Thanksgiving at home. I'm sorry Gran'ma is sick, so we can't go there as usual, but I like to mess 'round here, don't you, girls?" asked Tilly, pausing to take a sniff at the spicy pestle.

"It will be kind of lonesome with only our own folks." "I like to see all the cousins and aunts, and have games, and sing," cried the twins, who were regular little romps, and could run, swim, coast and shout as well as their brothers.

"I don't care a mite for all that. It will be so nice to eat dinner together, warm and comfortable at home," said quiet Prue, who loved her own cozy nooks like a cat.

"Come, girls, fly 'round and get your chores done, so we can clear away for dinner jest as soon as I clap my bread into the oven," called Mrs. Bassett presently, as she rounded off the last loaf of brown bread which was to feed the hungry mouths that seldom tasted any other.

"Here's a man comin' up the hill, lively!" "Guess it's Gad Hopkins. Pa told him to bring a dezzen oranges, if they warn't too high!" shouted Sol and Seth, running to the door, while the girls smacked their lips at the thought of this rare treat, and Baby threw his apple overboard, as if getting ready for a new cargo.

But all were doomed to disappointment, for it was not Gad, with the much-desired fruit. It was a stranger, who threw himself off his horse and hurried up to Mr. Bassett in the yard, with some brief message that made the farmer drop his ax and look so sober that his wife guessed at once some bad news had come; and crying, "Mother's wuss! I know she is!" out ran the good woman, forgetful of the flour on her arms and the oven waiting for its most important batch.

The man said old Mr. Chadwick, down to Keene, stopped him as he passed, and told him to tell Mrs. Bassett her mother was failin' fast, and she'd better come to-day. He knew no more, and having delivered his errand he rode away, saying it looked like snow and he must be jogging, or he wouldn't get home till night.

"We must go right off, Eldad. Hitch up, and I'll be ready in less'n no time," said Mrs. Bassett, wasting not a minute in tears and lamentations, but pulling off her apron as she went in, with her mind in a sad jumble of bread, anxiety, turkey, sorrow, haste, and cider apple-sauce.

A few words told the story, and the children left their work to help her get ready, mingling their grief for "Gran'ma" with regrets for the lost dinner.

"I'm dreadful sorry, dears, but it can't be helped. I couldn't cook nor eat no way, now, and if that blessed woman gets better sudden, as she has before, we'll have cause for thanksgivin', and I'll give you a dinner you won't forget in a hurry," said Mrs. Bassett, as she tied on her brown silk pumpkin-hood, with a sob for the good old mother who had made it for her.

Not a child complained after that, but ran about helpfully, bringing moccasins, heating the footstone, and getting ready for a long drive, because Gran'ma lived twenty miles away, and there were no railroads in those parts to whisk people to and fro like magic. By the time the old yellow sleigh was at the door, the bread was in the oven, and Mrs. Bassett was waiting, with her camlet cloak on, and the baby done up like a small bale of blankets.

"Now, Eph, you must look after the cattle like a man, and keep up the fires, for there's a storm brewin', and neither the children nor dumb critters must suffer," said Mr. Bassett, as he turned up the collar of his rough coat and put on his blue mittens, while the old mare shook her bells as if she preferred a trip to Keene to hauling wood all day.

"Tilly, put extry comfortables on the beds to-night, the wind is so searchin' up chamber. Have the baked beans and Injun-puddin' for dinner, and whatever you do, don't let the boys git at the mince-pies, or you'll have them down sick. I shall come back the minute I can leave Mother. Pa will come to-morrer, anyway, so keep snug and be good. I depend on you, my darter; use your jedgment, and don't let nothin' happen while Mother's away."

"Yes'm, yes'm—good-bye, good-bye!" called the children, as Mrs. Bassett was packed into the sleigh and driven away, leaving a stream of directions behind her.

Eph, the sixteen-year-old boy, immediately put on his biggest boots, assumed a sober, responsible manner, and surveyed his little responsibilities with a paternal air, drolly like his father's. Tilly tied on her mother's bunch of keys, rolled up the sleeves of her homespun gown, and began to order about the younger girls. They soon forgot poor Granny, and found it great fun to keep house all alone, for Mother seldom left home, but ruled her family in the good old-fashioned way. There were no servants, for the little daughters were Mrs. Bassett's only maids, and the stout boys helped their father, all working happily together with no wages but love; learning in the best manner the use of the heads and hands with which they were to make their own way in the world.

The few flakes that caused the farmer to predict bad weather soon increased to a regular snow-storm, with gusts of wind, for up among the hills winter came early and lingered long. But the children were busy, gay, and warm in-doors, and never minded the rising gale nor the whirling white storm outside.

Tilly got them a good dinner, and when it was over the two elder girls went to their spinning, for in the kitchen stood the big and little wheels, and baskets of wool-rolls, ready to be twisted into yarn for the winter's knitting, and each day brought its stint of work to the daughters, who hoped to be as thrifty as their mother.

Eph kept up a glorious fire, and superintended the small boys, who popped corn and whittled boats on the hearth; while Roxy and Rhody dressed corn-cob dolls in the settle corner, and Bose, the brindled mastiff, lay on the braided mat, luxuriously warming his old legs. Thus employed, they made a pretty picture, these rosy boys and girls, in their homespun suits, with the rustic toys or tasks which most children nowadays would find very poor or tiresome.

Tilly and Prue sang, as they stepped to and fro, drawing out the smoothly twisted threads to the musical hum of the great spinning-wheels. The little girls chattered like magpies over their dolls and the new bed-spread they were planning to make, all white dimity stars on a blue calico ground, as a Christmas present to Ma. The boys roared at Eph's jokes, and had rough and tumble games over Bose, who didn't mind them in the least; and so the afternoon wore pleasantly away.

At sunset the boys went out to feed the cattle, bring in heaps of wood, and lock up for the night, as the lonely farm-house seldom had visitors after dark. The girls got the simple supper of brown bread and milk, baked apples, and a doughnut all 'round as a treat. Then they sat before the fire, the sisters knitting, the brothers with books or games, for Eph loved reading, and Sol and Seth never failed to play a few games of Morris with barley corns, on the little board they had made themselves at one corner of the dresser.

"Read out a piece," said Tilly, from Mother's chair, where she sat in state, finishing off the sixth woolen sock she had knit that month.

_ _ _

When the moon-faced clock behind the door struck nine, Tilly tucked up the children under the "extry comfortables," and having kissed them all around, as Mother did, crept into her own nest, never minding the little drifts of snow that sifted in upon her coverlet between the shingles of the roof, nor the storm that raged without.

As if he felt the need of unusual vigilance, old Bose lay down on the mat before the door, and pussy had the warm hearth all to herself. If any late wanderer had looked in at midnight, he would have seen the fire blazing up again, and in the cheerful glow the old cat blinking her yellow eyes, as she sat bolt upright beside the spinning-wheel, like some sort of household goblin, guarding the children while they slept.

When they woke, like early birds, it still snowed, but up the little Bassetts jumped, broke the ice in their pitchers, and went down with cheeks glowing like winter apples, after a brisk scrub and scramble into their clothes. Eph was off to the barn, and Tilly soon had a great kettle of mush ready, which, with milk warm from the cows, made a wholesome breakfast for the seven hearty children.

"Now about dinner," said the young housekeeper, as the pewter spoons stopped clattering, and the earthen bowls stood empty.

"Ma said, have what we liked, but she didn't expect us to have a real Thanksgiving dinner, because she won't be here to cook it, and we don't know how," began Prue, doubtfully.

"I can roast a turkey and make a pudding as well as anybody, I guess. The pies are all ready, and if we can't boil vegetables and so on, we don't deserve any dinner," cried Tilly, burning to distinguish herself, and bound to enjoy to the utmost her brief authority.

"Yes, yes!" cried all the boys, "let's have a dinner anyway; Ma won't care, and the good victuals will spoil if they ain't eaten right up."

"Pa is coming to-night, so we won't have dinner till late; that will be real genteel and give us plenty of time," added Tilly, suddenly realizing the novelty of the task she had undertaken.

"Did you ever roast a turkey?" asked Roxy, with an air of deep interest.

"Should you darst to try?" said Rhody, in an awe-stricken tone.

"You will see what I can do. Ma said I was to use my jedgment about things, and I'm going to. All you children have got to do is to keep out of the way, and let Prue and me work. Eph, I wish you'd put a fire in the best room, so the little ones can play in there. We shall want the settin'-room for the table, and I won't have 'em pickin' 'round when we get things fixed," commanded Tilly, bound to make her short reign a brilliant one.

"I don't know about that. Ma didn't tell us to," began cautious Eph, who felt that this invasion of the sacred best parlor was a daring step.

"Don't we always do it Sundays and Thanksgivings? Wouldn't Ma wish the children kept safe and warm anyhow? Can I get up a nice dinner with four rascals under my feet all the time? Come, now, if you want roast turkey and onions, plum-puddin' and mince-pie, you'll have to do as I tell you, and be lively about it."

Tilly spoke with such spirit, and her last suggestion was so irresistible, that Eph gave in, and, laughing good-naturedly, tramped away to heat up the best room, devoutly hoping that nothing serious would happen to punish such audacity.

The young folks delightedly trooped in to destroy the order of that prim apartment with housekeeping under the black horse-hair sofa, "horseback riders" on the arms of the best rocking-chair, and an Indian war-dance all over the well-waxed furniture. Eph, finding the society of the peaceful sheep and cows more to his mind than that of two excited sisters, lingered over his chores in the barn as long as possible, and left the girls in peace.

Now Tilly and Prue were in their glory, and as soon as the breakfast things were out of the way, they prepared for a grand cooking-time. They were handy girls, though they had never heard of a cooking-school, never touched a piano, and knew nothing of embroidery beyond the samplers which hung framed in the parlor; one ornamented with a pink mourner under a blue weeping-willow, the other with this pleasing verse, each word being done in a different color, which gave the effect of a distracted rainbow:

"This sampler neat was worked by me,

In my twelfth year, Prudence B."

Both rolled up their sleeves, put on their largest aprons, and got out all the spoons, dishes, pots, and pans they could find, "so as to have everything handy," as Prue said.

"Now, sister, we'll have dinner at five; Pa will be here by that time if he is coming to-night, and be so surprised to find us all ready, for he won't have had any very nice victuals if Gran'ma is so sick," said Tilly importantly. "I shall give the children a piece at noon" (Tilly meant luncheon); "doughnuts and cheese, with apple-pie and cider will please 'em. There's beans for Eph; he likes cold pork, so we won't stop to warm it up, for there's lots to do, and I don't mind saying to you I'm dreadful dubersome about the turkey."

"It's all ready but the stuffing, and roasting is as easy as can be. I can baste first rate. Ma always likes to have me, I'm so patient and stiddy, she says," answered Prue, for the responsibility of this great undertaking did not rest upon her, so she took a cheerful view of things.

"I know, but it's the stuffin' that troubles me," said Tilly, rubbing her round elbows as she eyed the immense fowl laid out on a platter before her. "I don't know how much I want, nor what sort of yarbs to put in, and he's so awful big, I'm kind of afraid of him."

"I ain't! I fed him all summer, and he never gobbled at me. I feel real mean to be thinking of gobbling him, poor old chap," laughed Prue, patting her departed pet with an air of mingled affection and appetite.

"Well, I'll get the puddin' off my mind fust, for it ought to bile all day. Put the big kettle on, and see that the spit is clean, while I get ready."

Prue obediently tugged away at the crane, with its black hooks, from which hung the iron tea-kettle and three-legged pot; then she settled the long spit in the grooves made for it in the tall andirons, and put the dripping-pan underneath, for in those days meat was roasted as it should be, not baked in ovens.

Meantime Tilly attacked the plum-pudding. She felt pretty sure of coming out right, here, for she had seen her mother do it so many times, it looked very easy. So in went suet and fruit; all sorts of spice, to be sure she got the right ones, and brandy instead of wine. But she forgot both sugar and salt, and tied it in the cloth so tightly that it had no room to swell, so it would come out as heavy as lead and as hard as a cannon-ball, if the bag did not burst and spoil it all. Happily unconscious of these mistakes, Tilly popped it into the pot, and proudly watched it bobbing about before she put the cover on and left it to its fate.

"I can't remember what flavorin' Ma puts in," she said, when she had got her bread well soaked for the stuffing. "Sage and onions and apple-sauce go with goose, but I can't feel sure of anything but pepper and salt for a turkey."

"Ma puts in some kind of mint, I know, but I forget whether it is spearmint, peppermint, or penny-royal," answered Prue, in a tone of doubt, but trying to show her knowledge of "yarbs," or, at least, of their names.

"Seems to me it's sweet marjoram or summer savory. I guess we'll put both in, and then we are sure to be right. The best is up garret; you run and get some, while I mash the bread," commanded Tilly, diving into the mess.

Away trotted Prue, but in her haste she got catnip and wormwood, for the garret was darkish, and Prue's little nose was so full of the smell of the onions she had been peeling, that everything smelt of them. Eager to be of use, she pounded up the herbs and scattered the mixture with a liberal hand into the bowl.

"It doesn't smell just right, but I suppose it will when it is cooked," said Tilly, as she filled the empty stomach, that seemed aching for food, and sewed it up with the blue yarn, which happened to be handy. She forgot to tie down his legs and wings, but she set him by till his hour came, well satisfied with her work.

"Shall we roast the little pig, too? I think he'd look nice with a necklace of sausages, as Ma fixed one last Christmas," asked Prue, elated with their success.

"I couldn't do it. I loved that little pig, and cried when he was killed. I should feel as if I was roasting the baby," answered Tilly, glancing toward the buttery where piggy hung, looking so pink and pretty it certainly did seem cruel to eat him.

It took a long time to get all the vegetables ready, for, as the cellar was full, the girls thought they would have every sort. Eph helped, and by noon all was ready for cooking, and the cranberry-sauce, a good deal scorched, was cooling in the lean-to.

Luncheon was a lively meal, and doughnuts and cheese vanished in such quantities that Tilly feared no one would have an appetite for her sumptuous dinner. The boys assured her they would be starving by five o'clock, and Sol mourned bitterly over the little pig that was not to be served up.

"Now you all go and coast, while Prue and I set the table and get out the best chiny," said Tilly, bent on having her dinner look well, no matter what its other failings might be.

Out came the rough sleds, on went the round hoods, old hats, red cloaks, and moccasins, and away trudged the four younger Bassetts, to disport themselves in the snow, and try the ice down by the old mill, where the great wheel turned and splashed so merrily in the summer-time.

Eph took his fiddle and scraped away to his heart's content in the parlor, while the girls, after a short rest, set the table and made all ready to dish up the dinner when that exciting moment came. It was not at all the sort of table we see now, but would look very plain and countrified to us, with its green-handled knives and two-pronged steel forks; its red-and-white china, and pewter platters, scoured till they shone, with mugs and spoons to match, and a brown jug for the cider. The cloth was coarse, but white as snow, and the little maids had seen the blue-eyed flax grow, out of which their mother wove the linen they had watched and watered while it bleached in the green meadow. They had no napkins and little silver; but the best tankard and Ma's few wedding spoons were set forth in state. Nuts and apples at the corners gave an air, and the place of honor was left in the middle for the oranges yet to come.

"Don't it look beautiful?" said Prue, when they paused to admire the general effect.

"Pretty nice, I think. I wish Ma could see how well we can do it," began Tilly, when a loud howling startled both girls, and sent them flying to the window. The short afternoon had passed so quickly that twilight had come before they knew it, and now, as they looked out through the gathering dusk, they saw four small black figures tearing up the road, to come bursting in, all screaming at once: "The bear, the bear! Eph, get the gun! He's coming, he's coming!"

