AUNT TABITHA'S FIRESIDE.

Fig. 1.

[See larger version]

The reproductive organs only appear at the epoch when plants attain the full development of all their parts, or arrive at an adult state. The period when this occurs varies greatly in each species, and depends entirely on the peculiarities of its constitution. When this epoch arrives, a visible change takes place in the organic functions; the stem ceases to elongate, and its internodes no longer developing, the leaves remain crowded together in closely approximated whorls, and, after undergoing those peculiar modifications in form and coloring which we have already described, a flower is produced.

The process of fecundation appears to be as follows: As soon as the calyx and corolla are fully expanded, the stamens rapidly develop, their filaments elongate, and the anthers, at first moist and closed, become dry, and, rupturing, discharge the pollen on the stigma of the pistil, which at this time is bedewed with a clammy fluid, which serves to retain the grains of pollen that fall upon its surface. The grains of pollen, after remaining for some time on the humid stigma, absorb its moisture, and are seen to swell so that those which are elliptical assume a spherical form. The thin and highly extensible intine or inner covering of the pollen grain ultimately is pushed, in the form of a tube, through one of the pores or ostioles in the surface of the extine or outer covering, the mode of dehiscence of the pollen grain being always determined by the character of its surface. The pollen tube enters the lax tissue of the stigma, and, by gradual increments of growth, pushes its way down the style into the germen or ovary in which the ovules are found, up to this period, unfertilized. The tube enters one of the unimpregnated ovules through a small hole called the micropyle (from μικξος a little, πυλη gate), conveying the fecundating fluid matter contained in the cavity of the grain into the young ovule. This fluid matter is called fovilla, and its flow through the pollen tube is easily perceived by the movement of those microscopic corpuscles which it contains.

Fig. 2.

[See larger version]

Fig. 2 is a section through the stigma, and part of the style of Antirrhinum majus, or the common snapdragon. The pollen grains are seen adhering to the surface of the stigma, and the tube is pushing its way down the pistil to the germen.

The ovules having received the impregnating matter, the flower loses its beauty, and nothing remains but the germen, which swells into a fruit abounding with seeds, by which the species is continued. An attentive observer may watch these changes throughout the summer months in any plant that produces flowers and fruit, and may thus satisfy himself of the general correctness of these statements.

No. IX.—THE MISERY CAUSED BY USING THE WRONG PUDDING-DISH.

BY EDITH WOODLEY

"I believe, Lizzy, that I never told you my own experience about goin' out to sarvice. I didn't go out 'cause 'twas necessary that I should, for at my father's there was a house full of everything. We al'ays lived like the sweet cheeses, as the sayin' is.

"You've heern me tell of Aunt Keziah Higgins. She wasn't my aunt, on'y a cousin to my mother; but I al'ays called her aunt, out of respect, seein' she was so much older than I was. Well, she was one of the most partic'lar bodies that ever breathed the breath of life, except Uncle Higgins, and he went a hair furder'n she did in some things. She al'ays chose to do her own work, for there wa'n't a pairson on airth that could suit her; but one fall she took a dreadful bad cold, and was threatened with the rebellious fever. Everybody knew how awful nice she was, to say nothin' of Mr. Higgins, and they couldn't git a soul to come and stay with 'em for a single day.

"At last, Uncle Higgins come arter me; and, when I found how 'twas, I consented to go, for it seemed to me a sin and a shame—what I called right down heathenish—to let the woman suffer for want of bein' took keer on. I didn't expect that I should suit in everything; but I felt detarmined, in my own mind, to put the best foot for'ard, and exart every narve to the utmost to do the best I could, and that was all that could be expected of anybody.

"They were both so tickled to think I consented to come, that they neither of 'em uttered a single word of complaint for the two first days. All I said or did was jest right. I was young, and didn't understand a dreadful deal about cookin'; but Aunt Keziah wasn't as sick but what she could give off the orders, so I got along nicely. The third day she said to me, arter breakfast—

"'Tabitha, I guess I'll have a rice puddin' made for dinner to-day. A rice puddin', if 'tis made jest right, is Mr. Higgins's favorite.'

"So she told me how to proportionate all the 'gred'encies—how many eggs, how much rice, sugar, milk, and everything. I mustn't vary the vally of a thimbleful in an individwal thing, she said, 'cause, if I did, it wouldn't suit Mr. Higgins. The sass to eat on't, too, must be made jest so.

"Well, I told her I'd do my best; and I did. If the rice, sugar, and so on had been goold dust, I couldn't 'ave been an atom more partic'lar about measurin' 'em; and, arter I got the puddin' into the oven, I watched it as narrer as ever a cat watched a mouse, so as to be sure 'twas bakin' jest fast enough, and none too fast.

"When 'twas drawin' along towards dinner-time, I thought I'd hunt up a dish to turn the puddin' into, 'cause, you see, I baked it in a brown, airthen dish that wa'n't fit to set on the table. Well, I come across a deep, blue-edged one, jest like one we had at home, that my mother bought on purpose to put puddin' into. We were to have, besides the puddin', a grand good b'iled dish—pork and corned beef, and all sorts of garding-sass, sich as cabbage, turnips, bates, carriots, and so on. 'Twas no fool of a job to prepare so many kinds of sass; but I didn't vally the trouble, all I aimed at was to suit Uncle Higgins. When I'd got everything on the table, they looked so nice I felt quite proud. Accordin' to my mind, 'twas a dinner fit to set afore a king.

"Uncle Higgins was blest with an amazin' good appetite, and, I tell you, he did good justice to the b'iled dish. Arter a while, he begun to slack off a leetle mite, and I could see him eyein' the puddin' purty sharp. At last, says he—

"'What 'ave you got there, Tabitha?'

"'A rice puddin', sir,' says I.

