HOUSEHOLD HINTS.

HOUSEHOLD HINTS.Manypeople think night air injurious and carefully close their windows even in hot weather, whereas, in towns, the night air is the purest and best, free from smoke and other impurities. And the sleep is more restful where there is some fresh air coming into the room of the sleeper.A littlepowdered borax on a damp flannel cleans dirt off white marble and china basins.Whenthe edges of palm leaves in pots get torn and unsightly, they can be cut and trimmed with a pair of scissors.Whentortoiseshell combs get to look dull, polish them with a little olive oil with the hand. If very bad, soak them in oil for a few hours.Incase of fire in a house, if the staircase be alight and retreat that way be impossible, the inhabitants should shut all the doors behind them and wait in a front room till help comes. A window that is over a doorway is preferable as there is then foothold for the firemen. If it is possible to escape otherwise, crawl on hands and knees on the floor rather than walk upright, for smoke rises and the nearer the floor the clearer the air. In any case doors and windows should be shut to prevent a draught.Ifyou do not want the smell of dinner all over the house, see that the slide over the kitchen range is open for the smell to go up the chimney. You will also save your coal bill largely if you keep this slide open except only when it is wanted closed for a short time to make a fire fiercer.Theseeds of the first blossoms on a plant or flowering shrub grow into the best plants.

Manypeople think night air injurious and carefully close their windows even in hot weather, whereas, in towns, the night air is the purest and best, free from smoke and other impurities. And the sleep is more restful where there is some fresh air coming into the room of the sleeper.

A littlepowdered borax on a damp flannel cleans dirt off white marble and china basins.

Whenthe edges of palm leaves in pots get torn and unsightly, they can be cut and trimmed with a pair of scissors.

Whentortoiseshell combs get to look dull, polish them with a little olive oil with the hand. If very bad, soak them in oil for a few hours.

Incase of fire in a house, if the staircase be alight and retreat that way be impossible, the inhabitants should shut all the doors behind them and wait in a front room till help comes. A window that is over a doorway is preferable as there is then foothold for the firemen. If it is possible to escape otherwise, crawl on hands and knees on the floor rather than walk upright, for smoke rises and the nearer the floor the clearer the air. In any case doors and windows should be shut to prevent a draught.

Ifyou do not want the smell of dinner all over the house, see that the slide over the kitchen range is open for the smell to go up the chimney. You will also save your coal bill largely if you keep this slide open except only when it is wanted closed for a short time to make a fire fiercer.

Theseeds of the first blossoms on a plant or flowering shrub grow into the best plants.