Eph had dropped his fiddle, and got down his gun before the girls could calm the children enough to tell their story, which they did in a somewhat incoherent manner. "Down in the holler, coastin', we heard a growl," began Sol, with his eyes as big as saucers. "I see him fust lookin' over the wall," roared Seth, eager to get his share of honor.

"Awful big and shaggy," quavered Roxy, clinging to Tilly, while Rhody hid in Prue's skirts, and piped out: "His great paws kept clawing at us, and I was so scared my legs would hardly go."

"We ran away as fast as we could go, and he come growling after us. He's awful hungry, and he'll eat every one of us if he gets in," continued Sol, looking about him for a safe retreat.

"Oh, Eph, don't let him eat us," cried both little girls, flying up stairs to hide under their mother's bed, as their surest shelter.

"No danger of that, you little geese. I'll shoot him as soon as he comes. Get out of the way, boys," and Eph raised the window to get good aim.

"There he is! Fire away, and don't miss!" cried Seth, hastily following Sol, who had climbed to the top of the dresser as a good perch from which to view the approaching fray.

Prue retired to the hearth as if bent on dying at her post rather than desert the turkey, now "browning beautiful," as she expressed it. But Tilly boldly stood at the open window, ready to lend a hand if the enemy proved too much for Eph.

All had seen bears, but none had ever come so near before, and even brave Eph felt that the big brown beast slowly trotting up the door-yard was an unusually formidable specimen. He was growling horribly, and stopped now and then as if to rest and shake himself.

"Get the ax, Tilly, and if I should miss, stand ready to keep him off while I load again," said Eph, anxious to kill his first bear in style and alone; a girl's help didn't count.

Tilly flew for the ax, and was at her brother's side by the time the bear was near enough to be dangerous. He stood on his hind legs, and seemed to sniff with relish the savory odors that poured out of the window.

"Fire, Eph!" cried Tilly, firmly.

"Wait till he rears again. I'll get a better shot, then," answered the boy, while Prue covered her ears to shut out the bang, and the small boys cheered from their dusty refuge up among the pumpkins.

But a very singular thing happened next, and all who saw it stood amazed, for suddenly Tilly threw down the ax, flung open the door, and ran straight into the arms of the bear, who stood erect to receive her, while his growlings changed to a loud "Haw, haw!" that startled the children more than the report of a gun.

"It's Gad Hopkins, tryin' to fool us!" cried Eph, much disgusted at the loss of his prey, for these hardy boys loved to hunt, and prided themselves on the number of wild animals and birds they could shoot in a year.

"Oh, Gad, how could you scare us so?" laughed Tilly, still held fast in one shaggy arm of the bear, while the other drew a dozen oranges from some deep pocket in the buffalo-skin coat, and fired them into the kitchen with such good aim that Eph ducked, Prue screamed, and Sol and Seth came down much quicker than they went up.

"Wal, you see I got upsot over yonder, and the old horse went home while I was floundering in a drift, so I tied on the buffalers to tote 'em easy, and come along till I see the children playin' in the holler. I jest meant to give 'em a little scare, but they run like partridges, and I kep' up the joke to see how Eph would like this sort of company," and Gad haw-hawed again.

"You'd have had a warm welcome if we hadn't found you out. I'd have put a bullet through you in a jiffy, old chap," said Eph, coming out to shake hands with the young giant, who was only a year or two older than himself.

"Come in and set up to dinner with us. Prue and I have done it all ourselves, and Pa will be along soon, I reckon," cried Tilly, trying to escape.

"Couldn't, no ways. My folks will think I'm dead ef I don't get along home, sence the horse and sleigh have gone ahead empty. I've done my arrant and had my joke; now I want my pay, Tilly," and Gad took a hearty kiss from the rosy cheeks of his "little sweetheart," as he called her. His own cheeks tingled with the smart slap she gave him as she ran away, calling out that she hated bears and would bring her ax next time.

"I ain't afeared; your sharp eyes found me out; and ef you run into a bear's arms you must expect a hug," answered Gad, as he pushed back the robe and settled his fur cap more becomingly.

"I should have known you in a minute if I hadn't been asleep when the girls squalled. You did it well, though, and I advise you not to try it again in a hurry, or you'll get shot," said Eph, as they parted, he rather crestfallen and Gad in high glee.

"My sakes alive—the turkey is burnt one side, and the kettles have biled over so the pies I put to warm are all ashes!" scolded Tilly, as the flurry subsided and she remembered her dinner.

"Well, I can't help it. I couldn't think of victuals when I expected to be eaten alive myself, could I?" pleaded poor Prue, who had tumbled into the cradle when the rain of oranges began.

Tilly laughed, and all the rest joined in, so good humor was restored, and the spirits of the younger ones were revived by sucks from the one orange which passed from hand to hand with great rapidity, while the older girls dished up the dinner. They were just struggling to get the pudding out of the cloth when Roxy called out, "Here's Pa!"

"There's folks with him," added Rhody.

"Lots of 'em! I see two big sleighs chock full," shouted Seth, peering through the dusk.

"It looks like a semintary. Guess Gramma's dead and come up to be buried here," said Sol in a solemn tone. This startling suggestion made Tilly, Prue, and Eph hasten to look out, full of dismay at such an ending of their festival.

"If that is a funeral, the mourners are uncommon jolly," said Eph, drily, as merry voices and loud laughter broke the white silence without.

"I see Aunt Cinthy, and Cousin Hetty—and there's Mose and Amos. I do declare, Pa's bringin' 'em all home to have some fun here," cried Prue, as she recognized one familiar face after another.*

"Oh, my patience! Ain't I glad I got dinner, and don't I hope it will turn out good!" exclaimed Tilly, while the twins pranced with delight, and the small boys roared:

"Hooray for Pa! Hooray for Thanksgivin'!"

The cheer was answered heartily, and in came Father, Mother, Baby, aunts and cousins, all in great spirits, and all much surprised to find such a festive welcome awaiting them.

"Ain't Gran'ma dead at all?" asked Sol, in the midst of the kissing and hand-shaking.

"Bless your heart, no! It was all a mistake of old Mr. Chadwick's. He's as deaf as an adder, and when Mrs. Brooks told him Mother was mendin' fast, and she wanted me to come down to-day, certain sure, he got the message all wrong, and give it to the fust person passin' in such a way as to scare me 'most to death, and send us down in a hurry. Mother was sittin' up as chirk as you please, and dreadful sorry you didn't all come."

"So, to keep the house quiet for her, and give you a taste of the fun, your Pa fetched us all up to spend the evenin', and we are goin' to have a jolly time on't, to jedge by the looks of things," said Aunt Cinthy, briskly finishing the tale when Mrs. Bassett paused for want of breath.

"What in the world put it into your head we was comin', and set you to gettin' up such a supper?" asked Mr. Bassett, looking about him, well pleased and much surprised at the plentiful table.

Tilly modestly began to tell, but the others broke in and sang her praises in a sort of chorus, in which bears, pigs, pies, and oranges were oddly mixed. Great satisfaction was expressed by all, and Tilly and Prue were so elated by the commendation of Ma and the aunts, that they set forth their dinner, sure everything was perfect.

But when the eating began, which it did the moment wraps were off, then their pride got a fall; for the first person who tasted the stuffing (it was big Cousin Mose, and that made it harder to bear) nearly choked over the bitter morsel.

"Tilly Bassett, whatever made you put wormwood and catnip in your stuffin'?" demanded Ma, trying not to be severe, for all the rest were laughing, and Tilly looked ready to cry.

"I did it," said Prue, nobly taking all the blame, which caused Pa to kiss her on the spot, and declare that it didn't do a might of harm, for the turkey was all right.

"I never see onions cooked better. All the vegetables is well done, and the dinner a credit to you, my dears," declared Aunt Cinthy, with her mouth full of the fragrant vegetable she praised.

The pudding was an utter failure, in spite of the blazing brandy in which it lay—as hard and heavy as one of the stone balls on Squire Dunkin's great gate. It was speedily whisked out of sight, and all fell upon the pies, which were perfect. But Tilly and Prue were much depressed, and didn't recover their spirits till the dinner was over and the evening fun well under way.

"Blind-man's buff," "Hunt the slipper," "Come, Philander," and other lively games soon set every one bubbling over with jollity, and when Eph struck up "Money Musk" on his fiddle, old and young fell into their places for a dance. All down the long kitchen they stood, Mr. and Mrs. Bassett at the top, the twins at the bottom, and then away they went, heeling and toeing, cutting pigeon-wings, and taking their steps in a way that would convulse modern children with their new-fangled romps called dancing. Mose and Tilly covered themselves with glory by the vigor with which they kept it up, till fat Aunt Cinthy fell into a chair, breathlessly declaring that a very little of such exercise was enough for a woman of her "heft."

Apples and cider, chat and singing, finished the evening, and after a grand kissing all round, the guests drove away in the clear moonlight which came just in time to cheer their long drive.

When the jingle of the last bell had died away, Mr. Bassett said soberly, as they stood together on the hearth: "Children, we have special cause to be thankful that the sorrow we expected was changed into joy, so we'll read a chapter 'fore we go to bed, and give thanks where thanks is due."

Then Tilly set out the light-stand with the big Bible on it, and a candle on each side, and all sat quietly in the fire-light, smiling as they listened with happy hearts to the sweet old words that fit all times and seasons so beautifully.

When the good-nights were over, and the children in bed, Prue put her arm around Tilly and whispered tenderly, for she felt her shake, and was sure she was crying:

"Don't mind about the old stuffin' and puddin', deary—nobody cared, and Ma said we really did do surprisin' well for such young girls."

The laughter Tilly was trying to smother broke out then, and was so infectious, Prue could not help joining her, even before she knew the cause of the merriment.

"I was mad about the mistakes, but don't care enough to cry. I'm laughing to think how Gad fooled Eph and I found him out. I thought Mose and Amos would have died over it when I told them, it was so funny," explained Tilly, when she got her breath.

"I was so scared that when the first orange hit me, I thought it was a bullet, and scrabbled into the cradle as fast as I could. It was real mean to frighten the little ones so," laughed Prue, as Tilly gave a growl.

Here a smart rap on the wall of the next room caused a sudden lull in the fun, and Mrs. Bassett's voice was heard, saying warningly, "Girls, go to sleep immediate, or you'll wake the baby."

"Yes'm," answered two meek voices, and after a few irrepressible giggles, silence reigned, broken only by an occasional snore from the boys, or the soft scurry of mice in the buttery, taking their part in this old-fashioned Thanksgiving.

From "Aunt Jo's Scrap-Bag VI, An Old-Fashioned Thanksgiving, Etc.", 1882

Pretty pies & potatoes

2011-11-11T18:56:00.003+01:00

"I am so glad it is Saturday afternoon!"—and little Hatty tossed off her bonnet, and shook out her hair, and skipped up to her mother, who sat making the baby's new red frock,—"I am glad it is Saturday; I don't see the use of going to school, and I wish I never had to look into a book again;" and down little Hatty jumped, two stairs at a time, into the kitchen, to ask Bridget for an apple.

Bridget's red arms were up to the elbows in flour, making pies, and Hatty said she should like to help her. Bridget smiled at the idea of "helping" her. But she liked Hatty; so she tied a great check apron round her, tucked her curls behind her ears, and gave her a bit of paste, and a little cup-plate on which to make herself a pie. So Hatty rolled out the paste, keeping one eye all the while on Bridget, to see how she did hers; and then she greased her little plate so that the pie need not stick to it. When that was done, she filled up the inside with stewed apple, then she tucked it all in with a nice "top crust," then she worked it all round the edge with a tiny little key she had in her pocket: then she looked up and said,

"Bridget! I wish I were you; I should have such a good time tasting the apple-sauce, to see if it were sweet enough. I should like to go out to service, Bridget, and never see that hateful school any more."

From ”Little Ferns For Fanny's Little Friends” by Fanny Fern

Have you ever used a tiny key to make a fluted pie crust? I have to admit that I don’t even try to make a pretty edge — I have plenty of patience when it comes to untangling two thousand threads in a warp, but not enough to handle the pie dough more than absolutely necessary.

This is Myrtle Reed’s Recife for apple pie:

APPLE PIE

Make a rich crust of half a pound of butter, a pound of flour, and a pinch of salt. Work with the fingers until it is like meal, and add ice-water to mix. Roll out, pat into shape, and line a pie-tin with the crust. Peel, core, and cut up good cooking apples, fill the pie, dot with butter, sprinkle with sugar and spice, cover with the other crust and bake. Sprinkle with powdered sugar before serving.

And her apple cobbler sounds more like a pie than a cobbler to me. I thought a cobbler only had a crust on the top.

APPLE COBBLER

Sift together four cupfuls of flour, two heaping teaspoonfuls of baking-powder, one teaspoonful of salt, and one tablespoonful of sugar. Work into it half a cupful of butter and add enough milk to make a dough that will roll. Line a deep buttered baking-dish with the dough rolled thin, fill with peeled, cored, and quartered apples sweetened and sprinkled with spice, cover the pan with the rest of the dough rolled into a crust, and steam for two hours and a half, or bake. Serve with a sauce made of syrup thickened with cornstarch, seasoned with lemon-juice, grated peel, butter, and grated nutmeg or other spice. Apricots, plums, and peaches or berries may be used in the same way.

I’m not a potato person, so I thought that I perhaps could get some good ideas for how to serve potatoes from Myrtle Reed’s chapter ”Twenty Ways to Cook Potatoes”. Most of them started with mashed potatoes, and since I still can chew, I avoid that. But I fond three recipies that I might try:

LYONNAISE POTATOES

Slice two small onions and fry in butter. Reheat with six or eight boiled potatoes sliced thin or cut into dice. Season with salt and pepper, cook until brown, sprinkle with minced parsley, and serve. A few drops of vinegar or a teaspoonful of lemon-juice may be added.

POTATOES AND CHEESE

Peel and chop raw potatoes and cook, covered, very slowly in seasoned butter. When they are soft, drain and put into a baking-dish in layers, alternating with grated Parmesan cheese. Pour over a little melted butter and bake for half an hour in a slow oven. Serve in the same dish.

POTATOES À LA PROVENÇALE

Peel and slice the potatoes, wipe very dry, and sauté in oil. Cook slowly, adding a little minced garlic and onion towards the last. Finish cooking in the oven. Just before serving, drain and season with salt, minced parsley, and lemon-juice.

Gutenberg, Myrtle and I

2011-11-02T09:38:00.003+01:00

I can only find two pictures of Myrtle Reed, this is one of them. Not that it is that important to know what she looked like — or when and where she was born. It’s her books that I’m interested in — I’ve read some of her novels, but I didn’t know, until recently that she also wrote cook books.

“The Myrtle Reed Cook Book” was released some weeks ago, and I immediately got lost in it. There is one chapter called ”Raised Breakfast Rolls”, where I found these Swedish Rolls:

Use any plain roll mixture. When shaping for the last rising, roll the dough very thin, spread with softened butter, sprinkle with sugar and cinnamon, and add a few cleaned currants, bits of citron, and stoned raisins. Roll the dough like jelly cake, cut in half-inch slices from the ends, arrange flat in a well-buttered pan, let rise until double in bulk, and bake as usual.

My interest in food and recipes is more theoretical than practical, so I doubt I’ll try those rolls. But there is actually one recipe I’ve already tried. I’d never heard of chestnut salads, so I had to try that:

Mix boiled chestnuts with bananas and oranges, or English walnuts with cheese and celery, or with apples and figs, or with cream cheese and figs, or pecans with apples, celery, and cream cheese. Serve with French dressing made with wine or lemon-juice or with Mayonnaise made without mustard and whitened with whipped cream.

I roasted my chestnuts and mixed them with an apple, some celery and walnuts. Mayonnaise sounded too rich so I made an ordinary vinaigrette. It didn’t look very appealing, but I found it delicious.