"'A rice puddin'?' says he.

"'Yes, sir,' says I.

"'Well, then, I guess you never sarved much of a 'prenticeship at making rice puddin's,' says he.

"'If you'll jest taste of it, sir, I guess you'll like it,' says I.

"'I sha'n't taste of sich a lookin' thing as that,' says he, and up he jumps from the table, appearantly jest as mad as a March hare.

"I felt purty much riled myself, and should 'ave been glad if the tarnal puddin' had been right in the middle of the Red Sea. Arter I'd taken so much pains, worried myself e'en jestto death about it, as 'twere, I thought 'twas too bad for him to speak about it in sich a short, scornful way.

"I didn't tell Aunt Keziah anything about it, 'cause, as she was sick, I was afeared 'twould worry her; but, afore I'd finished doin' the work up arter dinner, Uncle Higgins got cooled down a leetle atom, and went into aunt's room to see how she was. She mistrusted by his looks that everything wasn't raly right, so she says to him—

"'How did the dinner suit you?'

"'Well enough,' says he.

"'Did Tabitha make the rice puddin' to yer likin'?' says she.

"'I didn't eat any rice puddin',' says he. 'There was a mushy-lookin' thing on the table that shecalleda rice puddin'; but it didn't look like an eatable to me.'

"'What appeared to be the matter with it?' says Aunt Keziah.

"'Why, one thing that ailed it was, there wa'n't a drop of whey in it; 'twas dry as a contribution-box, and you know I never eat sich puddin's.'

"'I guess you put a leetle too much rice in your puddin' accordin' to the other gred'ences,' says Aunt Keziah, the first time I went into the room arter Uncle Higgins was gone.

"'I put in jest as much as you said I must,' says I.

"'Well,' says she, 'Mr. Higgins told me 'twas too dry—that there wa'n't any whey in it.'

"'If that's all,' says I, 'I'll try my luck ag'in to-morrow, and make jest the same, on'y scant the rice the least mite that ever was.'

"'So do,' says Aunt Keziah. 'I rather guess you were a leetle too heavy-handed when you measured the rice.'

"Well, I do declare that I didn't think of anything but that tarnal rice puddin' all the arternoon; and, the minute I fell asleep at night, rice puddin's were settin' round in every direction, jest as thick as a swarm of bees. Once I thought I went to draw a pail of water, when up came a bucket full of rice puddin'. Then, ag'in, I thought I was starchin' some of Aunt Keziah's best caps, and found I'd been dippin' 'em in a mess of rice puddin', instead of starch. That was the way I was tormented all night long. My sleep didn't do me an atom of good; but, arter breakfast, I brightened up a little, and felt detarmined in my own mind, if there was any sich thing as makin' a rice puddin' that would suit Uncle Higgins, I would do it. So I went to work, and, the land o' massy! if I should live to be as old as Methuselah, and forty years on to the eend of that, I shall never forgit how I fussed and worried over that 'ere puddin'. If I measured the rice once, I raly b'l'eve that I measured it half a dozen times, so that, at last, I got to be so addle-pated that I could 'ave hardly told B from a broomstick.

"Aunt Keziah said there sartainly couldn't be any danger of its bein' too dry; and, if it erred a leetle bit on t'other hand, I could dip out two or three spoonfuls of the whey.

"I don't know how the President feels to be at the head of government; but, if the affairs of the nation weigh as heavy on his shoulders as that puddin' did on mine all the time 'twas bakin', he'd soon give up beat.

"There was never anything that looked a mite nicer than it did when I took it out of the oven. 'Twas enough to make a pairson's mouth water to look at it; but, the moment I put the tarnal thing into the deep, blue-edged dish, it looked 'xact as t'other did, on'y, if anything, a leetle more mushy, as Uncle Higgins called it. If there'd been time, I'd 'ave gone off by myself and had a good cryin' spell. It was my fairm belief that the puddin' was bewitched. What to do I didn't know. One minute I thought I'd put it on the table, and Uncle Higgins might eat some of it or not, jest as he was a mind to. The next minute, I made up my mind to hide it away, and not let him know that I'd made one. I was right in the midst of my quandary, when, the first thing I knew, Uncle Higgins walked into the kitchen, and marched right up to the table, where sot the puddin'.

"'What do you call that?' says he.

"'A rice puddin',' says I; and, judgin' by my feelin's, I turned all manner of colors.

"'Well, don't put sich a lookin' thing as that on to the table,' says he. 'It don't look fit to be sot afore anybody but a heathen. I've no notion of havin' what leetle appetite I've got sp'ilt by havin' that dispisable-lookin' thing afore my eyes.'

"So I goes and pokes it away in a sly corner, for it had tried my feelin's so I parfectly hated the sight on't. I wa'n't much afeared that Uncle Higgins would starve, if he didn't have the puddin' to top off with. He was a dreadful great eater—eat as much as two Christian men ought to; but I guess he didn't take a terrible sight of comfort eatin' his dinner, for he had on an awful long face the whole time. I s'pose that tarnal old puddin' was runnin' in his head. If 'twa'n't in his, it was in mine.

"Well, Aunt Keziah was mighty airnest to know what luck I had with it. I meant to ave told her afore dinner, and should, if Uncle Higgins hadn't come in so, all of a sudding, while I was tryin' to settle in my mind what I should do about puttin' it on to the table for dinner. When she asked me about it, I had tough work to keep from bu'stin' right out a cryin'; for I felt sorry, and I felt 'shamed, and, to tell the plain truth, a leetle mite put out.

"'Well, it does seem curious,' says she, arter I'd finished tellin' her about it. 'Run, Tabitha, and bring the puddin' here, and let me have a squint at it. If I ever made one puddin' by that resait, I'm free to say I've made a hundred, and al'ays had first rate luck. The very witches have got into the puddin', I b'l'eve.'