BREAD AND CAKES.Household Bread.Ingredients.—Three pounds and a half of flour (household), about one pint and a quarter of warm water, one dessertspoonful and a half of salt, one ounce of dry yeast, one ounce of moist sugar.Method.—Put the flour and salt in an earthenware pan, and mix well together; put the pan to warm; work the yeast to a cream with the sugar, and add to it a gill and a half of the warm water. Make a well in the flour and mix in the yeast and water, so that there is a soft batter in the middle of the flour; sprinkle flour over this, lay a cloth over the pan and put it in a warm place for fifteen minutes to set the sponge; then stir in the rest of the water; flour the board and knead the dough for about twenty minutes until very elastic; replace it in the pan with a deep cross scored on the top to help it to rise, cover up and put in a warm place to rise one hour and a half. Make into loaves and bake; the oven should be very hot at first and moderate for the rest of the time. A quartern loaf will take nearly two hours to cook. If the water used is hot instead of warm, the yeast will be killed and will not act.Gingerbread.Ingredients.—One pound of flour, six ounces of golden syrup, four ounces of brown sugar, four ounces of dripping, one ounce of ground ginger, two teaspoonfuls of carbonate of soda, one teaspoonful of mixed spice, two-thirds of a gill of milk.Method.—Put the flour, sugar, ginger and spice in a basin and mix well together; put the treacle, milk, soda and dripping in a saucepan and melt over the fire; pour the contents of the saucepan into the contents of the basin, mix well, beat for five minutes, pour in a greased tin and bake in a moderate oven.Scones.Ingredients.—One pound of flour, two ounces of dripping, three ounces of sugar, half an ounce of cream of tartar, one teaspoonful of carbonate of soda, milk to mix, a few sultanas (floured and picked).Method.—Mix the tartar and the soda well with the flour in a basin, rub in the dripping, add the sugar and sultanas, mix with milk rather more soft than for pastry, roll into two thick rounds, cut each into six equal pieces, lay on a floured tin, brush over the top with milk and bake in a good oven twenty minutes. Plain scones can be made by leaving out the sultanas and the sugar. These scones are best made with milk that is slightly sour.Plum Cake.Ingredients.—One pound of flour, six ounces of dripping, six ounces of brown sugar, six ounces of sultanas (floured and picked), four ounces of currants (washed and dried), one teaspoonful of baking powder, two eggs, one gill and a half of milk.Method.—Put the dripping in a basin and work it to a cream with a wooden spoon; mix the flour with the baking powder and stir it into the dripping; stir in the currants, sultanas and sugar, and last of all the eggs beaten up with the milk. Put in a well-greased cake tin, and stand the tin on a thickly-sanded baking sheet. Bake in a hot oven for an hour and then in a cooler oven for another half an hour.Seed Cake.Method.—Make like plum cake, using an ounce of caraway seeds for the sultanas and currants, and a little less milk.Unfermented Bread.Ingredients.—One pound of flour, one tablespoonful of baking powder, milk and water to mix, one teaspoonful of salt.Method.—Mix together to a soft dough; make into six rolls, brush with milk and bake in a sharp oven fifteen minutes.Potato Cake.Ingredients.—Three-quarters of a pound of mashed potatoes, half a pound of flour, two ounces of butter, one teaspoonful of salt, one small teaspoonful of baking-powder, one egg, half a gill of lukewarm milk.Method.—Melt the butter, and mix it with the mashed potatoes, mix in the flour and baking powder, add egg well beaten and the lukewarm milk. Flour the board, roll into a thick round, lay on a floured and greased tin, and bake in a good oven about three-quarters of an hour.Rock Cakes.Ingredients.—Half a pound of flour, two ounces of currants (washed and dried), two ounces of sultanas, two ounces of dripping, two ounces of brown sugar, one ounce of candied peel, one teaspoonful of ground ginger, one teaspoonful of baking powder, one egg, a little milk.Method.—Mix the flour and baking powder in a basin, rub in the dripping, add the currants and the sultanas, sugar, peel and ginger, mix very stiffly with egg and milk; pile in little rough heaps on a greased tin with two forks and bake in a good oven ten minutes.Citron Buns.Ingredients.—Half a pound of flour, two ounces of margarine, two ounces of brown sugar, one teaspoonful of baking powder, one egg, a little milk, three ounces of citron.Method.—Mix the flour with the baking powder, rub in the margarine with the tips of the fingers, add the sugar; cut eight good-sized pieces of the citron peel and chop the rest small; mix the chopped citron with the other ingredients, and then add the egg beaten with a little milk. Mix rather wet; divide into eight, lay on a greased tin, lay a piece of citron on each cake and bake for fifteen minutes in a good oven.Shortbread.Ingredients.—One pound of flour, three-quarters of a pound of butter, half a pound of castor sugar.Method.—Rub six ounces of the butter into the flour and sugar, melt the rest and mix it in; work a little with the hands to form a dough; roll into two thick rounds and pinch them round the edge with the fingers to ornament them. Prick over the top with a fork or a biscuit pricker; put two or three large pieces of candied peel on each and bake about half an hour in a moderate oven.Rice Cakes.Ingredients.—Three ounces of ground rice, two ounces of flour, three ounces of butter, three ounces of castor sugar, two eggs, vanilla.Method.—Beat the butter to a cream with a wooden spoon, add the sugar and cream to that; stir in the ground rice with the flour by degrees; add the eggs well beaten and the flavouring; fill greased patty pans and bake in a moderate oven fifteen minutes.Almond Cakes.Ingredients.—Eight ounces of flour, four ounces of butter, five ounces of castor sugar, four eggs, three ounces of almonds, half a pound of icing sugar, a little almond flavouring, a little water.Method.—Beat the butter to a cream with a wooden spoon, stir in the sugar, beat in the eggs one by one, putting a little flour with each to prevent its curdling, stir in the rest of the flour after the eggs are beaten in, lastly the almonds blanched and chopped. Brush some little cake moulds with clarified butter and dust them with mixed castor sugar and flour; fill these three-parts full with the cake mixture and bake in a good oven a pale brown, turn out on to a sieve, and when cold ice as follows.Icing.—Sift half a pound of icing sugar and mix it very smoothly with a little cold water and enough almond essence to flavour it until it is just thick enough to coat the cakes, pour over and let it set. Put a crystallised cherry on each, and arrange strips of blanched almonds to ornament.Chocolate Cake.Ingredients.—Half a pound of flour, quarter of a pound of grated chocolate, three ounces of butter, six ounces of castor sugar, four eggs, one small teaspoonful of baking powder, vanilla flavouring, a little browning.For the Icing.—Half a pound of icing sugar, three ounces of chocolate, a little water and browning.Method.—Beat the butter to a cream, add the castor sugar and the grated chocolate; beat the eggs in one at a time, putting a little flour with each; add the flour, the vanilla flavouring and a little browning. Have ready a cake tin brushed out with clarified butter and lined with buttered paper; put in the mixture, which should three parts fill it, and bake in a good oven about one hour and a half.For the Icing.—Melt three ounces of chocolate; mix the icing sugar with about four tablespoonfuls of warm water and stir in the melted chocolate; work well with a wooden spoon and pour over the cake when it is cold.Roscommon Loaf.Ingredients.—One pound of wholemeal flour, quarter of a pound of household flour, one ounce and a half of butter or dripping, half a teaspoonful of carbonate of soda, one teaspoonful of salt, sour milk to mix.Method.—Mix the flour, salt and soda well in a basin, rub in the dripping, mix to a rather soft dough with the sour milk; make into a flat loaf, score across with a knife, and bake in a good oven one hour and a half.