Comfort book(s)

2011-10-19T11:44:00.002+02:00

"Ten cents a bunch"

I don’t think I was meant to live a modern life with computers, cameras and cars. Not that I dislike those things — it’s rather the other way around, they dislike me. The computer I like to use is indisposed — nothing serious (I hope) but I don’t have the much needed energy to tackle the problems, so I’ve simply put the computer out of sight and mind. In the meantime I’m using another computer, a tiny thing where my fingers get lost and where I don’t have half of the information I gathered during the years. What I miss most is my e-mail account — if you intend to write me (yes do!) you have to use the yahoo address that you find somewhere to the right here!

So while I wait for everybody to write me, the computer to miraculously heal and my energy to return, I roam around at Gutenberg. Choosing easily chewed books.

For the moment I’m reading ”Hope Benham” from 1864 by Nora Perry.

Hope has such a noble character — but is still likable — she is intelligent and well educated, although she comes from a rather poor family.

Mr. Benham's salary was only fifteen hundred dollars a year, and it took every cent of this to keep up that simple little home…

(What cost $1500 in 1894 would cost $37307.24 in 2010.)

The author is pointing out, several times, how unimportant class is. Maybe it wasn’t as uncontroversial in 1864, as it is today.

He did not think that the poor were always in the right, and the rich always in the wrong in their relations with each other, as a good many working-people do. No; he was too intelligent for that. But what he did think, what he knew was, that the rich were not hampered and hindered by the daily struggle for existence, for the means to procure food and clothing and shelter from week to week. He knew that his own abilities were hindered and hampered by the necessity that compelled him to work almost incessantly for the necessaries of life.

Mr. Benham, Hope’s father, managed, through hard work earn quite a lot of money and is able to send Hope to a good boarding school. It is fascinating to read about the school’s New Years party:

…which, according to Kate Van der Berg, was the best fun of the year.

"But what do you do, what is the fun?" inquired Dolly Dering, who was present when Kate made the above statement.

"What do we do?" answered Kate. "Well, in the first place, on New Year's eve, we have a jolly little party of just ourselves,—we girls in the house, none of the outside girls, the day pupils,—and we play games, sing songs, tell stories, do anything, in fact, that we want to do, and at half-past ten there is a little light supper served, such as ices, and the most delicious frosted sponge-cakes, and seed-cakes, and then there is bread and butter, and hot cocoa for those that want it. After this we feel as fresh and rested as possible, and all ready to sit the old year out and the new year in."

"Oh, you don't do that?" cried Dolly, delightedly, for to sit up late was one of her ideas of happiness.

"We do just that"

"Well, and then?"

"Then," went on Kate, laughing, "we begin to grow a little quieter. We tell stories in lower voices; we watch the clock, and as it strikes twelve, we jump to our feet and all break out singing a New Year's song or hymn. Sometimes it is one thing and sometimes it is another. Last year it was Tennyson's

"Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky:

The year is dying; let him die."

I’m not so sure that fifteen year old girls of today would call that ”the best fun of the year”.

I meant to tell you of other books I’ve read, but I’m afraid I became a bit too verbose here — so I’ll be back another day to let you know what other edifying books I’ve read.

To garden or not to garden

2011-10-09T14:00:00.000+02:00

The formal garden, with its insistence

on strong bounding lines, is, strictly

speaking, the only "garden" possible.

..... .—R. F. Blomfield

We've had our first frost with -2°C, but I haven't been out yet, to see what might have survived. The pictures are from yesterday, when the we woke to a cold morning, but no real frost.

The axiom on which landscape gardening rests is declared by Messrs. Blomfield and Thomas to be

Whatever Nature does is right; therefore let us go and copy her (p. 5).

The horticulturist and the gardener are indispensable, but they should work under control, and they stand in the same relation to the designer as the artist's colourman does to the painter, or, perhaps it would be fairer to say, as the builder and his workmen stand to the architect.

The remarks quoted below on Nature and the clipping shears are not from Josh Billings, but from The Formal Garden, of which the literary merit, we are told in the preface, belongs to Mr. Blomfield.

A clipped Yew tree is as much a part of Nature—that is, subject to natural laws—as a forest Oak; but the landscapist, by appealing to associations which surround the personification of Nature, holds up the clipped Yew tree to obloquy as something against Nature. So far as that goes, it is no more unnatural to clip a Yew tree than to cut Grass.

"An unerring perception told the Greeks that the beautiful must also be the true, and recalled them back into the way. As in conduct they insisted on an energy which was rational, so in art and in literature they required of beauty that it, too, should be before all things rational."—Professor Butcher, in Some Aspects of the Greek Genius.

As always on Saturdays I spent a good part of yesterday with Gutenberg. Today, after seeing my photos, I can't resist to show you what a garden might look like — if you're bank account is more substantial than mine, and you have a gardener with a cadre of workers.

The book "Garden Design and Architects' Gardens" is from 1892 and written by W. Robinson m. Under the title it says:

"Two reviews, illustrated, to show, by actual examples from British gardens, that clipping and aligning trees to make them 'harmonise' with architecture is barbarous, needless, and inartistic."

Exactly what I think, even if I don't think the person who said so, had my kind of neglected garden, in mind.

Old Place, Lindfield. Picturesque garden of old English house, admitting of charming variety in its vegetation

Broadlands, Hants

Clipped trees at the Little Trianon

Saturday

2011-10-08T09:13:00.002+02:00

Feersday and Friday

2011-10-06T12:13:00.001+02:00

Tuesday and Wednesday

2011-10-04T21:13:00.002+02:00

Monanday

2011-10-03T09:13:00.001+02:00

Mainly pictures

2011-10-02T11:35:00.014+02:00

We have been one tenth of a degree from frost a couple of times — even if some trees have turned red, brown and yellow, it is still lush and quite green. Some flowers take the opporunity and bloom again — and again.

For some reason it's almost impossible to post — I think it is because I was stupid enough to upgrade my browser. At least that's when the problems started. Hopefully I can get it solved and show you some of my Gutenberg finds.

A challenge

2011-09-14T19:00:00.004+02:00

Anybody else than Kristi and I who got inspired by the pictures in "A Little Princess"?
Kristi says: The coverlet gave me ideas not for weaving but for quilting if I could find the right fabric.
If you find either the coverlet or the rug in this picture inspiring — any technique, any material — make a sketch and blog about it!
Leave a comment here and link to this post.

Saturday with Gutenberg

2011-09-10T18:35:00.003+02:00

I've no idea how many times I read "Lilla prinsessan" ("A Little Princess") by Frances Hodgson Burnett, as a child. I loved the book and I loved the cover illustration, how I envied Sara that pink dress. Being chubby and blond, I think I knew that I'd look like an puff pastry with pink icing, in a dress lika that — but one could always dream.

The edition of "A Little Princess", from 1937, that I found today, has illustrations by Ethel Franklin Betts. Lovely illustrations as they're not as sentimental as some I've seen before.

Look at this coverlet, you can weave a copy of it, just by looking at the picture!

I might reread the book, I wonder if I'll cry as much now, as I used to.

Report

2011-09-09T18:45:00.000+02:00

My camera is as dead as can be. It's beyond repair and I find it annoying (to say the least) that so many things today are not repairable — or that it is more expensive to get it repaired than to buy a new camera — or what happens to be broken.
So I dug ot my old camera and gave it artificial respiration and now I'm at least able to take pictures, even if they are not very good.

I've plenty of berries in the freezer now, as we got a bumper crop of berries this summer.

We managed to fit in our yearly picnic, by the river, one of the last warmish days in August. Just a few days before my friend had to return to London.

A rainy day

2011-08-15T20:21:00.002+02:00

Four ducks on a pond,
A grass-bank beyond,
A blue sky of spring,
White clouds on the wing;
What a little thing
To remember for years—
To remember with tears!
............................... William Allingham

I know that there are more than four ducks in this picture — but this poem came to my mind when I saw it.

"A West Country Pilgrimage" by Eden Phillpots, illustrated by A. T. Benthall, is the kind of book I can't resist. I'm not quite sure why — reading about places I'd like to see, is of course one reason, but it takes more than that to rouse my interest. Illustrations — I love all kind of illustrations. Bad ones, because they can be so wonderfully terrible. Old photos, because they tell you how it were, and makes you wonder what happened to people in the picture — and what it looks like today.
The illustrations in this book fire my imagination, makes me want to leave at once to see if I can find the places and if they look the same today as they did in 1920.

East of Exe River and south of those rolling heaths crowned by the encampment of Woodberry, there lies a green valley surrounded by forest and hill. Beyond it rise great bluffs that break in precipices upon the sea. They are dimmed to sky colour by a gentle wind from the east, for Eurus, however fierce his message, sweeps a fair garment about him. Out of the blue mists that hide distance the definition brightens and lesser hills range themselves, their knolls dark with pine, their bosoms rounded under forest of golden green oak and beech; while beneath them a mosaic of meadow and tilth spreads in pure sunshine. One field is brushed with crimson clover; another with dull red of sorrel through the green meadow grass; another shines daisy-clad and drops to the green of wheat. Some crofts glow with the good red earth of Devon, and no growing things sprout as yet upon them; but they hold seed of roots and their hidden wealth will soon answer the rain.

In the heart of the vale a brook twinkles and buttercups lie in pools of gold, where lambs are playing together.

Elms set bossy signets on the land and throng the hedgerows, their round tops full of sunshine; under them the hawthorns sparkle very white against the riot of the green. From the lifted spinneys and coverts, where bluebells fling their amethyst at the woodland edge, pheasants are croaking, and silver-bright against the blue aloft, wheel gulls, to link the lush valley with the invisible and not far distant sea. They cry and musically mew from their high place; and beneath them the cuckoo answers.

Don't you want to pack your knapsack and take off, to see it all for yourself, when you read things like this?

It's a perfect day to get lost among Gutenberg's books. It's raining, but it isn't cold (around 18°C, 64°F) so we're sitting on the tiny veranda — the darling sleeping on his cushion between us.

I think I was about eleven or twelve years old when I first read Angela Brazil's "The School by the Sea", in Swedish (Skolan vid havet). The book came out in 1914, which explains why the girls suspects one of the students to be a German spy. As a girl my mother bought most of her books second hand — books that I got as soon as I was old enough to read them. Sometimes I wonder how (if) this has affected me, growing up with the ideals of family girls around the turn of the century — and not the last turn of the century!
Anyway, I liked the book a lot — and because of the book I had to get out a map of England to find out where Cornwall was. I even found a lot of the places that are mentioned in the book. Of course I had to reread the book when I found it in English at Gutenberg.

And talking about schoolgirls, "Appropriate Clothes for the High School Girl" from 1917 is very interesting.

Something in the air?

2011-08-08T18:45:00.000+02:00

Two of my favorite blogs have closed, and Monix at Random Distraction is considering to close her blog. I hate to see good blogs and friends go — but I don't feel I can blame them for doing so, as I too am thinking of closing this blog.
I don't actually want to, but since I haven't been able to post much lately I've started to consider this possibility. Well, I haven't made up my mind yet, so while pondering which road to take, I'll try to put up a post or two, to give you the latest news from my hilltop.

There won't be any new photos, as my camera died some time ago, and I can't afford to buy a new. This is one of the last pictures I managed to coax out of it, by tying a string around the camera to hold it together. But my darling is as happy as can be, which is much more important than having a functioning camera. He sleeps most of the day — and heaven knows what he is doing while we sleep.

The days are getting shorter, and I can't help but feeling a bit sad when I see how the summer is preparing to change into a more autumnal costume.

Most of the berries are already in the freezer but there are still some raspberries and black currants to pick. I didn't even get a litre of goosberries, just enough to make one jar of marmalade when mixed with a grapefruit.

Saturday with Gutenberg

2011-07-03T21:10:00.003+02:00

I haven’t told you anything about my weekly rendezvous with Herr Gutenberg in many moons.

Sometimes because there haven’t been much to write about — and other Saturdays it has been too much. Can there ever be too many books? No, but sometimes it can be too much for my tired Winnie-the-Pooh-brain to fathom. Maybe, some day I’ll be able to use all my notes and half-finished posts that are stored in a file called “T-blog”.

What is that which has been to-morrow,

and will be yesterday?

To-day.

I’m not so sure that kids today would understand the riddles I found today — not all of them anyway. Partly because of the old-fashioned language, but also because some of the objects the riddles refer to, are not in use any longer, except for in museums. (I expect Jodi to be able to answer all the riddles, as most, if not all of them, are used in the museum where she works).

Two twins we are, and, let it not surprise,

Alike in every feature, shape, and size:

We're square, or round, of brass or iron made,

Sometimes of wood, yet useful found in trade;

But, to conclude, for all our daily pains,

We by the neck are often hung in chains.

A Pair of Scales

My habitation's in a wood,

And I'm at any one's command;

I often do more hurt than good,

If I once get the upper hand:

I never fear the champion's frown,

Stout things I oftentimes have done;

Brave soldiers I have oft laid down,

I never fear their sword and gun.

A Barrel of Beer.

My nose is long, my back is broad and round,

And in cold weather of great use I'm found;

No load I carry, yet I puff and blow,

As much as heavy loaded porters do.

A Pair of Bellows.

In “The Ladies' Vase or Polite Manual for Young Ladies” from 1849 by An American Lady, we can learn how to conduct properly.

You can learn everything from how to dress and write letters to sisterly virtues. And there is a chapter about the danger of novel-reading.

NOVEL-READING.

Novel-reading produces a morbid appetite for excitement. The object of the novelist, generally, is to produce the highest possible degree of excitement, both of the mind and the passions. The object is very similar to that of intoxicating liquors on the body: hence, the confirmed novel-reader becomes a kind of literary inebriate, to whom the things of entity have no attractions, and whose thirst cannot be slaked, even with the water of life. And as intoxication enfeebles the body, and engenders indolent habits, so this unnatural stimulus enfeebles the intellectual powers, induces mental indolence, and unfits the mind for vigorous efforts. Nothing less stimulating than its accustomed aliment can rouse such a mind to action, or call forth its energies; and then, being under the influence of mental intoxication, which dethrones reason and destroys the power of self-control, they are always misdirected.

It also promotes a sickly sensibility. Dr. Brigham, speaking of the too powerful excitement of the female mind, says: "In them the nervous system naturally predominates. They are endowed with quicker sensibility and far more active imagination than men. Their emotions are more intense, and their senses alive to more delicate impressions. They therefore require great attention, lest this exquisite sensibility—which, when properly and naturally developed, constitutes the greatest excellence of woman—should either become excessive by too strong excitement, or suppressed by misdirected education." Novel-reading produces just the kind of excitement calculated to develop this excessive and diseased sensibility; and the effect is, to fill the mind with imaginary fears, and produce excessive alarm and agitation at the prospect of danger, the sight of distress, or the presence of unpleasant objects; while no place is found for the exercise of genuine sympathy for real objects of compassion. That sensibility which weeps over imaginary woes of imaginary beings, calls forth but imaginary sympathy. It is too refined to be excited by the vulgar objects of compassion presented in real life, or too excitable to be of any avail in the relief of real distress. It may faint at the sight of blood, but it will shrink back from binding up the wound. If you wish to become weak-headed, nervous, and good for nothing, read novels. I have seen an account of a young lady, who had become so nervous and excitable, in consequence of reading novels, that her head would be turned by the least appearance of danger, real or imaginary. As she was riding in a carriage over a bridge, in company with her mother and sister, she became frightened at some fancied danger, caught hold of the reins, and backed the carriage off the bridge, down a precipice, dashing them to pieces.

This excessive sensibility renders its possessor exquisitely alive to all those influences which are unfriendly to human happiness, while it diminishes the power of endurance. Extreme sensibility, especially in a female, is a great misfortune, rendering the ills of life insupportable. Great care should therefore be taken that, while genuine sensibility is cherished, its extremes should be avoided, and the mind fortified by strengthening the higher powers.