"So off I goes and gits the puddin', and carries it in for Aunt Keziah to look at.

"'La, child,' says she, the minute she clapped her eye on it, 'I've found out the marvellous mystery. You've put it into the wrong pudding'-dish.'

"'What odds can it make,' says I, 'whether it's in this or any other?'

"'Why, don't you see, child, that the dish, by bein' so deep and so small over, don't give the whey a chance to settle off round the edges, but makes it all mix in with the rice? I al'ays puts it into that shaller, Chany dish, with a gilt edge, that you'll find on the lower shelf of the cupboard. Now, if you'll jest shift the puddin' into that 'ere dish, you'll see 'twill look as different as light and darkness.'

"Well, off I went and put it into the dish she told me about, when, lo and behold! the whey settled off jest as calm and purty as a summer's mornin', and made a streak round the outside of the puddin' clear and bright as crystchal. I could hardly b'l'eve my own eyes, and I s'pose I was as tickled and proud a critter as ever walked on the face of the airth. I carried it right along to let Aunt Keziah see it.

"'There,' says she, 'that looks right; that'll suit Mr. Higgins. Say not a word about it, Tabitha; but jest set it into the kittle to-morrow and heat it over with the steam, and 'twill do for dinner; for, if you should try forty thousand times, you wouldn't hit it righter than you have this time.'

"'Well,' says I, 'if you or any other pairson had told me that I should undergone so much misery on account of usin' the wrong puddin'-dish, I wouldn't 'ave b'l'eved 'em.'

"The next day, I steamed the puddin', put it into the Chany dish, and sot it on the table for dinner.

"'There, now, that looks somethin' like,' says Uncle Higgins. 'I'll tell you what, Tabitha, it isn't best for young, inexperienced gals, like you, to be too wilful—too fond of havin' their own way. You thought you'd tire me out, and git me to eat one of your mushy puddin's at last; but I must be nigh on to famishin' afore I could eat sich a puddin' as you made yesterday.'

"'I'm glad it suits you, sir,' says I, lookin' meek and innocent as old Aunt Peggy's cosset lamb, when it turns its basin of milk over.

"You've no idee how I wanted to tell him 'twas the identical puddin' he run down so to the very lowest notch the day afore; but, you see, I daresn't, so all the pay I could git was the privilege of laughin' in my sleeve as he sot there eatin' the puddin', and praisin' it every other mouthful."

Campbell Co.,Va.

Mr. L. A. Godey—Dear Sir: I owe you for my subscription to the "Lady's Book" for 1852 and 1853. I send you five dollars inclosed. Give me such credit as you may think proper to extend to an old subscriber of fifteen years' standing, who sometimes pays in advance, and sometimes don't, yet never clubs, and never fails to pay without charge to you. I call that a pretty strong appeal.

Having a moment of leisure on my hands while addressing you on business, I am tempted to put in a word to you extra—to you, who have been talking to me steadily for fifteen years, while I have never had a chance for a syllable in reply. Indeed, I am not positively assured that editors, however fond they may be of holding forth before their readers, do manifest any remarkable solicitude to have them "answer back again." I should take it they were rather of that class, Irishman-like, who prefer to have "all the reciprocity on one side." I believe it may be justly said of them, that they do not admire any sort of correspondence that don't pay well. It, however, seems that an old subscriber will, once in a while, presume on long acquaintance, and treat you as a familiar friend, with whom he has the right to make free. I, at this present moment, feel an impulse of this kind; but apprehend my position may appear to yourather gawky, and even peradventure unwarrantable. But old men, you know, and especially conceited ones, are garrulous.

By the way, Mr. Godey, are you phrenologist enough to tell me why it is that, when all the other faculties are growing smaller, the organ of self-esteem is increasing in size? We hear a great deal said about "the aggressive" and "the progressive." Well, it appears to me that this same organ of self-esteem deserves to bear off all the first class premiums at the next "World's Fair" of Active Principles, whether "aggressive" or "progressive." I beg your pardon, my dear sir, I had no idea of being at all personal. But you politely intimate that "brevity is the soul of wit." Thank you! I remark this, with editors, is quite a favorite prescription (you see, I naturally fall into professional figures). Nevertheless, it is one they are not overly fond of calling into requisition themselves. Albeit, Mr. Godey, you and I shall not fall out here. For, as we possess none of the corporeal parts, neither of us has much use for "the soul." Don't frown; I'll praise you presently.

I can remember, in time past, when concluding the perusal of a number of the "Lady's Book," I have found myself soliloquizing thus: "Well, I have read it through, and what is in it? Absolutely nothing that I can remember, or, what is worse, nothing that is worth remembering. I will discontinue. I wish Godey was more of a utilitarian, and would give us a little less of his whipped syllabub, and a little more of solid food." But another year would come in and go out, and I still remained a subscriber to the "Lady's Book;" and, all this time, its strides "progressive" were very humble and moderate, indeed. But times have changed, and the "Lady's Book" has changed with them. I am glad to say there has been a great improvement—a very great improvement in your magazine. Thanks to your industrious, judicious, and sensible editress, the ratio of the useful and valuable is fast gaining on the trashy, "flat, and unprofitable." Go on.

I, some time back, said to my daughter—only, and motherless—

"Well, child, I believe I must discontinue 'Godey.'"

"Why, pa?"

"It is not suited to my taste, and you are always at school."

"But, pa, I always read the numbers through when I come home. I like it very much. It is very interesting. I prefer it to any of the magazines."

"There is 'Harper's'—more solid matter."

"I don't like 'Harper's.' I can't read it. I greatly prefer 'Godey.' I do not know what I should do without it. Do, pa, continue to take it for me."