Ingredients.—Three pounds and a half of flour (household), about one pint and a quarter of warm water, one dessertspoonful and a half of salt, one ounce of dry yeast, one ounce of moist sugar.

Method.—Put the flour and salt in an earthenware pan, and mix well together; put the pan to warm; work the yeast to a cream with the sugar, and add to it a gill and a half of the warm water. Make a well in the flour and mix in the yeast and water, so that there is a soft batter in the middle of the flour; sprinkle flour over this, lay a cloth over the pan and put it in a warm place for fifteen minutes to set the sponge; then stir in the rest of the water; flour the board and knead the dough for about twenty minutes until very elastic; replace it in the pan with a deep cross scored on the top to help it to rise, cover up and put in a warm place to rise one hour and a half. Make into loaves and bake; the oven should be very hot at first and moderate for the rest of the time. A quartern loaf will take nearly two hours to cook. If the water used is hot instead of warm, the yeast will be killed and will not act.

Ingredients.—One pound of flour, six ounces of golden syrup, four ounces of brown sugar, four ounces of dripping, one ounce of ground ginger, two teaspoonfuls of carbonate of soda, one teaspoonful of mixed spice, two-thirds of a gill of milk.

Method.—Put the flour, sugar, ginger and spice in a basin and mix well together; put the treacle, milk, soda and dripping in a saucepan and melt over the fire; pour the contents of the saucepan into the contents of the basin, mix well, beat for five minutes, pour in a greased tin and bake in a moderate oven.

Ingredients.—One pound of flour, two ounces of dripping, three ounces of sugar, half an ounce of cream of tartar, one teaspoonful of carbonate of soda, milk to mix, a few sultanas (floured and picked).

Method.—Mix the tartar and the soda well with the flour in a basin, rub in the dripping, add the sugar and sultanas, mix with milk rather more soft than for pastry, roll into two thick rounds, cut each into six equal pieces, lay on a floured tin, brush over the top with milk and bake in a good oven twenty minutes. Plain scones can be made by leaving out the sultanas and the sugar. These scones are best made with milk that is slightly sour.

Ingredients.—One pound of flour, six ounces of dripping, six ounces of brown sugar, six ounces of sultanas (floured and picked), four ounces of currants (washed and dried), one teaspoonful of baking powder, two eggs, one gill and a half of milk.

Method.—Put the dripping in a basin and work it to a cream with a wooden spoon; mix the flour with the baking powder and stir it into the dripping; stir in the currants, sultanas and sugar, and last of all the eggs beaten up with the milk. Put in a well-greased cake tin, and stand the tin on a thickly-sanded baking sheet. Bake in a hot oven for an hour and then in a cooler oven for another half an hour.

Method.—Make like plum cake, using an ounce of caraway seeds for the sultanas and currants, and a little less milk.

Ingredients.—One pound of flour, one tablespoonful of baking powder, milk and water to mix, one teaspoonful of salt.

Method.—Mix together to a soft dough; make into six rolls, brush with milk and bake in a sharp oven fifteen minutes.

Ingredients.—Three-quarters of a pound of mashed potatoes, half a pound of flour, two ounces of butter, one teaspoonful of salt, one small teaspoonful of baking-powder, one egg, half a gill of lukewarm milk.

Method.—Melt the butter, and mix it with the mashed potatoes, mix in the flour and baking powder, add egg well beaten and the lukewarm milk. Flour the board, roll into a thick round, lay on a floured and greased tin, and bake in a good oven about three-quarters of an hour.

Ingredients.—Half a pound of flour, two ounces of currants (washed and dried), two ounces of sultanas, two ounces of dripping, two ounces of brown sugar, one ounce of candied peel, one teaspoonful of ground ginger, one teaspoonful of baking powder, one egg, a little milk.

Method.—Mix the flour and baking powder in a basin, rub in the dripping, add the currants and the sultanas, sugar, peel and ginger, mix very stiffly with egg and milk; pile in little rough heaps on a greased tin with two forks and bake in a good oven ten minutes.

Ingredients.—Half a pound of flour, two ounces of margarine, two ounces of brown sugar, one teaspoonful of baking powder, one egg, a little milk, three ounces of citron.

Method.—Mix the flour with the baking powder, rub in the margarine with the tips of the fingers, add the sugar; cut eight good-sized pieces of the citron peel and chop the rest small; mix the chopped citron with the other ingredients, and then add the egg beaten with a little milk. Mix rather wet; divide into eight, lay on a greased tin, lay a piece of citron on each cake and bake for fifteen minutes in a good oven.