Novel-reading strengthens the passions, weakens the virtues, and diminishes the power of self-control. Multitudes may date their ruin from the commencement of this kind of reading; and many more, who have been rescued from the snare, will regret, to the end of their days, its influence in the early formation of their character.

It is, too, a great waste of time. Few will pretend that they read novels with any higher end in view than mere amusement; while, by the strong excitement they produce, they impose a heavier tax on both mind and body than any other species of mental effort. If any thing valuable is to be derived from them, it can be obtained with far less expense of time, and with safety to the morals, from other sources. No Christian, who feels the obligation of "redeeming the time, because the days are evil," will fail to feel the force of this remark. We have no more right to squander our time and waste our energies in frivolous pursuits, than we have to waste our money in extravagant expenditures. We are as much the stewards of God in respect to the one as the other.

2011-07-01T09:13:00.002+02:00

Remember that life is not a competition, it is a journey.

2011-06-30T09:33:00.004+02:00

Happiness is like manna; it is to be gathered in grains, and enjoyed every day. It will not keep; it cannot be accumulated; nor have we got to go out of ourselves or into remote places to gather it, since it has rained down from a Heaven, at our very door.

Tyron Edwards

2011-06-29T09:13:00.001+02:00

There is more to life than increasing its speed.

Gandhi

2011-06-28T09:13:00.002+02:00

The time to relax is when you don't have time for it.

Sidney Harris

2011-06-27T09:13:00.003+02:00

What is important is to keep learning, to enjoy

challenge, and to tolerate ambiguity. In the end

there are no certain answers.

Martina Horner

2011-06-26T09:13:00.002+02:00

All of us tend to put off living. We are all dreaming of some magical rose garden over the horizon — instead of enjoying the roses that are blooming outside our windows today.

Dale Carnegie

2011-06-25T09:13:00.003+02:00

Worry a little bit every day and in a lifetime you

will lose a couple of years. If something is wrong,

fix it if you can. But train yourself not to worry.

Worry never fixes anything.

Mary Hemingway

2011-06-24T09:13:00.001+02:00

Letting go doesn’t mean giving up, but rather

accepting that there are things that cannot be.

Anonymous

2011-06-23T09:13:00.000+02:00

In the hopes of reaching the moon men fail

to see the flowers that blossom at their feet.

Albert Schweitzer

2011-06-22T09:13:00.003+02:00

Never regret. If it's good, it's

wonderful. If it's bad, it's experience.

Victoria Holt

2011-06-21T09:13:00.002+02:00

To me, every hour of the day and night

is an unspeakably perfect miracle.

—Walt Whitman

2011-06-20T09:13:00.002+02:00

It is not the man who has too little, but

the man who craves more, that is poor.

Seneca (5 BC - 65 AD)

2011-06-19T09:13:00.003+02:00

Live each season as it passes; breathe the air, drink the drink, taste the fruit, and resign yourself to the influences of each.

Henry David Thoreau

2011-06-17T09:13:00.000+02:00

The pleasantest things in the world are pleasant thoughts: and the great art of life is to have as many of them as possible.

Montaigne

2011-06-16T09:13:00.003+02:00

Silence make the real conversations between

friends. Not the saying, but the never needing

to say, is what counts.

Margaret Lee Runbeck

2011-06-15T09:13:00.002+02:00

You're only here for a short visit. Don't hurry. Don't

worry. And be sure to smell the flowers along the way.

Walter C. Hagen

2011-06-14T09:13:00.004+02:00

But when the melancholy fit shall fall

Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,

That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,

And hides the green hill in April shroud;

Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,

Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,

Or on the wealth of globèd peonies.

John Keats

2011-06-13T09:13:00.002+02:00

Cats are intended to teach us that not

everything in nature has a function.

Unknown

2011-06-12T09:13:00.000+02:00

"The remarkable thing is that we really love our neighbour as ourselves: we do unto others as we do unto ourselves. We hate others when we hate ourselves. We are tolerant toward others when we tolerate ourselves. We forgive others when we forgive ourselves. We are prone to sacrifice others when we are ready to sacrifice ourselves."

Eric Hoffer

2011-06-11T09:13:00.000+02:00

"But what is happiness except the simple harmony between a man and the life he leads?"

Albert Camus

2011-06-10T09:13:00.000+02:00

"Chronic remorse, as all the moralists are agreed, is a most undesirable sentiment. If you have behaved badly, repent, make what amends you can and address yourself to the task of behaving better next time. On no account brood over your wrongdoing. Rolling in the muck is not the best way of getting clean."

Aldous Leonard Huxley

2011-06-09T09:13:00.000+02:00

"It is amazing what you can accomplish if

you do not care who gets the credit."

Harry S. Truman

2011-06-08T09:13:00.009+02:00

There is an eagle in me that wants to soar,

and there is a hippopotamus in me

that wants to wallow in the mud.

Carl Sandburg

2011-06-07T09:13:00.004+02:00

"Beware of undertaking too much at the start.

Be content with quite a little. Allow for accidents.

Allow for human nature, especially your own."

Arnold Bennett

2011-06-06T09:13:00.003+02:00

"Discovery consists of looking at the same thing as

everyone else does and thinking something different."

Albert Szent-Gyorgyi

2011-06-05T09:37:00.001+02:00

"Life is not easy for any of us. But what of that?

We must have perseverance and above all

confidence in ourselves. We must believe that we

are gifted for something, and that this thing,

at whatever cost, must be attained."

Madam Marie Curie

Slate-colored skies

2011-04-06T15:51:00.002+02:00

After I’d finished “Jane Lends A Hand” I decided to read “Nancy of Paradise Cottage “ the only other book by the same author, available at Gutenberg. Both books were written in the early 1920s, and I really enjoyed the slightly old-fashioned language as well as learning more about the daily life ninety years ago. The dialogs are humorous, but there is a serious undertone as the leading character is determent to support herself.

"Charlotte wanted to study music, "not like a boarding-school miss," she told Nancy. "I want to make it the real thing. I tell you I don't know anything about it—but I'm going to, yet." Old Mr. Spencer, while he had no objections to one of the arts as a ladylike accomplishment, felt that it was not exactly respectable for a girl to go into it seriously, just why, he would have been at a loss to say. "You know," Charlotte had explained, with her humorous smile, "there is a notion that it's all right for a 'lady' to dabble in anything, painting, music, or embroidery and so on, so long as she doesn't attempt to make a profession of it, or think of making money by it."

Walking to the mailbox yesterday, when the sun evidently wasn’t on duty, I was wondering if young people of today have seen a slate. Maybe a slate roof, guess that depends on where you live.

Yesterday’s sky was closer to pewter-gray than slate-gray — it drizzled all day, which softened the drive way to the extent that I’d put down the old sofa in the middle of it, to let people know that if they want to see us, they have to walk up. If I have to go somewhere, I have to do it early in the mornings, while the road still is cold and not yet so soft that I get stuck in the middle of it.

I’m still waiting for the beautiful spring to arrive — so far it’s only brown and muddy, with a few, very few flowers.

Old books and new books

2011-03-20T15:49:00.002+01:00

I’ve just ordered some books, books have always been more expensive here than in many other countries — but today when I can sit at home and order books from my computer, they have become quite affordable. Too affordable, as I have a tendency to buy many books, as they are so cheap. It’s like eating or drinking the double amount of something with “light” on the label!!

Project Gutenberg and on-line bookstores — what a perfect combination!

My last Gutenberg find is “Jane Lends A Hand” by Shirley Watkins, a book for children from 1923. So far I’ve only read two chapters, but I find it amusing — and will continue. It’s the kind of book I like when I have misplaced my brain but need a good read.

Two of the books I hope will arrive soon are “Brightsided” by Barbara Ehrenreich and Jacqueline Winspear’s last book about Maisie Dobbs, “A Lesson in Secrets”, which is to be released this week.

We still have plenty of snow, even if we’ve had some beautiful and sunny days with temperatures above +-0°C, the nights are still very cold.

Water, water everywhere

2011-03-03T12:09:00.004+01:00

Danae Receiving the Shower of Gold, c.1735

Charles Joseph Natoire

but not an ounce gold anywhere.

It might be as well — it’s probably not very pleasant to to stand under a cascade of gold. And I’m sure it’s hard, not to say impossible to wash the hair in gold.

That said, I wouldn’t mind some gold — a gold bar or two, as I’m not interested in jewellery.

And I tell you, after not having been able to flush the toilets, or shower for a month, it’s wonderful to have the water back! The cost will not be quite as wonderful, I’m sure, but I haven’t got the bill yet. That gold would come in handy here.

All I need now is a computer which does what I want it to do! The friendly guy who helped me last time my computer was unwell, has evaporated. He promised to help, but is nowhere to be found now.

We still have plenty of snow — but the birds, the sun and most of all, the light tell you that Spring is waiting around the corner.

Escapism

2011-02-19T15:35:00.003+01:00

or how to survive without a shower and washing machine

We have water in the kitchen and in one bathroom — but unfortunately no water in the shower or in the laundry room. And we will most probably have to live with it until June, when it is possible to dig in the ground again.

I haven’t had the energy (or the will) to clean the kitchen yet —

all those men going in and out with dirty and wet shoes, left me with a floor that is dirtier than dirty. And to top it off there is a good sprinkle of sawdust everywhere.

Instead of indulging in domestic chores I’ve fled to Gutenberg, and made a new acquaintance, Dallas Lore Sharp. I understand that he was a well-known and popular author at his time, but I’d never heard of him before. Gutenberg has only two of his books, I began with “The Hills of Hingham”, and was hooked.

It makes me think of another favorite author E. B. White, and his essays.

Oh, I know that I have to tackle the kitchen — but I don’t have to think about it until I’m there!

In search of water

2011-02-16T11:50:00.001+01:00

Not much has changed since I wrote last time. The computer and I, still have different ideas abut most every thing.

And were still without water. It turned out not only to be a broken pump — there is a leak under the kitchen floor. So yesterday we had two carpenters here who were making a hole in the floor under the sink, trying to figure out how to find the leak and how to mend it. One of them just came back and is making a terrible noise with a large machine. We fled the kitchen, the noise and dust.

What will happen next, remains to be seen.

Almost back on track

2011-02-06T18:47:00.007+01:00

A Young Water Carrier

Guido Bach

This is how I spend my days, even if I’m neither young nor so picturesque as this young lady.

Life has a tendency to send all those small nettlesome events your way, at the same time. So while I was struggling to get rid of a virus in my computer the electric pump in our well broke down. That happened Tuesday afternoon, just when I craved my afternoon tea. I’m glad we have plenty of snow right outside the door — it is easier to bring in snow for flushing the toilets and washing the dishes, than carrying buckets with tap water from my studio — that water I save for drinking and cooking.

Although I’ve managed to get rid of the virus, it did mess up some of the computers functions. I’m waiting for a friend to help me with that, until that is fixed I won’t use the computer a lot. It’s simply no fun to try to outwit a stubborn computer.

The good news is that my mother is doing fine, she’ll need some minor surgery, that’s all.

Lessons in patience

2011-01-25T20:13:00.001+01:00

Roland stood with knitted brows considering.

'Who makes the winter?' he asked. 'Does the devil? Because God only makes beautiful things, doesn't He?'

Old Bob raised his hat, and looked up into the grey autumnal sky with a smile.

'Nay, little master, the devil wouldn't have wished to give us such a lesson as winter teaches us. 'Tis God Almighty in His love that gives us winter, to try our faith and patience, and teach us hope's lessons. If we had no winter, we should have no Easter, and 'tis well worth the waitin' for!'

................ ... From Bulbs and Blossoms

................................................. by Amy Le Feuvre

Yes, patience is necessary this time of the year — but the days are getting longer, which makes the winter bearable. Today the sun was up between 8:34 and 16:01.
I don't know when I'll be back here, my mother has some health issues that need to be taken care of. hopefully it won't take too long.

THE OLD ROSEWOOD ARMCHAIR

2011-01-19T09:13:00.004+01:00

HUNDRED YEARS AGO.
True Tales of the Year 1806.
II.—THE OLD ROSEWOOD ARMCHAIR.

On a cold winter's afternoon, in the year 1806, the little crowd that had been attending a sale of furniture at the chief auctioneer's in Wolverhampton was slowly melting away, for the few lots still left to be sold mostly consisted of worn-out saucepans, broken towel-rails, and some shabby chairs, and such-like worthless articles.

Very poor people, however, cannot be too fastidious, and a few buyers still remained who were glad to bid for such things, and amongst these people was a respectable-looking widow, in threadbare mourning, with a boy of about thirteen years old by her side.

'Lot 213!' said the auctioneer, with a yawn; for the excitement of the sale was over, and he did not waste professional jokes except on well-to-do hearers. 'Rosewood armchair, upholstered in best wool damask! Now, then, what offers?'

His assistant meanwhile had hoisted on to the table the very shabbiest chair that had ever occupied so prominent a position! No doubt it might once have been a good piece of furniture, but now the rosewood was so encrusted with dirt that it required much scrutiny to say what the wood really was; and, as for the 'best wool damask,' that must have existed only in the auctioneer's imagination, for the chair looked as if it were upholstered in a ragged, colourless canvas, with the stuffing sticking through in numberless places.

Some of the little audience laughed and jeered as the chair was placed before them, and one man said, derisively, that 'it wasn't worth breaking up for firewood.'

The little widow's eyes, however, brightened, and she whispered to the boy, 'That's the chair I told you of. I saw it yesterday. I could clean it up, and make it comfortable for your grandfather. I can't bear to see him sitting on that hard chair of his, with his rheumatism and all. But I'm afraid it will go for more than I have.' And she clutched the leather bag, with its solitary half-crown, more firmly in her hand.

'It's a big chair,' said the boy; 'but it's all to pieces, mother.'

'I could settle it, if only I get it,' said the widow, anxiously, still looking at the chair.

'Now! What offers?' repeated the auctioneer, looking impatiently round. 'Come, make a bid! A good rosewood chair, upholstered in damask.'

There was silence. No one seemed to want such a wretched piece of furniture, except the widow, who longed for it so earnestly that the power of speech seemed to go from her.

'George,' she gasped, as she pulled her boy's sleeve, 'say you'll give a shilling. I can't make him hear me.'

'A shilling!' shouted out the boy, and the auctioneer turned in his direction at once.

'A shilling for a rosewood chair, upholstered in best damask!' he said, in a voice of scorn. 'And this in the respectable city of Wolverhampton!'

The spectators laughed, but no one bid any further sum, so the auctioneer, who wanted to get home to his supper, banged his hammer on the table, and to her surprise and delight the widow found that the chair was hers.

With her boy's help she got the chair home, and cheered her invalid father by telling him 'his old bones should ache no longer. She would have him in an easy-chair by the following day.'

She was up at daybreak, and immediately after their frugal breakfast she dragged the chair into the yard, and began ripping up the fusty old lining.

'Let me do that, mother. I can rip finely,' said George, taking the knife out of her hand, for there is a certain joy in tearing and cutting that appeals to a boy.

'Very well,' said his mother, 'then I will get a pail of warm water, and we will scrub the rosewood, and get all this black dirt off it; and when that's done I'll begin the upholstering. I'm going to cover[Pg 55] it with my old red cloak. It will be fine and soft for your grandfather, and I don't wear colours now, so that I can spare the cloak. But, first of all, I will put Grandfather in the window-seat, so that he can see all we are doing. It will amuse him; his life is dull enough, poor dear old man.'

She went indoors, and George continued the ripping, enjoying the clouds of dust he raised in the process.

The little woman had just settled her father comfortably on the wooden settle, where he could look out of the window and see all that went on in the yard, when they were startled by a cry from George.

'Mother! Mother! Oh, come!'

'He has cut himself!' said the poor woman, turning deadly pale, as she flew out into the yard.