I saw at once you had a strong hold on her regard, and I dropped the subject. Since then, I observe she has got out the old numbers for many years back (we keep them carefully filed away), and has been very busy with them; and, when she is done with them, she sorts them all over nicely and puts them away again. The upshot of the matter is this letter and the inclosure. Trusting that none other than benign influences will ever be derived from the pages of your popular magazine, I subscribe myself,

Your ob't s'v't, W. S. G.

(Underscored.) P. S.—A word about underscoring. I would thank my excellent friend, Mrs. Hale, to give her lady contributors a gentle hint—a very gentle one. Lady authors are much given to underscoring; that the practice is considered, by some of the readers of the "Lady's Book," not to be in good taste, and far "more honored in the breach than in the observance." It generally is declaratory of about this: "Reader, here is the point, which I fear you have not penetration to perceive;" or, "How funny that is!" or, "What a nice thought is here!" or, "How smart and striking this!" or the like. Now, I would respectfully suggest that the better way is to write nothing that does not deserve to be underscored, as might be exemplified, if my modesty did not forbid, in the preceding delectable epistle. If a writer deems a composition to be superlatively fine, as authors not unfrequently do, just recommend that the word "underscored" be written at the top, as I have done at the top of this postscript, with the assurance that the editor will put that in type, too, and then the thing will be fixed. For really some readers do not think it polite in authors to be everlastingly reminding them that "Here is a beautiful idea, which I fear you are too obtuse to discover." We poor readers would be gratified by finding we had a little credit for common sense. Any way, for one, I prefer to emphasize for myself. Now, I have not the same prejudice or objection, whichever you choose to call it, to capitals. They may be often used with fine effect. As, for instance, in the preface to D'Aubigne's "History of the Reformation," where the author states his principle to be that there is a "GOD IN HISTORY." I am pleased to see that some of your best contributors have no use at all for the underscore.

W. S. G.

In our January number we described the whole process of preparing the shells, and making all those separate portions necessary to form a wreath; the same instructions apply equally to the present branch of our subject; but then we only spoke of the "simple" form of this work, or that composed merely of shells and silver wire. It is doubtless the most chaste, from its extreme purity; but it is also the most perishable, for we all know how quickly silver tarnishes; it likewise is not so convenient for wear, especially in the hair, for, be as careful as ever we will, we cannot entirely avoid roughness and projecting points.

SPRAYS IN RICE SHELL-WORK.

[See larger version]

The "composite form," which we are now about to describe, admits of the ornaments being made to match, or contrast with, or set off, any hue of dress or complexion. In the making of composite rice shell-wreaths, &c., various materials are brought into use, as floss-silk; fine wire-chenil; Roman-pearl beads, and beads of a similar kind of coral color, turquoise, pink, green, or yellow; flower-seeds; velvet or satin, or silver leaves; and silver bullion.

To make a wreath, and a set of sprays for a bridal-dress, we should use white floss-silk, white chenil, and silver bullion. The shells are to be "wired," as directed in our former article; but, in making them up into leaves and flowers, instead of using the fine wire, we use the floss-silk to wind or bind them; and thus, instead of the wires being all exposed, they are hidden, and the stems present a smooth silken surface.

For making a simple, or single flower, we use the five shells as before, but we cut half an inch of silver bullion, thread it on one of the cut lengths of wire (of which we directed there should always be a supply), fold it into a loop, twist the wire to keep the bullion firmly in form and place, and put this in the centre of the flower, arranging the five shells round it, and binding the stem with the silk.

DOUBLE FLOWER.

In making the "double flower," we use twenty instead of the seventeen shells before directed; viz. five for the flower, and fifteen for the five leaflets of three shells each; in the centre of the five shells we put the loop of bullion just described, and between the flower and the leaflets we arrange five loops of fine wire-chenil at equal distances, as in this cut, allowing each loop to project nearly half an inch, and binding them on with the fine wire; the leaflets are then arranged round the stem so that the centre shell of each one appears between, and just beyond each two loops; the whole is bound together with silk, and the stem covered to its extremity. The "bud" may either have a loop of chenil standing up on each side of the shells of which it is composed, or it may be formed solely of two or three loops of chenil bound on to a stem of wire with floss-silk. When the flowers are colored, by adding chenil and beads, or seeds to them, green leaves and green buds have a very pretty effect.

The leaves for the bridal ornaments we were speaking of, may either be composed of shells and wound with white silk or silver, or white satin or velvet, or crêpe leaves may be used. We need scarcely add that silk must be used to bind all the parts together.

Let us imagine, now, that abrunettedesires to dress her hair, and decorate her snowy ball-dress with wreaths, and sprays, &c., of scarlet or coral color.

The shells must be prepared, and wired in the ordinary way, and half a dozen reels of floss-silk, and a knot of chenil of the desired hue, and four strings of small coral-colored beads, and two of beads about the average size of peas, got. These beads must each be threaded separately like the shells, but on rather shorter lengths of wire, and the wire folded and twisted to make it hold its beads firmly. One of the larger beads should be put in the centre of every double flower, and three of the small ones in the centre of every single flower. The flowers may be made simply with the five shells and five loops of chenil, omitting the leaflets. If the leaves are to be made of shells, the stems must be bound with this colored silk; but velvet, or satin, or tinsel leaves of the same hue may be substituted for or intermixed with the shell leaves with good effect.

Ornaments for blue, pink, green, or maizetoilettesmay in like manner be formeden suiteby substituting beads, silk, and chenil, of the chosen shade, for the color we have given. Mourning-wreaths, &c., may likewise be made by using black silk, chenil, and beads; or gray silk and chenil with pearl beads, and gray or white satin leaves.