Ingredients.—One pound of flour, three-quarters of a pound of butter, half a pound of castor sugar.

Method.—Rub six ounces of the butter into the flour and sugar, melt the rest and mix it in; work a little with the hands to form a dough; roll into two thick rounds and pinch them round the edge with the fingers to ornament them. Prick over the top with a fork or a biscuit pricker; put two or three large pieces of candied peel on each and bake about half an hour in a moderate oven.

Ingredients.—Three ounces of ground rice, two ounces of flour, three ounces of butter, three ounces of castor sugar, two eggs, vanilla.

Method.—Beat the butter to a cream with a wooden spoon, add the sugar and cream to that; stir in the ground rice with the flour by degrees; add the eggs well beaten and the flavouring; fill greased patty pans and bake in a moderate oven fifteen minutes.

Ingredients.—Eight ounces of flour, four ounces of butter, five ounces of castor sugar, four eggs, three ounces of almonds, half a pound of icing sugar, a little almond flavouring, a little water.

Method.—Beat the butter to a cream with a wooden spoon, stir in the sugar, beat in the eggs one by one, putting a little flour with each to prevent its curdling, stir in the rest of the flour after the eggs are beaten in, lastly the almonds blanched and chopped. Brush some little cake moulds with clarified butter and dust them with mixed castor sugar and flour; fill these three-parts full with the cake mixture and bake in a good oven a pale brown, turn out on to a sieve, and when cold ice as follows.

Icing.—Sift half a pound of icing sugar and mix it very smoothly with a little cold water and enough almond essence to flavour it until it is just thick enough to coat the cakes, pour over and let it set. Put a crystallised cherry on each, and arrange strips of blanched almonds to ornament.

Ingredients.—Half a pound of flour, quarter of a pound of grated chocolate, three ounces of butter, six ounces of castor sugar, four eggs, one small teaspoonful of baking powder, vanilla flavouring, a little browning.

For the Icing.—Half a pound of icing sugar, three ounces of chocolate, a little water and browning.

Method.—Beat the butter to a cream, add the castor sugar and the grated chocolate; beat the eggs in one at a time, putting a little flour with each; add the flour, the vanilla flavouring and a little browning. Have ready a cake tin brushed out with clarified butter and lined with buttered paper; put in the mixture, which should three parts fill it, and bake in a good oven about one hour and a half.

For the Icing.—Melt three ounces of chocolate; mix the icing sugar with about four tablespoonfuls of warm water and stir in the melted chocolate; work well with a wooden spoon and pour over the cake when it is cold.

Ingredients.—One pound of wholemeal flour, quarter of a pound of household flour, one ounce and a half of butter or dripping, half a teaspoonful of carbonate of soda, one teaspoonful of salt, sour milk to mix.

Method.—Mix the flour, salt and soda well in a basin, rub in the dripping, mix to a rather soft dough with the sour milk; make into a flat loaf, score across with a knife, and bake in a good oven one hour and a half.

“FIVE O’CLOCK TEA.”(Picture by A. E. Artigue.)

“FIVE O’CLOCK TEA.”(Picture by A. E. Artigue.)

“FIVE O’CLOCK TEA.”(Picture by A. E. Artigue.)

“FIVE O’CLOCK TEA.”

(Picture by A. E. Artigue.)