But George was unhurt, though he looked dazed and half stupefied.

'Look here, Mother,' he said, pointing down to the ground, 'this chair was full of gold pieces. No wonder it was so heavy to drag home!'

'Gold pieces! Oh, no!' she said, shaking her head. 'You must have made a mistake, my boy.'

'Look at them!' said George, stooping down and picking up a handful of guineas from the mass of dust and dirt and horsehair that was strewn on the floor of the yard. 'They're guineas right enough; they came pouring out like water when I got to the middle of the chair.'

'They look like guineas,' said the poor woman, trembling with anxiety. 'Oh, George, if they should be, and if they are rightfully ours, then Father could get to Bath and be cured, and you could be apprenticed to a cabinet-maker, like your poor father before you.'

'They are guineas,' said George, stoutly. 'Let's show them to Grandfather—he will know; and if they are—and I know they are'—he repeated, 'some of the money must be spent on you, Mother; I won't have it all go to apprentice me. If that ever comes off, you must have a new gown and cloak to sign my articles in,' and George got up from the dirty ground and gave his mother a hearty hug.

Grandfather gave his verdict: the guineas were real, and had the effigy of George I. stamped on them, and there were just a hundred of them, all told.

Of course, the news of the widow's lucky find was soon known, and the auctioneer claimed the money, but the clergyman of the parish supported the widow's claim, and though the auctioneer went to law about it, he lost his case and had to pay the costs.

Later on in the year a happy family party went to a solicitor's office to sign George's indentures.

Grandfather was there, erect and well, for the Bath waters had done wonders for him. His widowed daughter hung on his arm in a fine new dress and cloak, and George, looking very important at the thought of being apprenticed to the first cabinet-maker in Wolverhampton, had everything on new from top to toe, and all this was the outcome of the purchase (for a shilling) of 'the old rosewood armchair.'

S. C.

Another story from Chatterbox, 1906.

THE DISAPPOINTED HEN

2011-01-18T09:13:00.006+01:00

H' what a terrible mistake!'
Cried Mrs. Brahma Hen;
'I'd set my heart on yellow chicks,
And these are black again!'
.
She ran at once to Dr. Goose,
'What can I do?' cried she.
'My charge for giving good advice
Is fifteen worms,' quoth he.
.
It was such hot work catching them,
It nearly made her faint:
And fifteen worms'-worth of advice
Was 'Buy some yellow paint!'
............... ......... A. Katherine Parkes

You should see our drive way today! It's a wonder that I made it to the mailbox and back to the house again. I let the dust balls grow, fed us leftovers and spend most of the days in Gutenberg's company. I found the poem about the disappointed hen, in "Chatterbox, 1906" and the pictures in "Ozma of Oz" by L. Frank Baum with illustrations by John R. Neill.

Wintering

2011-01-14T11:33:00.001+01:00

The winter is ruling our lives also this winter. The temperature goes from very cold to mild in a few hours, which means that our drive way is more suited for coasting than driving.
Perfect weather for indulging in books — and since the computer is full of books, thanks to Project Guten-berg, I have no problems to pass time.

"COMPANY MANNERS"

.
When Bess gave her Dollies a Tea, said she,—
"It's unpolite, when they's Company,
To say you've drinked two cups, you see,—
But say you've drinked a couple of tea."
.

From "The Book of Joyous Children" by James Whitcomb Riley with illustrations by J. W. Vawter

My darling is not a great reader, but he enjoys to be read to, so while he makes himself comfortable in the window I read to him from books like "Life and Adventures of Poor Puss" by Lucy Gray.

Tea with Gutenberg

2011-01-08T13:30:00.004+01:00

Five O'clock Tea, 1883
Julius Leblanc Stewart

THE FIVE O’CLOCK TEA
A cup of tea at this time of the afternoon is usually gratefully accepted, and one is disappointed if it is made so badly that it is not drinkable. The young lady who presides at the tea table at an afternoon reception has sometimes a difficult task if the tea is not prepar-ed with a bag (as directed on page 550), but for the unceremonious social cup of tea with the friend who drops in at this hour it is easy to have it just right. After the proper preparation of the tea (as directed on page 549), the attractiveness of the table and the delicacy of the china are the next things to be desired. Tea does not taste as well taken from a coarse, large, or heavy cup. The taste and refinement of the hostess are easily recognized in this very unceremonious, but very social, function. The cloth may be as elaborate as one wishes, but it must above all be spotless, un-wrinkled and dainty. The cups may all differ from one another, but each one should be small and thin, and the steaming kettle, which lends cheerfulness to the occasion, should be highly polished, whether it be silver, brass, or copper. A dry biscuit or a thin piece of bread and butter is usually offered with the tea. Fresh unsalted butter is preferable, but any of the fine butters may be used. The butter is spread very evenly on the loaf; the bread sliced very thin and doubled like a sandwich. It may be cut into any shape desired, such as strips, diamonds, or triangles. It is attractive stamped into circles with a biscuit-cutter of about the size of a silver dollar. Three kinds of bread may be used—white, graham, and Boston brown bread, and all may be served on the same plate. This simple dish is carried into the esthetics in some English houses, where the bread and butter is described as tasting of roses, violets, clover, or nasturtiums. The flavor is obtained by shutting the fresh butter in a tight jar with the blossoms for several hours. Butter very readily absorbs flavors and odors, indeed it is the medium used for extracting perfumes in the manu-facture of those articles. The flavored butter is spread in the ordinary way on the bread, which has been treated also to a bath of flowers. Butter sandwiches must be exceedingly thin and shapely, and have no suggestion of mussiness. They should be laid in a folded napkin to keep them fresh. Any sweet wafers may also be used, but as this is not a meal, nothing should be offered which will take away the appetite for dinner, which follows shortly afterward.

ALMOND WAFERS
Take one tablespoonful each of flour and powdered sugar and one half saltspoonful of salt. Sift them well together. Beat the white of one egg just enough to break it, and add as much of it to the flour and sugar as it will take to make a creamy batter; flavor with a few drops of almond essence. Grease the pans lightly and flour them as directed on page 464. Drop a half teaspoonful of the paste on the pan, and with a wet finger spread it into a thin round wafer. Bake it in a very moderate oven until the edges are slightly browned, then, before removing from the oven door, lift each wafer, and turn it around a stick. They stiffen very quickly, and the rolling must be done while they are hot.

TEA
The water. You cannot have first-rate tea or coffee unless you use freshly-boiled water. Water that has been boiled for an hour or more lacks life, and gives a dull taste to the decoction. Draw freshly filtered water and let it come to a hard boil before using.

Scald the pot and immediately put into it the tea-leaves.

When the water boils hard, pour upon the tea-leaves the required quantity of water. Shut down the cover of the tea-pot and let it stand just five minutes before serving.

Proportions. To give the proportions of tea and water is impossible, as such different degrees of strength are demanded. One teaspoonful of tea to a pint of water, steeped five minutes, makes a weak tea. Two teaspoonfuls give the color of mahogany, if an English breakfast tea is used. Oolong tea does not color the water very much, so its strength cannot be as well judged in that way.

Steeping. Tea, to be perfect, should not steep longer than five minutes; it may continue to grow stronger after that time, but the flavor is not as good, and if the leaves remain too long in the water the tea becomes bitter.

The Russians, who are reputed to have the best tea, prepare it at first very strong, getting almost an essence of tea; this they dilute to the strength desired, using water which is kept boiling in the samovar. Water removed from the kettle and kept in a pot where it falls below the boiling-point, will not give satisfactory results in diluting a strong infusion.

The tea-bag. Where a quantity of tea is to be used, as at receptions, it is well to put the tea into a swiss muslin bag, using enough to make a very strong infusion. Place the bag in the scalded pot; add the boiling water; after five minutes remove the bag. Keep a kettle of water boiling over an alcohol flame, and use it to dilute the tea as needed. The tea will then be as good as though freshly made. If, however, the leaves are allowed to remain in the pot the tea will not be fit to use after a short time, and no matter how much it may be diluted, it will still have an astringent taste.

The tea-ball. Silver balls are convenient to use where one or two cups at a time only are to be made for the friend who drops in for the afternoon cup of tea. The ball holding the tea is placed in the cup, water from the boiling kettle poured over it, and the ball removed when the water has attained the right color.

Russian tea. Various preparations of tea are made by adding flavorings.
Tea punch. The so-called Russian tea is made by adding sugar and a thin slice of lemon to each cup; tea punch by soaking the sugar first in rum or brandy. These, however, as well as milk, destroy the flavor of tea and change the character of the drink.

Iced tea. Iced tea is a very refreshing drink in summer. It is served in glasses, with plenty of cracked ice, and should not be made very strong, or it will become clouded when the ice is added. Iced tea is improved by adding lemon. One tablespoonful of lemon-juice to a glass of tea is a good proportion.

One of today's finds is "The Century Cook Book" from 1901 by Mary Ronald. A book that goes into detail about most everything that has to do with cooking and serving the meals.

WHAT YOU DO, DO WELL.

2011-01-06T09:13:00.006+01:00

"Why do you take such pains in cutting out these little figures?" asked Winifred of her brother Ernest.

"I will tell you why, sister," replied Ernest. "I take pains because my teacher tells me, that, if a thing is worth doing at all, it is worth doing well."

"Did he mean that we should try to do well even in trifles?" asked Winifred.

"Yes," answered Ernest, "because, as a great man once said, 'Perfection is no trifle.'"

Winifred sat looking at her brother, as, handling a pair of scissors, he carefully cut out figures of horses, dogs, pigs, and various other animals.

Three years afterward she remembered this conversation; for it happened at that time, that, her father having died, her widowed mother was left almost destitute with a family of seven children to support.

What should the poor woman do? At first she thought she would take in washing, then that she would try to keep a little shop. While she was hesitating, Mr. Mason, a brisk old gentleman, came to the door, and asked, "Where is the boy who cuts these figures and faces in profile?"

One of his grandchildren had brought him home from school some specimens of Ernest's skill; and Mr. Mason saw at once that they were the work of a gifted and painstaking artist.

"You must mean my little Ernest," said the mother. "Poor little fellow! He little dreams what is coming. I shall soon have to take him away from school."

"Why so?" cried Mr. Mason. "Take him away from school? You shall do no such a thing. I'll not allow it."

"We are destitute, sir, and I have no means of support," said the mother with a sigh.

"No means of support! Nonsense! With a boy in the house who can cut figures like that, do you say you have no means of support?" exclaimed Mr. Mason. "Good woman, I will insure your boy good wages every week for the next year, if you will let him come between school-hours, and cut pictures under my direction."

The rest of my little story may soon be told. Ernest became the staff and stay of his family. The little talent he had cultivated so carefully and diligently was the means of giving him not only an honest employment, but a liberal support. He rose to distinction; and his productions were much sought after by all good judges of art.

............................................ Emily Carter.

Winter magic?

2011-01-05T10:02:00.009+01:00

How to Make Mary and Her Lamb
.
Cut out the two double figures. Fold on the dotted lines marked A A A A so that the upper part of each of the four figures projects forward as shown in the small picture X. Fold on the lines marked B B where the figures join each other so that the colored surfaces face outward, and then, beginning at the feet, paste the front view of Mary to the back view of the lamb as far as the dotted lines A A. In the same way paste the front view of the lamb to the back view of Mary—as far up as the lines A A. Now paste together the front and back of the upper part of Mary. Then paste together the front and back of the upper part of the lamb. Cut off the letters A A A A B B.

Now if the lamb is held by the feet and turned inside out, Mary will appear, and vice versa. MAKE ALL THE OTHER CHANGELINGS IN PRECISELY THE SAME WAY.

The Changelings will stand alone. If they do not stand firmly after you have turned them, pinch them slightly along the dotted lines that were marked A A A A.

Look carefully at the finished Changeling in the front of the book. It will help you to make all the Magic Changelings

One of my recent Gutenber's find is "The Twelve Magic Changelings" from 1907, by M.A. Glen. I really like the pictures, but have to admit that I'm not sure where to look for the magic part. Spoiled modern child?

I did print a few of the pictures — they are very small, so I suggest that you enlarge them if you want to look for the magic.

I'm sure some people would call our winter landscape magic — even if I'm not among them. It's been snowing a lot the last 24 hours, and if the sun comes out now, I might consider calling it magic as long as the temperature doesn't drop.

Woolly thinking

2011-01-03T20:36:00.000+01:00

Interior, 31 Mornington Crescent

Spencer Frederick Gore

We don't have as much snow this winter as last winter, but the cold has us in a stranglehold again — just as the previous winter. It's only -15°C (5°F) today, but it has been between -20°C (-4°F) and -30°C (-21°F) for quite a while. Since you can't change the weather we bundle up in winter woolies and all the blankets and shawls we have, and stay close to the fire. Sitting there like stuffed cabbage rolls all you can do is talk, listen to the radio or your CD's — and of course read. And drink tea, if you can disentangle an arm to reach the cup. For some reason, hot drinks doesn't taste good when you use a straw.
As for books, I've mainly kept light goods at hand, as my brain dislike the cold and lay dormant in winter.
I've reread a couple of Betty MacDonald's books, as well as some of Agatha Christie's. I know for sure that I've read more than that, but the titles are stuck somewhere in my dormant convolutions.
I just started reading a Gutenberg find: "Dorothy Payne, Quakeress, A Side-Light upon the Career of 'Dolly' Madison" by Ella Kent Barnard printed in 1909.

Dorothy Payne Todd

CHENILLE WORK

2011-01-02T09:13:00.003+01:00

CHENILLE WORK

No. 1.—The pattern, full size

No. 1.—A new style of Head-Dress. Worked in the second size crimson chenille, with No. 4 gold thread.

Take a card-board of three inches deep and fifteen inches long, and fasten to the edge of it eleven strands of chenille and gold thread placed together; leave a space of one inch between each strand; the length of the gold and chenille thread must be twenty-four inches. Take the first two threads from the left-hand side, pass the two next under them; tie them in a knot, the two outer over the two centre threads (chenille or gold thread, as may be), and then pass them through the loop formed on the left, and so on till the last row. The shape is an uneven triangle, nine inches from the top corner to the centre, and seven inches from the middle of the front to the centre. When finished, cut off the board, and sew round two sides of the work a fringe of gold thread, which is to fall over the neck.

No. 2.—A portion, full size, with fringe

No. 2.—Another style of Head-Dress. With white and pink second size chenille.

This is made nearly in the same manner as No. 1, with chenille, one yard long; but, after having made the first knot, pass a pearl bead on each side, and then make the second knot—the measurement of the meshes to be three-quarters of an inch. When the work is finished, the whole will be twelve inches square. Pass round it an India-rubber cord, which will form the fastening. The ends left from the work to be separately knotted together with silver thread, to hang down, forming a very large and rich tassel.

No. 3.—A portion of the pattern, full size

No. 3.—Head-Dress of blue and silver. In chain crochet, silver cord No. 5, with second size of crochet chenille, light blue.

Eight chain stitches, the last of which is plain crochet, and so on continued. In the two middle stitches of the chenille take up the silver, and in the middle stitches of the silver take up the chenille, each going in a slanting way, once over and once under each other, as the drawing (No. 3) will show. The chenille is worked one way, and the silver goes the other way, contrary to regular crochet work. The whole is worked square, eighteen inches in square; and, when finished, every loop is taken up with fine India-rubber cord, to form the shape. Put round it a silver fringe one inch and a half deep.

Winter Fashions

2011-01-01T09:13:00.007+01:00

Figure 1.—Promenade And Morning Costume

Heavy, rich textures of silk have taken the place of the lighter stuffs used at the beginning of December. Brocards, satin princesse, antique moires, Irish poplins, and heavy chiné silks, such as were worn by the belles who saw Washington inaugurated, are now in vogue. The latter material is called by the French camayeux. It is made of all colors, such as light violet upon dark violet; or, what is more beautiful, large white roses, hardly visible, and partly concealed by light green leaves upon a ground of dark green, forming an ensemble at once coquettish, brilliant, and extremely elegant. Plain poplins are much worn; also royal Pekin or black damask, trimmed with two broad flounces of Cambray lace. Instead of a corsage, a petite corsage of the same material is worn, wide open in front, and closed at the waist with two double buttons, or a large bow of ribbon.