When once our readers have begun to carry our directions into practice, they will perceive how possible it is to create an infinite variety of tasteful articles, all differing in style, form, and hue. Coronets, wreaths, and headdresses of every conceivable pattern may be made; sprays for the dress of any size, length, or shape; bouquets for the waist or bosom; trimmings for thecorsage; tiny wreaths to put between quilled ribbon orblondefor the purpose of ornamenting gloves, or sleeves, or the top of the dress; flowers for caps; studs or buttons for the front of a dress; in short, more things than we have time or space to name. And all these may be made very economically, for less than one-third of the ordinary cost of such decorations.

We have given, at the commencement of this article, a cut of a spray, or rather of a portion of one, for want of space compelled us to shorten it; it has green velvet leaves; the flowers are surrounded by chenil loops, and have in their centres flower-seeds; it is wound with silk.

BOUQUET IN RICE SHELL-WORK.

[See larger version]

This cut represents a small bouquet to be worn brooch-fashion in the bosom of the dress; it is composed of shells and turquoise beads, and wound with light blue silk. The leaves are of shells, and gradually increase in size towards the end of it.

The advantage of using silk instead of the fine silver wire for binding the stems, &c., is, that not only are all points and inequalities thus smoothed over, but, with ordinary care, the articles wear much longer—for even if the small portions of silver wire left exposed do tarnish, they cannot mar the beauty of the whole, forming then so very trifling a portion of it, instead of the leading feature, as they do in "simple rice shell-work."

We said just now that studs or buttons could be formed with shells; we will now explain how this may be done.

Cut out a set of circular pieces of white cartridge-paper, or very thin card-board of the size it is wished the buttons should be; from the diameter of a dollar to that of a twenty-five cent piece is the ordinary scale. Have ready wired some middle-sized and small shells, and a pearl or colored bead the size of a pea for each button.

With a good-sized pin perforate a circle of holes, about a third of an inch in, all the way round, and pass the wire of a middle-sized shell through each, bending the shells down, so that they lie evenly round with their backs upwards, and their points projecting just beyond the edge of the card-board. Without disturbing the wires on the wrong side, now make another circle of perforated holes, and put in another round of shells, bending them so as just to overlap the outer ones. Still leave the ends of wire, and pierce a third circle of holes, and into these put small shells, and bend them in like manner, to fit on the former rounds. Three circles will generally be sufficient for a good-sized button. Pierce a hole in the centre, and put in the wired bead, which will fill up and complete the surface. Now carefully flatten down the wires at the back, and cover the back with silk, arranging any shell which may have become misplaced afterwards.

The floss-silk may be obtained at any large Berlin wool shop; it is sold on small reels, of which from two to six or eight will be required, according to the quantity of work which has to be wound.

The chenil is procurable at the same place; one knot goes a great way. It is the small wired chenil we use, not the fine embroidery chenil.

The beads are sold at most fancy repositories. It is not the crystal glass, or the seed bead which we use, but those French colored glass beads that have lately been so much worn. It is not absolutely necessary they be only round; for there is a long, or rather an oblong variety, which is very effective.

The leaves and flower-seeds may be bought at any artificial florist's; but the best way is to obtain them from the makers, then they can be ordered of any color or pattern.

A circular wreath of simple daisy-flowers, like the third flower cut given in our last article, has very chaste and graceful appearance; or these flowers may be combined with the wheat-ears with good effect.

But we have said enough to open the path to our readers; and once entered therein, they will find the work infinitely suggestive, and offering scope for every graceful and tasteful vagary. So we will only add a little word of advice—aim at lightness, not only of appearance, but of actual weight, and never crowd or load any ornament with too much work. The leading principle of artistic excellence in every department of art is simplicity; and this may be attained by close and severe attention. The eye is most pleased when it can retain at a glance the chief points of attraction.

In our third article, we shall give instructions for making baskets, &c.

In the western counties, the children, decked with the wreaths and true-lover's knots presented to them, gayly adorn one of their number as their chief, and march from house to house, singing—

"Good-morrow to you, Valentine!Curl your locks as I do mine,Two before and three behind;Good-morrow to you, Valentine!"

"Good-morrow to you, Valentine!

Curl your locks as I do mine,

Two before and three behind;

Good-morrow to you, Valentine!"

They commence in many places as early as six o'clock in the morning, and intermingle the cry, "To-morrow is come!" Afterwards they make merry with their collections. At Islip, Oxfordshire, England, I have heard the children sing the following, when collecting pence on this day—

"Good-morrow, Valentine!I be thine and thou be'st mine,So please give me a Valentine."

"Good-morrow, Valentine!

I be thine and thou be'st mine,

So please give me a Valentine."

And likewise the following—

"Good-morrow, Valentine!God bless you ever!If you'll be true to me,I'll be the like to thee;Old England for ever!"

"Good-morrow, Valentine!

God bless you ever!

If you'll be true to me,

I'll be the like to thee;

Old England for ever!"

Schoolboys have a very uncomplimentary way of presenting each other with these poetical memorials—

"Peep, fool, peep,What do you think to see?Every one has a Valentine,And here's one for thee!"

"Peep, fool, peep,

What do you think to see?

Every one has a Valentine,

And here's one for thee!"

Far different from these is a stanza which is a great favorite with young girls on this day, offered indiscriminately, and, of course, quite innocently, to most of their acquaintances—

"The rose is red,The violet's blue;Pinks are sweet,And so are you!"

"The rose is red,

The violet's blue;

Pinks are sweet,

And so are you!"