WANTED: A LITTLE MORE IMAGINATION.By JAMES and NANETTE MASON.Doyou think we are going to advocate that all of us should retire to dreamland to pass a drowsy existence there with the creations of our fancy? Who thinks that is mistaken. It is not possible to put everything in the title, otherwise we might have made this one run, “Wanted: a little more imagination for those who, at the right times, have not enough, and a little less for those who, on all possible occasions, have too much.” But it is the “too little” which is of most importance for the purposes of ordinary life, and that is why the title stands above as it does. Our first business is to be practical and to speak of imagination as an aid in the work and conduct and duty of every day.Of all powers possessed by our minds this is perhaps the most wonderful—the power of making pictures inside our heads, seeing there what eyes know nothing of and what outside ourselves has really no existence. It gives an importance—a glory even—to the most obscure and solitary lives. Possessed of a vivid and healthy imagination, a girl may live very much alone and yet be full of company, entertaining a ghostly good society that in some respects is even an improvement on that frequented by her less isolated friends.Everything is the better for being shone on by its magic light—even love. Imagination, someone says, is to love what gas is to the balloon—that which raises it from the earth! It is, as we all know, the test of genius; but it is found, too, in ordinary people as a useful servant. Indeed, take imagination altogether out of our inner life and we would be very poor creatures.However, as we have said, we have sometimes not enough. This happens, for example, when we fail to look at things in a spirit of kindliness, and give utterance to criticism on other folk, hard, harsh, and unreasonable.Matter-of-fact minds usually fail to realise that all are not alike and that allowance—and a wide allowance too—should be made for differences both in thought and action. For this reason we find them often wanting in sympathy and sometimes even cruel.This the imaginative seldom are. “Put yourself in her place” is their golden rule—the best rule that was ever devised for enabling us to go through the world adding daily to the happiness of it.Only have a little more imagination and you will be tolerant and kindly and ready to make excuses not only for those you love, which is easy, but for those you dislike, which, as everyone knows, is a much harder matter. The “little more” will make Kate shut her mouth again the next time it flies open to let out a rude, abrupt, or unreasonable word. It will make Eliza pay that little account she has been owing for the last six months without a thought in all that time of the dressmaker needing the money. It will make Maggie give up grumbling that Beatrice writes to her so seldom, as if Beatrice has the leisure,—she the eldest of a great bunch of sisters and her mother an invalid. It will make Eva cut her visit short next time she calls on Alice, so leaving hard-worked Alice to get through her school tasks for the morrow without sitting up to all hours of the night. In fact, what will it not do in the way of giving smoothness to the wheels of life?Imagination is a first-rate faculty by which to obtain a look at ourselves, and when we get a little more of it, it is like turning up the gas to get a clearer view. We see ourselves then as others see us, and a pretty exhibition it sometimes is. If a girl is vain, frivolous, whimsical, selfish, vulgar, mean, she in this way gets to know it. There is thus always hope for the imaginative—they can realise what they are, and, without self-knowledge, what chance of reformation is there for anybody?Our friend Josephine, for example, came to us the other day, keen on being an authoress; but Josephine, it is clear, has next to no imagination. With only a few grains of it, she would have seen that becoming an authoress is for her impossible, because what she wants is publishers’ and editors’ cheques and what she does not want is trouble.A well-trained imagination—not one inclined to run riot; no, certainly not that sort of a one—is of great assistance in enabling us rightly to sum up people and things. Our critical faculties are worth little and only lead us into mischief and mistakes without it. Possessed of only a “little more,” not a few of us would often be saved from being misled by appearances and enabled to steer clear of the troubles that come from drawing wrong inferences. The world is a difficult enough world to live in, for things are but seldom what they seem, and some art, like this one we are talking about, is needed by which we can illuminate life and get at the real essence of all that interests us.Another use of imagination is in the reading of books, and on this subject no one has written better than the late Professor Blackie, who held very decided opinions about the importance of having the imaginative faculty properly trained.“As there are many persons,” he says, “who seem to walk through life with their eyes open seeing nothing, so there are others who read through books, and perhaps even cram themselves with facts, without carrying away any living pictures of significant story which might arouse the fancy in an hour of leisure or gird them with endurance in a moment of difficulty.“Ask yourself, therefore, always when you read a chapter of any notable book, not what you saw printed on a grey page, but what you see pictured in the glowing gallery of your imagination. Have your fancy always vivid and full of body and colour. Count yourself not to know a fact when you know that it took place, but then only when you see it as it did take place.”These words form as valuable a note on the art of reading as we are likely to meet with for many a day.To train the imagination adequately, the Professor points out, it is not enough that pictures be made to float pleasantly before the fancy—that is merely the amusement of the lazy. We should call upon our imagination to take a firm grasp of the shadows as they arise, and not be content till we see them with our minds almost as clear, distinct, and life-like as we might have done with our eyes.For the culture of the imagination, works of fiction are no doubt of great service, but the most useful exercise of this faculty is when it buckles itself to realities.“There is no need,” says the Professor, “of going to romances for pictures of human character and fortune calculated to please the fancy and to elevate the imagination. The life of Alexander the Great, of Martin Luther, of Gustavus Adolphus, or any of those notable characters on the great stage of the world who incarnate the history which they create, is for this purpose of more educational value than the best novel that ever was written or even the best poetry. Not all minds delight in poetry; but all minds are impressed and elevated by an imposing and a striking fact. To exercise the imagination on the lives of great and good men brings with it a double gain; for by this exercise we learn at a single stroke, and in the most effective way, both what was done, and what ought to be done.”What is true of the value of imagination to the student of books is equally true of its importance to all who devote attention to music and art. Without imagination, the pursuit of either is little better than a waste of time, and the more of it we bring to their culture, the more successful we shall be. Let girls, then, and their parents and teachers, look to it and do what they can to encourage this most spiritual of all our faculties, the very life of artistic effort, and a magician to whom everything is possible.A great and good use of imagination is to reproduce to us our past lives. It is something more than memory. Memory says I was at such a place on a certain day, but imagination brings up the place—the Highland loch, it may be, in the glory of an autumn morning, the purple heather on the hills, the steamer at the pier, the hotel overlooking the steamer, the young man in the coffee-room smiling to the landlord’s daughter, the taste of the fresh salmon, the very smell of the burned oat-cake.