Figure 2 represents this style of corsage. The edge is trimmed with lace or fullings of ribbon, the sleeves three-quarters long and in pagoda form. The same figure represents a very pretty style of head-dress. The cap is composed of plain tulle of the lightest description; upon one side of the head, partially covering the ear, is a bunch of roses, or other flowers, pendant.
.

Fig. 2.—Head-dress And Corsage
.

Figure 1 represents a promenade and a morning costume. The Promenade Costume is a high silk dress; the waist and point long; the sleeves three-quarter length and wide at the bottom; the skirt long and exceedingly full; five volants are set on full, each being trimmed at a little distance from the edge by a narrow guimpe. Manteau of light brown cashmere, trimmed with velvet of the same color; closed up in front by four large brandebourgs. Bonnet of a very open form, trimmed entirely with plaid ribbon.

Fig. 3.—Bonnet.
.

The Morning Costume is a jupe of blue silk, very long and full, trimmed down the front with rows of velvet and small silk tassels, the form of an acorn. A cain de feu, a sort of jacket, of blue satin, of a darker shade than the jupe, the small skirt of which is of the Hungarian form. It is trimmed round with velvet and has tassels up the front to correspond with the skirt; the sleeves come but little below the elbow, wide at the bottom, and cut like the skirt. These are likewise trimmed with velvet. Cap of black lace, trimmed with a broad white ribbon, edged with pink.

Figure 3 shows a new style of plain velvet bonnet, of rich green. It is made very deep; trimmed with velvet. Satins are made in the same form, of a dark color, the interior of the fronts lined with white, rose, or any other fresh color. These are ornamented with branches of flowers of velvet, or nœuds of plaid ribbon, half velvet and half satin, the colors harmonizing with the bonnet.

There are small bonnets of white or pink plush, having for their sole ornament a single bow of satin ribbon, or a ribbon velonté at the sides. This style is very elegant, and particularly adapted for very young ladies, especially when trimmed with a deep fall of rich lace. Those made of pink satin, and trimmed with blonde, forming a bunch upon the side of the exterior, the interior being filled entirely with rows of narrow blonde, are exceedingly graceful.

A new style of fringe for ball dresses has lately been introduced. It is extremely light, and composed of a mixture of white and gold, which forms a splendid trimming when placed upon a triple skirt of white tulle. It is also made of pink and silver, which has a beautiful effect upon a dress of pink crape; splendid bouquets of beautiful flowers being arranged so as to loop up the skirts on either side.

A new and greatly admired style for Evening Dresses, called d'Adrienne, has lately been brought out in Paris. It is made of the richest materials. The corsage is extremely low, and forms a very deep point, its ornaments being placed en cœur upon the centre of the front. The skirt is open, and is ornamented upon the two sides with streamers of ribbon and nœuds of pearls. The under-skirt of satin is enriched with an echelle of lace or a triple falbalas, the two extremities of which are disposed so as to join the nœuds upon the upper dress.

An elegant addition to a lady's toilet has been recently brought out, which recalls the mantillas worn by the Maltese ladies. It consists of a kind of pelisse, fulled into the narrow band around the throat, which is concealed by a small collar, having for ornament a volant or frill of Chantilly lace. The lower part of the pelisse, as well as the sleeves, is encircled with four rows of Chantilly lace, surmounted with rows of narrow velvet or watered ribbons, forming a pretty heading. This little garment is extremely elegant for places of amusement, made in pink, blue, or white satin, and trimmed with Brussels or English point lace.

Fringes and Cambray lace will be much used this season in the decoration of dresses. Feathers will be much worn, some in touffes, and others si5mply the long single feather, passing over the entire front of the bonnet.

NEW-YEAR CARD

2010-12-31T23:59:00.004+01:00

(Drawn by Miss L. Greenaway.)

I send my serving-maiden
With New-Year letter laden.

A COASTING SONG

2010-12-31T09:13:00.005+01:00

COASTING NEW-YEAR'S EVE.
Drawn by C. Graham.

.
From the quaint old farm-house, nestling warmly
'Neath its overhanging thatch of snow,
Out into the moonlight troop the children,
Filling all the air with music as they go,
Gliding, sliding,
Down the hill,
Never minding
Cold nor chill,
O'er the silvered
Moon-lit snow,
Swift as arrow
From the bow,
With a rush
Of mad delight
Through the crisp air
Of the night,
Speeding far out
O'er the plain,
Trudging gayly
Up again
To where the firelight's
Ruddy glow
Turns to gold
The silver snow.
Finer sport who can conceive
Than that of coasting New-Year's Eve?
Half the fun lies in the fire
That seems to brighter blaze and higher
Than any other of the year,
As though his dying hour to cheer,
And at the same time greeting give
To him who has a year to live.
'Tis built of logs of oak and pine,
Filled in with branches broken fine;
It roars and crackles merrily;
The children round it dance with glee;
They sing and shout and welcome in
The new year with a joyous din
That rings far out o'er hill and dale,
And warns the watchers in the vale
'Tis time the church bells to employ
To spread the universal joy.

Then the hill is left in silence
As the coasters homeward go,
And the crimson of the fire-light
Fades from off the trodden snow.

So the years glide by as swiftly
As the sleds rush down the hill,
And each new one as it cometh
Bringeth more of good than ill.

TRAVELLING BAG FOR PETS.

2010-12-30T09:13:00.006+01:00

Little girls who like to carry their pets with them on a journey will be glad to know how to make this pretty and convenient bag, by means of which Fido and Mutt can travel like princes. The bag is made of black leather, and is closed on the side with a lock and key and clamps. The pocket for holding the dog is fifteen inches wide and nine inches and a half high. The front is cut out, leaving a margin on the edges an inch and a half wide, and the opening is filled with a wire screen, through which the little prisoner can see and breathe freely. For protection, the screen is covered by two leather flaps, fastened one at the bottom and one at the top of the bag, which overlap each other, and are secured by steel clasps.

Not much of an instruction!

THE NEW YEAR'S ERRAND

2010-12-29T09:13:00.004+01:00

THE NEW YEAR'S ERRAND

WHAT BECAME OF THE CHRISTMAS TREE.—Drawn by C. S. Reinhart.

. "What are those children doing?" asked the clergyman of his wife a few days after Christmas.

"I really can not tell you, James," was the reply, as his wife peered anxiously over his shoulder, and out of the window. "All that I know about it is this: I was busy in the pantry, when Rob put his head in, and asked if he could have the Christmas tree, as nearly everything had been taken off of it; so I said 'Yes,' and there he goes with it, sure enough. I do hope the wax from the candles has not spotted the parlor carpet."

"Don't be anxious, wife; 'Christmas comes but once a year, and when it comes should bring good cheer.'"

"Yes," said the careful housewife, "I suppose I do worry. But there! it is snowing again, and Bertha perched up on that tree on Rob's sled, and she so subject to croup!"

"The more she is out in the pure air, the less likely she is to take cold; but where are they going?"

"I really do not know, James. Did you ever see a dog more devoted to any one than Jip is to Rob? There he goes, dancing beside him now; and I see Rob has tied on the scarf Bertha knit for him; that is done to please her. She did work so hard to get it finished in time before he came home for the holidays."

"She is very like her own dear little mother in kindness and care for others," was the reply.

The mother gave a bright smile and a kiss for the compliment, but a little wail from the nursery hurried her out of the room.

Christmas at the parsonage had been delightful, for, first of all, Rob's return from boarding-school was a pleasurable event; he always came home in such good spirits, was so full of his jokes and nonsense, and had so many funny things to tell about the boys. Then there was the dressing of the church with evergreens, and the decoration of the parlor with wreaths of holly or running pine, and the spicy smell of all the delicacies which were in course of preparation, for Sally was a famous cook, and would brook no interference when mince-pies and plum-pudding were to be concocted.

But the children thought the arrival of a certain box, which was always dispatched from town, the very best of all the Christmas delights. This box came from their rich aunts and uncles, who seemed to think that the little parsonage must be a dreary place in winter, and so, to make up to its inmates for losing all the brightness of a city winter, they sent everything they could think of in the way of beautiful pictures, gorgeous books, games, sugar-plums, and enough little glittering things for two or three trees. Of course the clergyman always laid aside some of these things for other occasions, lest the children should be surfeited.

And so Christmas had passed happily, as usual. The school-children had sung their carols and enjoyed their feast, the poor had been carefully looked after and made comfortable, and there had come the usual lull after a season of excitement. It was now the day before the first of the new year, and the parson was writing a sermon. He was telling people what a good time it was to try and turn over a new leaf; to be nobler, truer, braver, than they had ever been before; to let the old year carry away with it all selfishness, all anger, envy, and unloving thoughts;[Pg 78] and as he wrote, he looked out of the window at the falling snow, and wondered where Bob and Bertha could have gone.

Dinner-time came. Aunt Ellen, mamma, and the parson sat down alone. "Where are those children?" repeated mamma.

"I do not think you need be worried, Kate," said Aunt Ellen. "Rob is so thoughtful, he will take good care of Bertha. They have perhaps stopped in at a neighbor's, and been coaxed to stay."

"Very likely," said the parson. And then the baby came in, crowing and chuckling, and claiming his privileges, such as sitting in a high chair and feeding the cat, and mamma had enough to do to keep the merry fellow in order, or his fat little hands would have grasped all the silver, and pulled over the glasses.

After dinner, while the parson let the baby twist his whiskers or creep about his knees, mamma played some lovely German music, and Aunt Ellen crocheted. The short afternoon grew dusky. Baby went off to the nursery; the parson had lighted his cigar, and was going out for a walk, but mamma looked so anxious that he said,

"I will go look for the children, Kate."

"Really, I think you will have to give Rob a little scolding, my dear. He should have told us where he was going."

"Yes, I suppose so," said the parson; when just then there was a gleeful cry—a merry chorus made up of Rob's, Bertha's, and Jip's voices, and there they were, Bertha on the sled, and Rob was her horse.

"Where have you been, my son?" said the parson, trying to be severe. "You should not have gone off in this manner for the whole day without asking permission."

Rob's bright smile faded a little; but Bertha said, quickly, "Please, papa, don't scold Rob. If you only knew—"

"Hush, Bertha!" said Rob; and red as his cheeks were, they grew redder.

"I am sorry you are offended, sir. I did not mean to be so long. We were detained."

"What detained you?"

"And where did you get your dinner?" asked mamma.

"Oh, we had plenty to eat."

"But you don't intend us to know where you got it?"

"No, sir," said Rob, frankly.

"Now, papa, you shall not scold Rob," said Bertha, putting her hand in his. "Come into your study. Go away, Rob; go give Jip his supper. Come, mamma;" and Bertha dragged them both in to the fire, where, with sparkling eyes and cheeks like carnation, she began to talk: "Mamma, you remember that scrimmage Rob got into with the village boys last Fourth of July, and how hatefully they knocked him down, and how bruised his eye was for a long time?"

"Yes, I remember, and I always blamed Rob. He should never have had anything to do with those rowdies."

"I didn't blame him; I never blame Rob for anything, except when he won't do what I want him to do. Well, the worst one of all those horrid boys is Sim Jenkins—at least he was; I don't think he's quite so bad now. But he has been punished for all his badness, for he hurt his leg awfully, and has been laid up for months—so his mother says; and she is quite nice. She gave us our dinner to-day. Somehow or other, Rob heard that Sim was in bed, and had not had any Christmas things, and that his mother was poor; and she says all her money has gone for doctor's bills and medicine. And so it just came into his head that perhaps it would do Sim good to have a Christmas-tree on New-Year's Day; and he asked Mrs. Jenkins, and she was afraid it would make a muss, but Rob said he would be careful. And so he carried our tree over, and fixed it in a box, and covered the box with moss, and we have been as busy as bees trying to make it look pretty. And that is what has kept us so long, for Rob had to run down to the store and get things—nails and ribbons, and I don't know what all. And Sim is not to know anything about the tree until to-morrow. And please give us some of the pretty things which were in our box, for we could not get quite enough to fill all the branches. Rob spent so much of his pocket-money on a knife for Sim that he had none left for candy; for he said the tree would not give Sim so much pleasure unless there was something on it which he could always keep."

Here little Bertha stopped for want of breath, and looked into the faces of her listeners.

The parson put his arm around her as he said, "I hardly think we can scold Rob now, after special pleading so eloquent as this; what do you say, mamma?"

"I say that Rob is just like his father in doing this kindly deed, and I am glad to be the mother of a boy who can return good for evil."

The parson made a bow. "Now we are even, madam, in the matter of gracious speeches."

So Sim Jenkins woke up on New-Year's Day to see from his weary bed a vision of brightness—a little tree laden with its fruit of kindness, its flowers of a forgiving spirit; and as the parson preached his New-Year's sermon, and saw Rob's dark eyes looking up at him, he thought of the verse,

"In their young hearts, soft and tender,
Guide my hand good seed to sow,
That its blossoming may praise Thee
Wheresoe'er they go."

THE TEA-PARTY.

2010-12-28T09:13:00.003+01:00

THE

NURSERY

A Monthly Magazine

For Youngest Readers.

VOLUME XIV.—No. 6

BOSTON:
JOHN L. SHOREY, No. 36, BROMFIELD STREET.
1873.

THE TEA-PARTY.

The dolls had a tea-party: wasn't it fun!
In ribbons and laces they came, one by one.
We girls set the table, and poured out the tea;
And each of us held up a doll on our knee.

You never saw children behave half so well:
Why, nobody had any gossip to tell!
And (can you believe it?) for badness, that day,
No dolly was sent from the table away.

One dolly, however, the proudest one there,
Was driven almost to the verge of despair,
Because she had met with a simple mishap,
And upset the butter-plate into her lap.

The cups and the saucers they shone lily-white:
We helped all the dollies, they looked so polite.
We had cake and jam from our own pantry-shelves:
Of course, we did most of the eating ourselves.

But housewives don't know when their cares may begin.
The window was open, and pussy popped in:
He jumped on the table; and what do you think?
Down fell all the crockery there, in a wink.

We picked up the pieces, with many a sigh;
Our party broke up, and we all said good-by:
Do come to our next one; but then we'll invite
That very bad pussy to keep out of sight.

George Cooper.

"CLEAR THE COAST!"

2010-12-27T09:13:00.000+01:00

THE

NURSERY

A Monthly Magazine

For Youngest Readers.

VOLUME XIV.—No. 6

BOSTON:
JOHN L. SHOREY, No. 36, BROMFIELD STREET.
1873.

LEAR the coast! clear the coast!" cried Albert and Frank, as they came down hill swiftly on Frank's new sled.
"Look out for that woman!" cried little Harry, who was standing at the top of the hill.

A poor German woman was crossing the road. She had a large basket full of bundles, which she carried on her head. In her right hand she had an umbrella and a tin pail, and on her arm another basket. Truly, seeing that the roads were slippery, she had more than her share of burdens.

She tried to get out of the way; but Frank's new sled was such a swift runner, that it came near striking her, and caused her to nearly lose her balance, putting her at the same time into a great fright.

"You bad boys, you almost threw me down!" she exclaimed, when she recovered from the start they had given her, and looked around to see if she had dropped any of her bundles.

But down the hill they rushed on their sled, Frank losing his hat in their descent, but little caring for that in his delight. The two boys, after reaching the foot of the hill, turned, and began to drag their sled up again.

"That woman," said Frank, "called us bad boys. Let us tell her that we are not bad boys. We did not mean to run her down."