The mission of Valentines is one of the very few old customs not on the wane; and the streets of our metropolis practically bear evidence of this fact in the distribution of love-messages onour stalls and shop-windows, varying in price from a sovereign to one halfpenny. Our readers, no doubt, will ask for its origin, and there we are at fault to begin with. The events of St. Valentine's life furnish no clue whatever to the mystery, although Wheatley, in his "Illustration of the Common Prayer," absurdly disposes of the question in this way: "St. Valentine was a man of most admirable parts, and so famous for his love and charity, that the custom of choosing Valentines upon his festival, which is still practised, took its rise from thence." We see no explanation here in any way satisfactory, and must be contented with the hope that some of our antiquaries may hit on something more to the purpose.

It was anciently the custom to draw lots on this day. The names of an equal number of each sex were put into a box, in separate partitions, out of which every one present drew a name, called the Valentine, which was regarded as a good omen of their future marriage. It would appear from a curious passage quoted in the "Dictionary of Archaisms," that any lover was hence termed a Valentine; not necessarily an affianced lover, as suggested in "Hampson's Calendarium," vol. i. p. 163. Lydgate, the poet of Bury, in the fifteenth century, thus mentions this practice—

"St. Valentine, of custom year by yearMen have an usance in this regionTo look and search Cupid's calendere,And choose their choice by great affection:Such as be prick'd with Cupid's motion,Taking their choice as their lot doth fall:But I love one which excelleth all."

"St. Valentine, of custom year by year

Men have an usance in this region

To look and search Cupid's calendere,

And choose their choice by great affection:

Such as be prick'd with Cupid's motion,

Taking their choice as their lot doth fall:

But I love one which excelleth all."

The divinations practised on Valentine's day are a curious subject. Herrick mentions one by rose-buds—

"She must no more a-Maying;Or by rose-buds divineWho'll be her Valentine."

"She must no more a-Maying;

Or by rose-buds divine

Who'll be her Valentine."

Perhaps the poet may here allude to a practice similar to the following, quoted by Brand: "Last Friday was Valentine day; and the night before I got five bay-leaves, and pinned four of them to the four corners of my pillow, and the fifth to the middle; and then, if I dreamt of my sweetheart, Betty said we should be married before the year was out.But, to make it more sure, I boiled an egg hard, and took out the yolk, and filled it with salt; and, when I went to bed, eat it shell and all, without speaking or drinking after it. We also wrote our lover's names upon bits of paper, and rolled them up in clay, and put them into water; and the first that rose up was to be our Valentine. Would you think it? Mr. Blossom was my man. I lay abed, and shut my eyes all the morning, till he came to our house, for I would not have seen another man before him for all the world." According to Mother Bunch, the following lines should be said by the girl on retiring to rest the previous night—

"Sweet guardian angels, let me haveWhat I most earnestly do crave,A Valentine endowed with love,That will both kind and constant prove."

"Sweet guardian angels, let me have

What I most earnestly do crave,

A Valentine endowed with love,

That will both kind and constant prove."

We believe the old custom of drawing lots on this eventful day is obsolete, and has given place to the favorite practice of sending pictures, with poetical legends, to objects of love or ridicule. The lower classes, however, seldom treat the matter with levity, and many are the offers of marriage thus made. The clerks at the post-offices are to be pitied, the immense increase of letters beyond the usual average adding very inconveniently to their labors. Such is Mr. Halliwell's account of Valentine's day.

In "Poor Robin's Almanack," 1676, thedrawingof Valentines is thus alluded to—

"Now, Andrew, Antho-Ny, and William,For ValentinesdrawPrue, Kate, Jilian."

"Now, Andrew, Antho-

Ny, and William,

For Valentinesdraw

Prue, Kate, Jilian."

Many curious customs are related by different writers in honor of this day; but, of all the quotations that could be made, none is more quaint and striking than the following from the Diary of the celebrated Pepys. On the 14th of February, 1667, is there entered: "This morning came up to my wife's bedside, I being up dressing myself, little Will Mercer to her Valentine, and brought her name written upon blue paper in gold letters, done by myself very pretty; and we were both well pleased with it. But I am also this year my wife's Valentine, and it will cost me £5; but that I must have laid out, if we had not been Valentines." He also adds: "I find that Mrs. Pierce's little girl is my Valentine, she having drawn me; which I was not sorry for, easing me of something more than I must have given to others. But here I do first observe the drawing of mottoes as well as names; so that Pierce, who drew my wife, did draw also a motto, and this girl drew another for me: what mine was I forget; but my wife's was most courteous, and most fair, which, as it may be used on an anagram upon each name, might be very pretty. One wonder I observed to-day, there was no music in the morning, to call up our new married friend (Peg Penn), which is very mean, methinks."

That Valentines were not confined to the lower classes in the days of Pepys, and were sometimes of a very costly description, may be judged from the following statement: "The Duke of York being once Mrs. Stuart's Valentine, did give her a jewel of about £800, and my Lord Mandeville, her Valentine this year, a ring of about £300."

And, in the following year, he notes down: "This evening my wife did with great pleasure show me her stock of jewels, increased by the ring she hath made lately, as my Valentine's gift this year, a Turkey stone set with diamonds; with this, and what she had, she reckons that she hath above £150 worth of jewels of one kind or other, and I am glad of it; for it is fit the wretch should have something to content herself with."

With regard to the origin of this festival in the calendar, there are many conflicting opinions. St. Valentine, who suffered martyrdom in the reign of the Emperor Claudius, was eminently distinguished for his love and charity; and the custom of choosing Valentines, or special loving friends on this day, is by some supposed to have thence originated. The following solution is, however, the more probable one. It was the practice in ancient Rome, during a great part of the month of February, to celebrate the Lupercalia, which were feasts in honor of Pan and Juno, whence the latter deity was named Februata, or Februalis. On this occasion, amidst a variety of ceremonies, the names of young women were put into a box, from which they were drawn by the men, as chance directed. The pastors of the early Christian church, who by every possible means endeavored to eradicate the vestiges of pagan superstitions, and chiefly by some commutations of their forms, substituted, in the present instance, the names of particular saints, instead of those of the women; and, as the festival of the Lupercalia had commenced about the middle of February, they appear to have chosen Valentine's day for celebrating the new feast, because it occurred nearly at the same time.