“All that is past,” says Bacon, “is as a dream,” and by imagination we can dream it all over again. And the recollection is sometimes better than the reality, just as in moonlight our village looks more lovely than in sunshine. Sentiment whispers then in our ear, and a halo is thrown over the unsightly and disagreeable.An additional charm too is that many a problem which may have puzzled us when things actually happened, is solved before we begin to look back. The relationship of people, lovers and lasses, friends and foes, sharpers and simpletons, has been made plain; the foolish have got their deserts and the wise have got theirs; the envious have grown lean and the good-natured and kindly have become fat; the wasters have fallen to poverty and the industrious have risen to fortune.Such changes as these give value and interest to our recollections when we wake the ghosts of the past and make them parade before us. We are able in a way which was impossible before to be actors, spectators, and enlightened critics—all three rolled in one.Girls who have now but little short lives, with comparatively few incidents to recall, can hardly realise what a gratification this wandering over the enchanted ground of imagination imparts to mature years. If they did they would often be saying to themselves, How will this look in recollection? And such a thought would keep them from many a frivolity and many an error. But, short lives or long lives, let us go over our past often if for no other reason than that we may understand ourselves, not to speak of our gaining such knowledge as will enable us to steer a safe course through the perils of the future.Speaking of the future reminds us that that is a great territory of the imaginative. By imagination girls are witches to foretell what is to happen the day after to-morrow.Now we spend our time ill if we build castles in the air and trust to them as if theywere substantial edifices. But, for all that, to let the imagination dwell on what is yet to come has its uses and may be a valuable help to conduct.Castles in the air and dreams, too hopelessly extravagant ever to be realised have brightened many dull and monotonous lives, and for that reason alone, within bounds, are to be encouraged. Besides this there is an important gain resulting from our projecting the imagination into the future—we are thereby prepared for many events which now find us quite unprepared.The grasshoppers were wanting in imagination who danced and sang all summer-time. They should have pictured to themselves the snow on the ground, the pools frozen over, and the wind whistling through the bare branches.A well-to-do man once said to us, “I have all my life had a vision of a workhouse door open to receive me if I did not plod on, rising early and working hard. It is that which has made me saving and prosperous.”A similar vision might work a change on some people we know. Bring your own self forward, Louisa, in the glittering hall of that imagination of yours, picturing yourself as old and disinclined for work, and see if ever after you will not be industrious, wise, and prudent.“For age and want save while you may,No morning sun lasts a whole day.”A little more imagination may often be recommended to the good looking, not forgetting all who think themselves so. Perhaps we should rather say a little more of the right sort, for they indulge in flights of fancy enough when it is a matter of picturing those brought into captivity by their charms. They should leave considering their conquests and captives and make an effort to realise what they themselves will be, say, at fifty or sixty, if they live so long. The beauty and attractiveness of youth will then be over, and unless they have something else to recommend them, their place will be on one of the back seats of human life.This should set them furnishing the inside of their heads as richly as Nature has done the outside. Beauty vanishes, but mental culture endures and is found attractive, and even charming, to the very end of the chapter. There are few sadder sights than that of a beauty in ruins with an untrained intellect and none more refreshing than that of a bright old wrinkled face, with a mind behind it stored with information and animated by shrewdness and good nature.There is danger in all things, for all—yes, even the best—may be misused. Imagination is a friendly help to elevate, direct, and brighten our lives as we have seen, but that does not happen with the foolish. Instead of occupying this wondrous faculty with what is profitable and beautiful, they devote it to what is degrading and mean, and thus become a great deal worse with imagination than they would be without it.And, even where its subjects are not positively objectionable, imagination sometimes wastes its energy on whimsicalities and runs riot in the broad fields of extravagance and nonsense. Of such a nature was the fertile fancy of an old friend of ours who, to the end of her days, showed great reverence for dogs and cats because she believed them animated by the souls of her ancestors.A very silly use of imagination is to picture to ourselves suspicions, dangers and misfortunes. Some of us have a great deal of ability in this line, and endure torments daily over evils that never arrive.“Never trouble trouble till trouble troubles you” is a safe rule, and only a stupid girl will set her imagination working so as to make herself miserable. Caroline, we fear, is of the stupid class—no doubt, Caroline, it is on this occasion only—or she would at once get rid of the dreadful thought she imparted to us last Tuesday that the letters sent to her by her sweetheart were detained at the post office and read. As if the postmistress, even in her country place, had not something better to do!Another danger of the imagination is that we are apt to take refuge in it against the duties of real life. In real life there is friction, and there is nothing of that in dreamland. We can make that pleasant country to suit ourselves, without irritation, without contradiction, without mishaps, everything coming just right. Our business, however, in the world is not to dream but to act, for which reason this great gift of imagination must be kept in its proper place. It is a good servant, but, by foolish indulgence, may become a very bad master.But, after making all allowances for dangers—those we have named and others that might be stated—the fact remains that to the greater number of us a little more imagination would not come amiss. It would make our lives richer, and happier, more useful, more kindly, more sensible. It is only a “little more” that is wanted. That any of us are entirely destitute of it is improbable. To be “dry sticks” is not common for girls.