"Here comes Harry, running. What has he got to say?" asked Albert.

"I tell you what, boys," said Harry, "you'll be taken up if you run people down in that way."

"Why didn't she clear the coast when I told her to?" said Albert.
"Why didn't you steer your sled out of the way?" returned Harry.

"I didn't hit her, did I?" said Albert.

"No; but you were trying to see how near you could come without hitting her," replied Harry. "It's too bad to treat a poor old woman so!"

"So it was," said Frank. "What shall we do about it?"

"That's for Albert to say," exclaimed Harry.

"Well," replied Albert, "the right thing will be to offer to drag her bundles for her on the sled."

"That's it!" said the other two boys.

By this time they had reached the place where the poor woman was moving slowly along under her heavy burdens. She seemed very tired, and sighed often as she picked her way timidly over the frozen snow.

"We are sorry we frightened you," said Albert. "We did not mean to do any harm. Put your baskets on this sled, and we will drag them for you as far as you want to go."

"Well, you are little gentlemen, after all," said the woman, "and I'm sorry I was so vexed with you."

"You had cause," said Frank: "we were to blame."

Then she put her two baskets and the tin pail on the sled; and the three boys escorted her to her home, where she thanked them heartily for the way in which they had made amends for Albert's bad steering.

Uncle Charles.

INVENTION AND DISCOVERY

2010-12-26T09:13:00.004+01:00

This is a good idea for house plants, which are such a trouble to keep properly watered.

All gardeners tell you that plants never do so well in jardinières as in the red earthen pots. It is for the reason that the common pots are porous and allow evaporation, so that the water does not become stagnant and injure the plant, while the glazed jardinières effectually prevent it.

The great objection to the red pots is that they need a saucer under them, and when moved are difficult to handle without spilling the contents of the saucer.

Plants are not a bit greedy. They don't drink all the water that is given them at once; they love to let a little water run through and remain in the saucer until they need it. It is therefore necessary to the health of plants to let them stand in a vessel that will permit them to make their little reserve store if they wish to.

The new invention accomplishes all of these purposes.

It is a deep saucer, which gives room for an ample reservoir. Attached to it are two uprights with hinged handles at the top.

These handles are to clasp the flower pot and attach it firmly to the saucer.

The pot is placed in the saucer, and the uprights are bent toward the plant until they touch it. Then the spring handles are turned down and clasp the inside rim of the pot, making pot and saucer practically one piece, giving all the advantages of the jardinière, with the health qualities of the earthen pot.

656565656565

Clothes-pin.—The old-fashioned clothes-pin is such a clumsy, unhandy thing, that this new invention should be hailed with delight by housekeepers.

Any one who has tried to hang out washing knows the trick that clothes-pins have of standing on their heads just when they seem most firmly gripping the rope—slipping off and letting the clothes fall to the ground.

The new pin will allow no such pranks. It is a double affair, and can grip the whole of a stocking or the shoulder of a garment, and hold it with absolute security.

It is made of galvanized wire, so that it is quite smooth, and there are none of the rough pieces and splinters which we sometimes find on clothes-pins. As the pin is of galvanized wire, it does not rust.

G.H.R.

I have to admit that I can't picture either of these two inventions.

Christmas at Red Butte

2010-12-25T09:13:00.008+01:00

by Lucy Maud Montgomery

Children Hanging their Stockings
by Felix Octavius Carr Darley

"Of course Santa Claus will come," said Jimmy Martin confidently. Jimmy was ten, and at ten it is easy to be confident. "Why, he's got to come because it is Christmas Eve, and he always has come. You know that, twins."
Yes, the twins knew it and, cheered by Jimmy's superior wisdom, their doubts passed away. There had been one terrible moment when Theodora had sighed and told them they mustn't be too much disappointed if Santa Claus did not come this year because the crops had been poor, and he mightn't have had enough presents to go around.
"That doesn't make any difference to Santa Claus," scoffed Jimmy. "You know as well as I do, Theodora Prentice, that Santa Claus is rich whether the crops fail or not. They failed three years ago, before Father died, but Santa Claus came all the same. Prob'bly you don't remember it, twins, 'cause you were too little, but I do. Of course he'll come, so don't you worry a mite. And he'll bring my skates and your dolls. He knows we're expecting them, Theodora, 'cause we wrote him a letter last week, and threw it up the chimney. And there'll be candy and nuts, of course, and Mother's gone to town to buy a turkey. I tell you we're going to have a ripping Christmas."
"Well, don't use such slangy words about it, Jimmy-boy," sighed Theodora. She couldn't bear to dampen their hopes any further, and perhaps Aunt Elizabeth might manage it if the colt sold well. But Theodora had her painful doubts, and she sighed again as she looked out of the window far down the trail that wound across the prairie, red-lighted by the declining sun of the short wintry afternoon.
"Do people always sigh like that when they get to be sixteen?" asked Jimmy curiously. "You didn't sigh like that when you were only fifteen, Theodora. I wish you wouldn't. It makes me feel funny—and it's not a nice kind of funniness either."
"It's a bad habit I've got into lately," said Theodora, trying to laugh. "Old folks are dull sometimes, you know, Jimmy-boy."
"Sixteen is awful old, isn't it?" said Jimmy reflectively. "I'll tell you what I'm going to do when I'm sixteen, Theodora. I'm going to pay off the mortgage, and buy mother a silk dress, and a piano for the twins. Won't that be elegant? I'll be able to do that 'cause I'm a man. Of course if I was only a girl I couldn't."
"I hope you'll be a good kind brave man and a real help to your mother," said Theodora softly, sitting down before the cosy fire and lifting the fat little twins into her lap.
"Oh, I'll be good to her, never you fear," assured Jimmy, squatting comfortably down on the little fur rug before the stove—the skin of the coyote his father had killed four years ago. "I believe in being good to your mother when you've only got the one. Now tell us a story, Theodora—a real jolly story, you know, with lots of fighting in it. Only please don't kill anybody. I like to hear about fighting, but I like to have all the people come out alive."
Theodora laughed, and began a story about the Riel Rebellion of '85—a story which had the double merit of being true and exciting at the same time. It was quite dark when she finished, and the twins were nodding, but Jimmy's eyes were wide open and sparkling.
"That was great," he said, drawing a long breath. "Tell us another."
"No, it's bedtime for you all," said Theodora firmly. "One story at a time is my rule, you know."
"But I want to sit up till Mother comes home," objected Jimmy.
"You can't. She may be very late, for she would have to wait to see Mr. Porter. Besides, you don't know what time Santa Claus might come—if he comes at all. If he were to drive along and see you children up instead of being sound asleep in bed, he might go right on and never call at all."
This argument was too much for Jimmy.
"All right, we'll go. But we have to hang up our stockings first. Twins, get yours."
The twins toddled off in great excitement, and brought back their Sunday stockings, which Jimmy proceeded to hang along the edge of the mantel shelf. This done, they all trooped obediently off to bed. Theodora gave another sigh, and seated herself at the window, where she could watch the moonlit prairie for Mrs. Martin's homecoming and knit at the same time.
I am afraid that you will think from all the sighing Theodora was doing that she was a very melancholy and despondent young lady. You couldn't think anything more unlike the real Theodora. She was the jolliest, bravest girl of sixteen in all Saskatchewan, as her shining brown eyes and rosy, dimpled cheeks would have told you; and her sighs were not on her own account, but simply for fear the children were going to be disappointed. She knew that they would be almost heartbroken if Santa Claus did not come, and that this would hurt the patient hardworking little mother more than all else.
Five years before this, Theodora had come to live with Uncle George and Aunt Elizabeth in the little log house at Red Butte. Her own mother had just died, and Theodora had only her big brother Donald left, and Donald had Klondike fever. The Martins were poor, but they had gladly made room for their little niece, and Theodora had lived there ever since, her aunt's right-hand girl and the beloved playmate of the children. They had been very happy until Uncle George's death two years before this Christmas Eve; but since then there had been hard times in the little log house, and though Mrs. Martin and Theodora did their best, it was a woefully hard task to make both ends meet, especially this year when their crops had been poor. Theodora and her aunt had made every sacrifice possible for the children's sake, and at least Jimmy and the twins had not felt the pinch very severely yet.
At seven Mrs. Martins bells jingled at the door and Theodora flew out. "Go right in and get warm, Auntie," she said briskly. "I'll take Ned away and unharness him."
"It's a bitterly cold night," said Mrs. Martin wearily. There was a note of discouragement in her voice that struck dismay to Theodora's heart.
"I'm afraid it means no Christmas for the children tomorrow," she thought sadly, as she led Ned away to the stable. When she returned to the kitchen Mrs. Martin was sitting by the fire, her face in her chilled hand, sobbing convulsively.
"Auntie—oh, Auntie, don't!" exclaimed Theodora impulsively. It was such a rare thing to see her plucky, resolute little aunt in tears. "You're cold and tired—I'll have a nice cup of tea for you in a trice."
"No, it isn't that," said Mrs. Martin brokenly "It was seeing those stockings hanging there. Theodora, I couldn't get a thing for the children—not a single thing. Mr. Porter would only give forty dollars for the colt, and when all the bills were paid there was barely enough left for such necessaries as we must have. I suppose I ought to feel thankful I could get those. But the thought of the children's disappointment tomorrow is more than I can bear. It would have been better to have told them long ago, but I kept building on getting more for the colt. Well, it's weak and foolish to give way like this. We'd better both take a cup of tea and go to bed. It will save fuel."
When Theodora went up to her little room her face was very thoughtful. She took a small box from her table and carried it to the window. In it was a very pretty little gold locket hung on a narrow blue ribbon. Theodora held it tenderly in her fingers, and looked out over the moonlit prairie with a very sober face. Could she give up her dear locket—the locket Donald had given her just before he started for the Klondike? She had never thought she could do such a thing. It was almost the only thing she had to remind her of Donald—handsome, merry, impulsive, warmhearted Donald, who had gone away four years ago with a smile on his bonny face and splendid hope in his heart.
"Here's a locket for you, Gift o' God," he had said gaily—he had such a dear loving habit of calling her by the beautiful meaning of her name. A lump came into Theodora's throat as she remembered it. "I couldn't afford a chain too, but when I come back I'll bring you a rope of Klondike nuggets for it."
Then he had gone away. For two years letters had come from him regularly. Then he wrote that he had joined a prospecting party to a remote wilderness. After that was silence, deepening into anguish of suspense that finally ended in hopelessness. A rumour came that Donald Prentice was dead. None had returned from the expedition he had joined. Theodora had long ago given up all hope of ever seeing Donald again. Hence her locket was doubly dear to her.
But Aunt Elizabeth had always been so good and loving and kind to her. Could she not make the sacrifice for her sake? Yes, she could and would. Theodora flung up her head with a gesture that meant decision. She took out of the locket the bits of hair—her mother's and Donald's—which it contained (perhaps a tear or two fell as she did so) and then hastily donned her warmest cap and wraps. It was only three miles to Spencer; she could easily walk it in an hour and, as it was Christmas Eve, the shops would be open late. She muse walk, for Ned could not be taken out again, and the mare's foot was sore. Besides, Aunt Elizabeth must not know until it was done.
As stealthily as if she were bound on some nefarious errand, Theodora slipped downstairs and out of the house. The next minute she was hurrying along the trail in the moonlight. The great dazzling prairie was around her, the mystery and splendour of the northern night all about her. It was very calm and cold, but Theodora walked so briskly that she kept warm. The trail from Red Butte to Spencer was a lonely one. Mr. Lurgan's house, halfway to town, was the only dwelling on it.
When Theodora reached Spencer she made her way at once to the only jewellery store the little town contained. Mr. Benson, its owner, had been a friend of her uncle's, and Theodora felt sure that he would buy her locket. Nevertheless her heart beat quickly, and her breath came and went uncomfortably fast as she went in. Suppose he wouldn't buy it. Then there would be no Christmas for the children at Red Butte.
"Good evening, Miss Theodora," said Mr. Benson briskly. "What can I do for you?"
"I'm afraid I'm not a very welcome sort of customer, Mr. Benson," said Theodora, with an uncertain smile. "I want to sell, not buy. Could you—will you buy this locket?"
Mr. Benson pursed up his lips, took up the locket, and examined it. "Well, I don't often buy second-hand stuff," he said, after some reflection, "but I don't mind obliging you, Miss Theodora. I'll give you four dollars for this trinket."
Theodora knew the locket had cost a great deal more than that, but four dollars would get what she wanted, and she dared not ask for more. In a few minutes the locket was in Mr. Benson's possession, and Theodora, with four crisp new bills in her purse, was hurrying to the toy store. Half an hour later she was on her way back to Red Butte, with as many parcels as she could carry—Jimmy's skates, two lovely dolls for the twins, packages of nuts and candy, and a nice plump turkey. Theodora beguiled her lonely tramp by picturing the children's joy in the morning.
About a quarter of a mile past Mr. Lurgan's house the trail curved suddenly about a bluff of poplars. As Theodora rounded the turn she halted in amazement. Almost at her feet the body of a man was lying across the road. He was clad in a big fur coat, and had a fur cap pulled well down over his forehead and ears. Almost all of him that could be seen was a full bushy beard. Theodora had no idea who he was, or where he had come from. But she realized that he was unconscious, and that he would speedily freeze to death if help were not brought. The footprints of a horse galloping across the prairie suggested a fall and a runaway, but Theodora did not waste time in speculation. She ran back at full speed to Mr. Lurgan's, and roused the household. In a few minutes Mr. Lurgan and his son had hitched a horse to a wood-sleigh, and hurried down the trail to the unfortunate man.
Theodora, knowing that her assistance was not needed, and that she ought to get home as quickly as possible, went on her way as soon as she had seen the stranger in safe keeping. When she reached the little log house she crept in, cautiously put the children's gifts in their stockings, placed the turkey on the table where Aunt Elizabeth would see it the first thing in the morning, and then slipped off to bed, a very weary but very happy girl.
The joy that reigned in the little log house the next day more than repaid Theodora for her sacrifice.
"Whoopee, didn't I tell you that Santa Claus would come all right!" shouted the delighted Jimmy. "Oh, what splendid skates!"
The twins hugged their dolls in silent rapture, but Aunt Elizabeth's face was the best of all.
Then the dinner had to be prepared, and everybody had a hand in that. Just as Theodora, after a grave peep into the oven, had announced that the turkey was done, a sleigh dashed around the house. Theodora flew to answer the knock at the door, and there stood Mr. Lurgan and a big, bewhiskered, fur-coated fellow whom Theodora recognized as the stranger she had found on the trail. But—was he a stranger? There was something oddly familiar in those merry brown eyes. Theodora felt herself growing dizzy.
"Donald!" she gasped. "Oh, Donald!"
And then she was in the big fellow's arms, laughing and crying at the same time.
Donald it was indeed. And then followed half an hour during which everybody talked at once, and the turkey would have been burned to a crisp had it not been for the presence of mind of Mr. Lurgan who, being the least excited of them all, took it out of the oven, and set it on the back of the stove.
"To think that it was you last night, and that I never dreamed it," exclaimed Theodora. "Oh, Donald, if I hadn't gone to town!"
"I'd have frozen to death, I'm afraid," said Donald soberly. "I got into Spencer on the last train last night. I felt that I must come right out—I couldn't wait till morning. But there wasn't a team to be got for love or money—it was Christmas Eve and all the livery rigs were out. So I came on horseback. Just by that bluff something frightened my horse, and he shied violently. I was half asleep and thinking of my little sister, and I went off like a shot. I suppose I struck my head against a tree. Anyway, I knew nothing more until I came to in Mr. Lurgan's kitchen. I wasn't much hurt—feel none the worse of it except for a sore head and shoulder. But, oh, Gift o' God, how you have grown! I can't realize that you are the little sister I left four years ago. I suppose you have been thinking I was dead?"
"Yes, and, oh, Donald, where have you been?"
"Well, I went way up north with a prospecting party. We had a tough time the first year, I can tell you, and some of us never came back. We weren't in a country where post offices were lying round loose either, you see. Then at last, just as we were about giving up in despair, we struck it rich. I've brought a snug little pile home with me, and things are going to look up in this log house, Gift o' God. There'll be no more worrying for you dear people over mortgages."
"I'm so glad—for Auntie's sake," said Theodora, with shining eyes. "But, oh, Donald, it's best of all just to have you back. I'm so perfectly happy that I don't know what to do or say."
"Well, I think you might have dinner," said Jimmy in an injured tone. "The turkey's getting stone cold, and I'm most starving. I just can't stand it another minute."
So, with a laugh, they all sat down to the table and ate the merriest Christmas dinner the little log house had ever known.