A RECEIPT FOR YOUNG HOUSEKEEPERS.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "MISS BREMER'S VISIT TO COOPER'S LANDING," "GETTING INTO SOCIETY," "BOARDING-HOUSE POLITICS," ETC.

"And the ice it isn't water, and water isn't free—and I can't say that anything is what it ought to be."Cricket on the Hearth.

"I feel as if I should fly!"

No wonder poor Mrs. Bunker longed for the wings of a dove, if they could bear her to anything like rest. It was Monday—washing-day—andblueMonday into the bargain. The parlor was in disorder (the Bunkers always sat in their parlor on Sunday, and held it sacred the rest of the week); the front hall tracked and littered up with the arrival of a visitor's baggage—the spare room was not ready—the clothes not counted out—the girl idling away her time at the pump—the breakfast dishes unwashed—and the baby screaming, as only a cross child can scream, in its mother's arms, showing not the least symptom of a morning nap, or, indeed, ofanythingbut colic.

Mrs. Bunker, as she sat in the midst of this confusion, and expressed her desire to fly, bore no resemblance whatever to an angel—except that angels are usually represented with loose robes and unconfined hair. We question if she had looked at a brush since the day before, and her morning-dress was of the style denominated "wrapper"—a not over-clean chintz. The room itself was cheerful enough, so far as sunshine and comfortable furniture would go; but nothing was in its place; and this disorder, added to the forlorn appearance of Mrs. Bunker, holding the baby in its sour, crumpled night-dress and soiled flannel, was anything but an inviting prospect to a newly arrived guest.

Mrs. Bunker expected her every minute—Aunt Lovey—her husband's aunt, who had brought him up, and had given him all those particular ways that were the bane of Mrs. Bunker's wedded life, she having very little idea of the necessity he attached to method in managing a household. Mrs. Bunker, only two years from school, had written very nice letters to this friend of her husband's orphaned childhood. She loved her Joshua, in spite of his unsentimental name, and was inclined to adopt all his family in her affectionate little soul. Nor was it unnatural that she wished them to think well of her in return; she particularly desired to gain Aunt Lovey's good opinion, and when the long talked of visit was decided on, hadhoped to make a grand first impression. If it hadn't been Monday morning, and if baby hadn't been so cross—if the spare room had only been cleared up after her brother's departure—if the girl was "worth two straws"—in fact, if everything hadn't been exactly what it shouldn't be, Mrs. Bunker would have got up herself, her house, and her baby, to the best advantage. She had a very pretty face and figure, a fact of which she was well aware, and as a school-girl and young lady in society, had made the most of. Since her marriage, this was not so apparent to Mr. Bunker, however, as in the days of their courtship.Then, she never allowed herself to be seen without her hair in the most wonderful French twists and Grecian braids—or her dress put on to the utmost advantage. Now, "it wasn't worth while to dress just for Joshua"—or "baby wassotroublesome"—or "she hadn't a thing to put on." Itwasworth while to dress for Aunt Lovey, and she desired to look her very best—only babywouldn'tgo to sleep. "Rock-a-by baby"—

(Mrs. Bunker had been considered to have the best voice in the Highville Seminary, but now her music was confined chiefly to that charming ballad writer, Mother Goose.)

"Rock-a-by baby, father's gone a hunting"—Oh, dear, she will be here before I can get him down! There—therey—did the drayman say his Aunty Lovey was a-goin' to walky uppy to the housey? Johnny shall ride, Johnny shall ride (you provoking little monkey, whydon'tyou shut your eyes!)—"Wid a white pussy-cat tied to his side!"—sang, and rocked, and trotted Mrs. Bunker.

"Whereisthat Jane? Not a dish washed—and I don't believe the hot water's on for the clothes. Therey, therey, mother's baby, mother's only little man! Did the naughty colic bother mother's little son? Send the wind right up, so I would. Ride a cock horse to Banbury cross—therey, therey, don't cry so, mother's little man—'Had a little dog, sir, Banger was his name, sir'—Banger, Buffer, Kicker, Cuffer,Bangerwas his name, sir! Jane! Jane! Where is that girl? I feel as if I should fly!"

At which remark—the energy of which we have endeavored to portray in the most crumpled italics—the door opened to admit, not Jane, but Aunt Lovey, and our history of Mrs. Bunker's tribulations began.

She gave one glance at her visitor, one to herself, and round the room. There was no help for it—she was obliged to deposit baby in the cradle, screaming as he was, and advance to make a "first impression." Aunt Lovey did not look shocked or disgusted—a little surprised certainly, for, knowing her nephew's orderly propensities, this was not what she expected to find his home, and the untidy, tired, fretted-looking woman who introduced herself as his wife, did not certainly answer to the lover's descriptions of his betrothed. However, she had been a housekeeper, and knew what Monday mornings were, with only one maid of all work, and a young child to see to. So she kissed her niece very cordially for the warm welcome she offered, and begging 'not to be minded, as she understood these little troubles,' sat down, laid aside her bonnet and shawl, and asked for the baby.

There it was again—hardest of all! Mrs. Bunker's personal vanity, in departing from her as a married woman, had rested and centred itself on the baby. Aunt Lovey had taken the utmost interest in its advent—knitted all its socks, the very blue pair, soiled and dirty, which he was kicking out at that moment—and in return, had been favored by rapturous accounts of hisbeautyat three days old, his knowingness at three months. Mrs. Bunker had pictured herself presenting the baby in grand toilet to his great-aunt, and seeing her surprise, as the old lady confessed the half had not been told her—"oh, dear!"