By JAMES and NANETTE MASON.

Doyou think we are going to advocate that all of us should retire to dreamland to pass a drowsy existence there with the creations of our fancy? Who thinks that is mistaken. It is not possible to put everything in the title, otherwise we might have made this one run, “Wanted: a little more imagination for those who, at the right times, have not enough, and a little less for those who, on all possible occasions, have too much.” But it is the “too little” which is of most importance for the purposes of ordinary life, and that is why the title stands above as it does. Our first business is to be practical and to speak of imagination as an aid in the work and conduct and duty of every day.

Of all powers possessed by our minds this is perhaps the most wonderful—the power of making pictures inside our heads, seeing there what eyes know nothing of and what outside ourselves has really no existence. It gives an importance—a glory even—to the most obscure and solitary lives. Possessed of a vivid and healthy imagination, a girl may live very much alone and yet be full of company, entertaining a ghostly good society that in some respects is even an improvement on that frequented by her less isolated friends.

Everything is the better for being shone on by its magic light—even love. Imagination, someone says, is to love what gas is to the balloon—that which raises it from the earth! It is, as we all know, the test of genius; but it is found, too, in ordinary people as a useful servant. Indeed, take imagination altogether out of our inner life and we would be very poor creatures.

However, as we have said, we have sometimes not enough. This happens, for example, when we fail to look at things in a spirit of kindliness, and give utterance to criticism on other folk, hard, harsh, and unreasonable.

Matter-of-fact minds usually fail to realise that all are not alike and that allowance—and a wide allowance too—should be made for differences both in thought and action. For this reason we find them often wanting in sympathy and sometimes even cruel.

This the imaginative seldom are. “Put yourself in her place” is their golden rule—the best rule that was ever devised for enabling us to go through the world adding daily to the happiness of it.

Only have a little more imagination and you will be tolerant and kindly and ready to make excuses not only for those you love, which is easy, but for those you dislike, which, as everyone knows, is a much harder matter. The “little more” will make Kate shut her mouth again the next time it flies open to let out a rude, abrupt, or unreasonable word. It will make Eliza pay that little account she has been owing for the last six months without a thought in all that time of the dressmaker needing the money. It will make Maggie give up grumbling that Beatrice writes to her so seldom, as if Beatrice has the leisure,—she the eldest of a great bunch of sisters and her mother an invalid. It will make Eva cut her visit short next time she calls on Alice, so leaving hard-worked Alice to get through her school tasks for the morrow without sitting up to all hours of the night. In fact, what will it not do in the way of giving smoothness to the wheels of life?

Imagination is a first-rate faculty by which to obtain a look at ourselves, and when we get a little more of it, it is like turning up the gas to get a clearer view. We see ourselves then as others see us, and a pretty exhibition it sometimes is. If a girl is vain, frivolous, whimsical, selfish, vulgar, mean, she in this way gets to know it. There is thus always hope for the imaginative—they can realise what they are, and, without self-knowledge, what chance of reformation is there for anybody?

Our friend Josephine, for example, came to us the other day, keen on being an authoress; but Josephine, it is clear, has next to no imagination. With only a few grains of it, she would have seen that becoming an authoress is for her impossible, because what she wants is publishers’ and editors’ cheques and what she does not want is trouble.

A well-trained imagination—not one inclined to run riot; no, certainly not that sort of a one—is of great assistance in enabling us rightly to sum up people and things. Our critical faculties are worth little and only lead us into mischief and mistakes without it. Possessed of only a “little more,” not a few of us would often be saved from being misled by appearances and enabled to steer clear of the troubles that come from drawing wrong inferences. The world is a difficult enough world to live in, for things are but seldom what they seem, and some art, like this one we are talking about, is needed by which we can illuminate life and get at the real essence of all that interests us.

Another use of imagination is in the reading of books, and on this subject no one has written better than the late Professor Blackie, who held very decided opinions about the importance of having the imaginative faculty properly trained.

“As there are many persons,” he says, “who seem to walk through life with their eyes open seeing nothing, so there are others who read through books, and perhaps even cram themselves with facts, without carrying away any living pictures of significant story which might arouse the fancy in an hour of leisure or gird them with endurance in a moment of difficulty.

“Ask yourself, therefore, always when you read a chapter of any notable book, not what you saw printed on a grey page, but what you see pictured in the glowing gallery of your imagination. Have your fancy always vivid and full of body and colour. Count yourself not to know a fact when you know that it took place, but then only when you see it as it did take place.”

These words form as valuable a note on the art of reading as we are likely to meet with for many a day.

To train the imagination adequately, the Professor points out, it is not enough that pictures be made to float pleasantly before the fancy—that is merely the amusement of the lazy. We should call upon our imagination to take a firm grasp of the shadows as they arise, and not be content till we see them with our minds almost as clear, distinct, and life-like as we might have done with our eyes.

For the culture of the imagination, works of fiction are no doubt of great service, but the most useful exercise of this faculty is when it buckles itself to realities.