The Mouse and the Christmas Cake

2010-12-24T09:13:00.014+01:00

A LITTLE MOUSE THAT BUILT
ITSELF A HOUSE IN A
CHRISTMAS CAKE.

A PRETTY story I will tell,
.. Of Nib, a little Mouse,
Who took delight, when none where near,
.. To skip about the house.

Her little nose could sniff and smell
.. Where all good things were kept,
And in the pantry well she knew
.. That mistress Pussy slept.

But, notwithstanding, in she crept,
.. And on the shelf she found
A Christmas cake, the top of which
.. Was by a castle crowned.

The subject of the present cake
.. Was Windsor’s mighty walls;
With turrets, windows, standard too,
.. And entrance to the halls.

Why, here within such walls as these,
.. Thought Mousey, I could dwell;
And should the Cat lay siege to them,
.. Defend myself right well.

So, with her little teeth, which served
.. For pickaxe and for spade,
She gnawed right through the gothic door,
.. And thus an entrance made.

Then climbed the turret, which she chose
.. Her residence to make;
And thought to leave it now and then,
.. And feast upon the cake.

All this occurred on Christmas eve,
.. And next came Christmas day;
And then some little folks arrived,
.. To eat, and drink, and play.

Right merry are the little folks,
.. And what a noise they make,
When Windsor castle they behold,
.. Displayed upon the cake.

The turrets and the walls they view,
.. The cannon, too, admire;
The soldiers ready to present,
.. And then—pop!—pop!—to fire.

On this, when they had long enough
.. All exercised their wit,
They scrutinised the cake, and wished
.. To taste a bit of it.

Each guest prepared,—the knife was raised
.. Some slices to begin,
When, lo! with wonder, all exclaimed,
.. “I hear a noise within!”

Poor Mousey, when she saw the knife,
.. At once expressed her fear,
By squeaking out with all her might,
.. Which every one could hear.

Then John, as he the turret viewed,
.. With consternation cried,
“There’s something, I am sure, alive,
.. And moving, too, inside.”

All now were hushed, and knew not what
.. All this could be about;
While Mouse, in fright, forgot her tail,
.. Which at the top popped out.

“Why, here’s some trick,” the lady cried,
.. “I’ll knock the turret down.”
Mousey, in terror, gave a leap,
.. And ran along her gown.

“Oh!” screamed the lady, “what is this?”
.. On each side was dismay,
Which Mousey took advantage of,
.. By scampering away.

Their fright all o’er, loud laughs ensued,
.. From all within the house,
To think that so much fear should be
.. Caused by a little Mouse.

The children hunted for this Mouse,
.. But she was not a dolt
To wait ’till she was caught, but made
.. Right through a hole—a bolt.

The party then began their dance,
.. And singing next ensued;
And then came supper, with its cakes,
.. And very best home-brewed.

The Christmas Surprise at Enderly Road

2010-12-23T09:56:00.003+01:00

by Lucy Maud Montgomery

"Phil, I'm getting fearfully hungry. When are we going to strike civilization?"
The speaker was my chum, Frank Ward. We were home from our academy for the Christmas holidays and had been amusing ourselves on this sunshiny December afternoon by a tramp through the "back lands," as the barrens that swept away south behind the village were called. They were grown over with scrub maple and spruce, and were quite pathless save for meandering sheep tracks that crossed and recrossed, but led apparently nowhere.
Frank and I did not know exactly where we were, but the back lands were not so extensive but that we would come out somewhere if we kept on. It was getting late and we wished to go home.
"I have an idea that we ought to strike civilization somewhere up the Enderly Road pretty soon," I answered.
"Do you call that civilization?" said Frank, with a laugh.
No Blackburn Hill boy was ever known to miss an opportunity of flinging a slur at Enderly Road, even if no Enderly Roader were by to feel the sting.
Enderly Road was a miserable little settlement straggling back from Blackburn Hill. It was a forsaken looking place, and the people, as a rule, were poor and shiftless. Between Blackburn Hill and Enderly Road very little social intercourse existed and, as the Road people resented what they called the pride of Blackburn Hill, there was a good deal of bad feeling between the two districts.
Presently Frank and I came out on the Enderly Road. We sat on the fence a few minutes to rest and discuss our route home. "If we go by the road it's three miles," said Frank. "Isn't there a short cut?"
"There ought to be one by the wood-lane that comes out by Jacob Hart's," I answered, "but I don't know where to strike it."
"Here is someone coming now; we'll inquire," said Frank, looking up the curve of the hard-frozen road. The "someone" was a little girl of about ten years old, who was trotting along with a basketful of school books on her arm. She was a pale, pinched little thing, and her jacket and red hood seemed very old and thin.
"Hello, missy," I said, as she came up, and then I stopped, for I saw she had been crying.
"What is the matter?" asked Frank, who was much more at ease with children than I was, and had always a warm spot in his heart for their small troubles. "Has your teacher kept you in for being naughty?"
The mite dashed her little red knuckles across her eyes and answered indignantly, "No, indeed. I stayed after school with Minnie Lawler to sweep the floor."
"And did you and Minnie quarrel, and is that why you are crying?" asked Frank solemnly.
"Minnie and I never quarrel. I am crying because we can't have the school decorated on Monday for the examination, after all. The Dickeys have gone back on us ... after promising, too," and the tears began to swell up in the blue eyes again.
"Very bad behaviour on the part of the Dickeys," commented Frank. "But can't you decorate the school without them?"
"Why, of course not. They are the only big boys in the school. They said they would cut the boughs, and bring a ladder tomorrow and help us nail the wreaths up, and now they won't ... and everything is spoiled ... and Miss Davis will be so disappointed."
By dint of questioning Frank soon found out the whole story. The semi-annual public examination was to be held on Monday afternoon, the day before Christmas. Miss Davis had been drilling her little flock for the occasion; and a program of recitations, speeches, and dialogues had been prepared. Our small informant, whose name was Maggie Bates, together with Minnie Lawler and several other little girls, had conceived the idea that it would be a fine thing to decorate the schoolroom with greens. For this it was necessary to ask the help of the boys. Boys were scarce at Enderly school, but the Dickeys, three in number, had promised to see that the thing was done.
"And now they won't," sobbed Maggie. "Matt Dickey is mad at Miss Davis 'cause she stood him on the floor today for not learning his lesson, and he says he won't do a thing nor let any of the other boys help us. Matt just makes all the boys do as he says. I feel dreadful bad, and so does Minnie."
"Well, I wouldn't cry any more about it," said Frank consolingly. "Crying won't do any good, you know. Can you tell us where to find the wood-lane that cuts across to Blackburn Hill?" Maggie could, and gave us minute directions. So, having thanked her, we left her to pursue her disconsolate way and betook ourselves homeward.
"I would like to spoil Matt Dickey's little game," said Frank. "He is evidently trying to run things at Enderly Road school and revenge himself on the teacher. Let us put a spoke in his wheel and do Maggie a good turn as well."
"Agreed. But how?"
Frank had a plan ready to hand and, when we reached home, we took his sisters, Carrie and Mabel, into our confidence; and the four of us worked to such good purpose all the next day, which was Saturday, that by night everything was in readiness.
At dusk Frank and I set out for the Enderly Road, carrying a basket, a small step-ladder, an unlit lantern, a hammer, and a box of tacks. It was dark when we reached the Enderly Road schoolhouse. Fortunately, it was quite out of sight of any inhabited spot, being surrounded by woods. Hence, mysterious lights in it at strange hours would not be likely to attract attention.
The door was locked, but we easily got in by a window, lighted our lantern, and went to work. The schoolroom was small, and the old-fashioned furniture bore marks of hard usage; but everything was very snug, and the carefully swept floor and dusted desks bore testimony to the neatness of our small friend Maggie and her chum Minnie.
Our basket was full of mottoes made from letters cut out of cardboard and covered with lissome sprays of fir. They were, moreover, adorned with gorgeous pink and red tissue roses, which Carrie and Mabel had contributed. We had considerable trouble in getting them tacked up properly, but when we had succeeded, and had furthermore surmounted doors, windows, and blackboard with wreaths of green, the little Enderly Road schoolroom was quite transformed.
"It looks nice," said Frank in a tone of satisfaction. "Hope Maggie will like it."
We swept up the litter we had made, and then scrambled out of the window.
"I'd like to see Matt Dickey's face when he comes Monday morning," I laughed, as we struck into the back lands.
"I'd like to see that midget of a Maggie's," said Frank. "See here, Phil, let's attend the examination Monday afternoon. I'd like to see our decorations in daylight."
We decided to do so, and also thought of something else. Snow fell all day Sunday, so that, on Monday morning, sleighs had to be brought out. Frank and I drove down to the store and invested a considerable share of our spare cash in a varied assortment of knick-knacks. After dinner we drove through to the Enderly Road schoolhouse, tied our horse in a quiet spot, and went in. Our arrival created quite a sensation for, as a rule, Blackburn Hillites did not patronize Enderly Road functions. Miss Davis, the pale, tired-looking little teacher, was evidently pleased, and we were given seats of honour next to the minister on the platform.
Our decorations really looked very well, and were further enhanced by two large red geraniums in full bloom which, it appeared, Maggie had brought from home to adorn the teacher's desk. The side benches were lined with Enderly Road parents, and all the pupils were in their best attire. Our friend Maggie was there, of course, and she smiled and nodded towards the wreaths when she caught our eyes.
The examination was a decided success, and the program which followed was very creditable indeed. Maggie and Minnie, in particular, covered themselves with glory, both in class and on the platform. At its close, while the minister was making his speech, Frank slipped out; when the minister sat down the door opened and Santa Claus himself, with big fur coat, ruddy mask, and long white beard, strode into the room with a huge basket on his arm, amid a chorus of surprised "Ohs" from old and young.
Wonderful things came out of that basket. There was some little present for every child there—tops, knives, and whistles for the boys, dolls and ribbons for the girls, and a "prize" box of candy for everybody, all of which Santa Claus presented with appropriate remarks. It was an exciting time, and it would have been hard to decide which were the most pleased, parents, pupils, or teacher.
In the confusion Santa Claus discreetly disappeared, and school was dismissed. Frank, having tucked his toggery away in the sleigh, was waiting for us outside, and we were promptly pounced upon by Maggie and Minnie, whose long braids were already adorned with the pink silk ribbons which had been their gifts.
"You decorated the school," cried Maggie excitedly. "I know you did. I told Minnie it was you the minute I saw it."
"You're dreaming, child," said Frank.
"Oh, no, I'm not," retorted Maggie shrewdly, "and wasn't Matt Dickey mad this morning! Oh, it was such fun. I think you are two real nice boys and so does Minnie—don't you Minnie?"
Minnie nodded gravely. Evidently Maggie did the talking in their partnership.
"This has been a splendid examination," said Maggie, drawing a long breath. "Real Christmassy, you know. We never had such a good time before."
"Well, it has paid, don't you think?" asked Frank, as we drove home.
"Rather," I answered.
It did "pay" in other ways than the mere pleasure of it. There was always a better feeling between the Roaders and the Hillites thereafter. The big brothers of the little girls, to whom our Christmas surprise had been such a treat, thought it worthwhile to bury the hatchet, and quarrels between the two villages became things of the past.

On Christmas Giving

2010-12-22T09:13:00.004+01:00

Being a Word of Much Needed Advice
From "A Little Book for Christmas", 1917, by Cyrus Townsend Brady

Christmas is the birthday of our Lord, upon which we celebrate God's ineffable gift of Himself to His children. No human soul has ever been able to realize the full significance of that gift, no heart has ever been glad enough to contain the joy of it, and no mind has ever been wise enough to express it. Nevertheless we powerfully appreciate the blessing and would fain convey it fitly. Therefore to commemorate that great gift the custom of exchanging tokens of love and remembrance has grown until it has become well nigh universal. This is a day in which we ourselves crave, as never at any other time, happiness and peace for those we love and that ought to include everybody, for with the angelic message in our ears it should be impossible to hate any one on Christmas day however we may feel before or after.
But despite the best of wills almost inevitably Christmas in many instances has created a burdensome demand. Perhaps by the method of exclusion we shall find out what Christmas should be. It is not a time for extravagance, for ostentation, for vulgar display, it is possible to purchase pleasure for someone else at too high a price to ourselves. To paraphrase Polonius, "Costly thy gift as thy purse can buy, rich but not expressed in fancy, for the gift oft proclaims the man." In making presents observe three principal facts; the length of your purse, the character of your friend, and the universal rule of good taste. Do not plunge into extravagance from which you will scarcely recover except in months of nervous strain and desperate financial struggle. On the other hand do not be mean and niggardly in your gifts. Oh, not that; avoid selfishness at Christmas, if at no other time. Rather no gift at all than a grudging one. Let your offerings represent yourselves and your affections. Indeed if they do not represent you, they are not gifts at all. "The gift without the giver is bare."
And above all banish from your mind the principle of reciprocity. The lex talionis has no place in Christmas giving. Do not think or feel that you must give to someone because someone gave to you. There is no barter about it. You give because you love and without a thought of return. Credit others with the same feeling and be governed thereby. I know one upon whose Christmas list there are over one hundred and fifty people, rich and poor, high and low, able and not able. That man would be dismayed beyond measure if everyone of those people felt obliged to make a return for the Christmas remembrances he so gladly sends them.
In giving remember after all the cardinal principle of the day. Let your gift be an expression of your kindly remembrance, your gentle consideration, your joyful spirit, your spontaneous gratitude, your abiding desire for peace and goodwill toward men. Hunt up somebody who needs and who without you may lack and suffer heart hunger, loneliness, and disappointment.
Nor is Christmas a time for gluttonous eating and drinking. To gorge one's self with quantities of rich and indigestible food is not the noblest method of commemorating the day. The rules and laws of digestion are not abrogated upon the Holy day. These are material cautions, the day has a spiritual significance of which material manifestations are, or ought to be, outward and visible expressions only.
Christmas is one of the great days of obligation in the Church year, then as at Easter if at no other time, Christians should gather around the table of the Lord, kneeling before God's altar in the ministering of that Holy Communion which unites them with the past, the present, and the future—the communion of the saints of God's Holy Church with His Beloved Son. Then and thus in body, soul, and spirit we do truly participate in the privilege and blessing of the Incarnation, then and there we receive that strength which enables everyone of us to become factors in the great extension of that marvellous occurrence throughout the ages and throughout the world.
Let us therefore on this Holy Natal Day, from which the whole world dates its time, begin on our knees before that altar which is at once manger, cross, throne. Let us join thereafter in holy cheer of praise and prayer and exhortation and Christmas carol, and then let us go forth with a Christmas spirit in our hearts resolved to communicate it to the children of men, and not merely for the day but for the future. To make the right use of these our privileges, this it is to save the world.
In this spirit, therefore, so far as poor, fallible human nature permits him to realize it and exhibit it, the author wishes all his readers which at present comprise his only flock—
A MERRY CHRISTMAS AND A HAPPY NEW YEAR.