But there was no help for it, and she was obliged to withdraw the poor little juvenile from its involuntary confinement, ready to cry with weariness and disappointment, as she tried to coax it into something like good-humor. Jane, drawn by curiosity where duty failed, arrived to complete the tableau, slamming the door, and slopping over the pump-water on her way to the wash-kitchen. She must have been experimenting on the principle that "the longest way round is the shortest way home," for there was a door in the work-kitchen leading directly to the street.

Good Aunt Lovey was no more discomposed by the bold stare the "help" fixed upon her, than she had been by the rest of the picture. It must have cost her an inward tremor to lay down her dove-colored cashmere shawl and split straw bonnet with its white satin ribbons, on the littered bureau, but she did so without invitation, Mrs. Bunker having fairly forgotten to offer one in the combined annoyances and embarrassments of the moment, and then, seated in the rocking-chair, from which her niece had risen, she spread the cradle blanket in her lap, and held out her hands for the baby.

It was really a very nice child, as babies go, in spite of its rumpled costume. Aunt Lovey'sfirst proceeding was to "straighten it out," smoothing the uncomfortable folds of cloth and flannel from under its back, and thus covering its cold little feet. Her handkerchief was produced to dry the little face from the mingled effects of tears and teething, and then warmed on the stove—there was very little fire—the stove neverdiddraw on washing-day—to cover the mottled arms and hands. Baby thus smoothed, soothed, and comforted, presented a much more respectable appearance, and received a hearty kiss from its grand-aunt, by way of an anodyne. It seemed to have the desired effect, for, after staring with its round blue eyes in the old lady's face, as if endeavoring to recall the features, it gradually winked and blinked itself to sleep, certainly contrary to its most determined intentions.

Mrs. Bunker, who had excused herself as if to overlook Jane's operations, but in reality to take up the crying fit where the baby left off, returned, with eyes very much swollen in consequence, and tried to offer an apology for herself and her house, but broke down again into a little sob, and a clean pocket-handkerchief.

"Come, come, my dear, no excuse is needed," hummed Aunt Lovey, at the mother and the fast retiring baby, to the old-fashioned melody of "Banks and braes." "Just warm a pillow—there, that's right; now shake it up, and make it soft; have every feather smooth and light," unconsciously relapsing into rhyme as well as chime, while she deposited the placid Johnny in his accustomed bed. "And now, my dear, I see how it all is. Could you lend me a clean check apron?—never mind, this towel will do, and will wash up these dishes post haste. What's your girl's name? Jane? Jane, here, come and rake up this fire a little; there's nothing helps matters along faster than a bright, cheerful fire; it's like a lively disposition, which I'm sure you have naturally."

It was wonderful to see Jane's alacrity in obeying these instructions, given in a quick, inspiriting, and, at the same time, not-to-be-trifled-with tone. Mrs. Bunker, captain as she was, placed herself willingly under the orders of so skilful a pilot, and was steered triumphantly through the household difficulties that had gathered so thickly around her.

"And now, my dear," resumed that excellent woman, unpinning the towel that encircled her ample waist, and folding it smoothly before she laid it down, "what else is there to do this morning?"

The fire was burning cheerfully, the dishes put away, the carpet swept, the chairs set back, and the baby still sleeping soundly in the bright warmth that had diffused itself throughout the room. Mrs. Bunker already felt as if she had known Aunt Lovey for a long time; they had talked all the while they were busied about household affairs, and the new niece felt as if she could almost open her heart to the kind old lady, and consult her about those constantly occurring domestic drawbacks and trials. Joshua, good husband as he was, did not seem to understand. It was more effective than a week of formal visiting, and Mrs. Bunker's face and step brightened with the room. Now came the clouds again. "There was so much to be done, she didn't know where to begin."

"But what is it?" urged Aunt Lovey, stooping down admiringly over the cradle, for the baby looked very lovely in his quiet sleep, one little round hand pushed under his cheek—he was making as good an impression as his mother could desire.

"Oh,everything!" responded the baby's mother, in a despairing tone.

"Ah, I see,mustard to mix," and with these cabalistic words, the visitor took a deliberate survey of her hostess for the first time. "Consider me your grandmother, Sophia, and let me advise you to tidy yourself a little; that will be the first step towards it. A neat morning-dress and clean apron are next best, or perhaps better, than a good fire, in any house. I'll see to the baby."

Aunt Lucy certainly made herself at home. She put the tips of her prunella buskins on the stove hearth, and examined the hem of her skirts to see if they had contracted any dampness or mud stains in her recent walk, and then produced her knitting, as if she was settled down for some time. Mrs. Bunker took the advice, as she had former prescriptions, and found it to work as well. The morning's duties were accomplished with an ease and alacrity that astonished herself, even to making the great chamber as neat as Aunt Lovey's heart could desire, without the mortification of her knowing it had ever been otherwise.

It was not until Mr. Bunker had come from the store, and been duly astonished and delighted at his aunt's unexpected arrival, and the tidy appearance of the whole household—to tell the truth, he wondered how the last happened to be so—that Mrs. Bunker found time to seek an explanation of the significant sentence applied by the old lady to her state of despondency with regard to domestic affairs. Significant she was convinced, though she could not exactly make out the application, as her aunt had seen the mutton chops destined for dinner arrive fromthe butcher's, and she had never heard of mustard being taken with them. They had been duly served, praised, and eaten; the dinner dishes were washed and put away, so was the baby for his second diurnal nap, and Mrs. Bunker, notwithstanding she had company, found herself seated to her sewing by three o'clock for the first in a month, while Jane, like the unfortunate "maid" mentioned in one of the baby's favorite lullabies, was

Back to Index Next