“There is no need,” says the Professor, “of going to romances for pictures of human character and fortune calculated to please the fancy and to elevate the imagination. The life of Alexander the Great, of Martin Luther, of Gustavus Adolphus, or any of those notable characters on the great stage of the world who incarnate the history which they create, is for this purpose of more educational value than the best novel that ever was written or even the best poetry. Not all minds delight in poetry; but all minds are impressed and elevated by an imposing and a striking fact. To exercise the imagination on the lives of great and good men brings with it a double gain; for by this exercise we learn at a single stroke, and in the most effective way, both what was done, and what ought to be done.”

What is true of the value of imagination to the student of books is equally true of its importance to all who devote attention to music and art. Without imagination, the pursuit of either is little better than a waste of time, and the more of it we bring to their culture, the more successful we shall be. Let girls, then, and their parents and teachers, look to it and do what they can to encourage this most spiritual of all our faculties, the very life of artistic effort, and a magician to whom everything is possible.

A great and good use of imagination is to reproduce to us our past lives. It is something more than memory. Memory says I was at such a place on a certain day, but imagination brings up the place—the Highland loch, it may be, in the glory of an autumn morning, the purple heather on the hills, the steamer at the pier, the hotel overlooking the steamer, the young man in the coffee-room smiling to the landlord’s daughter, the taste of the fresh salmon, the very smell of the burned oat-cake.

“All that is past,” says Bacon, “is as a dream,” and by imagination we can dream it all over again. And the recollection is sometimes better than the reality, just as in moonlight our village looks more lovely than in sunshine. Sentiment whispers then in our ear, and a halo is thrown over the unsightly and disagreeable.

An additional charm too is that many a problem which may have puzzled us when things actually happened, is solved before we begin to look back. The relationship of people, lovers and lasses, friends and foes, sharpers and simpletons, has been made plain; the foolish have got their deserts and the wise have got theirs; the envious have grown lean and the good-natured and kindly have become fat; the wasters have fallen to poverty and the industrious have risen to fortune.

Such changes as these give value and interest to our recollections when we wake the ghosts of the past and make them parade before us. We are able in a way which was impossible before to be actors, spectators, and enlightened critics—all three rolled in one.

Girls who have now but little short lives, with comparatively few incidents to recall, can hardly realise what a gratification this wandering over the enchanted ground of imagination imparts to mature years. If they did they would often be saying to themselves, How will this look in recollection? And such a thought would keep them from many a frivolity and many an error. But, short lives or long lives, let us go over our past often if for no other reason than that we may understand ourselves, not to speak of our gaining such knowledge as will enable us to steer a safe course through the perils of the future.

Speaking of the future reminds us that that is a great territory of the imaginative. By imagination girls are witches to foretell what is to happen the day after to-morrow.

Now we spend our time ill if we build castles in the air and trust to them as if theywere substantial edifices. But, for all that, to let the imagination dwell on what is yet to come has its uses and may be a valuable help to conduct.

Castles in the air and dreams, too hopelessly extravagant ever to be realised have brightened many dull and monotonous lives, and for that reason alone, within bounds, are to be encouraged. Besides this there is an important gain resulting from our projecting the imagination into the future—we are thereby prepared for many events which now find us quite unprepared.

The grasshoppers were wanting in imagination who danced and sang all summer-time. They should have pictured to themselves the snow on the ground, the pools frozen over, and the wind whistling through the bare branches.

A well-to-do man once said to us, “I have all my life had a vision of a workhouse door open to receive me if I did not plod on, rising early and working hard. It is that which has made me saving and prosperous.”

A similar vision might work a change on some people we know. Bring your own self forward, Louisa, in the glittering hall of that imagination of yours, picturing yourself as old and disinclined for work, and see if ever after you will not be industrious, wise, and prudent.

“For age and want save while you may,No morning sun lasts a whole day.”

“For age and want save while you may,No morning sun lasts a whole day.”

A little more imagination may often be recommended to the good looking, not forgetting all who think themselves so. Perhaps we should rather say a little more of the right sort, for they indulge in flights of fancy enough when it is a matter of picturing those brought into captivity by their charms. They should leave considering their conquests and captives and make an effort to realise what they themselves will be, say, at fifty or sixty, if they live so long. The beauty and attractiveness of youth will then be over, and unless they have something else to recommend them, their place will be on one of the back seats of human life.

This should set them furnishing the inside of their heads as richly as Nature has done the outside. Beauty vanishes, but mental culture endures and is found attractive, and even charming, to the very end of the chapter. There are few sadder sights than that of a beauty in ruins with an untrained intellect and none more refreshing than that of a bright old wrinkled face, with a mind behind it stored with information and animated by shrewdness and good nature.

There is danger in all things, for all—yes, even the best—may be misused. Imagination is a friendly help to elevate, direct, and brighten our lives as we have seen, but that does not happen with the foolish. Instead of occupying this wondrous faculty with what is profitable and beautiful, they devote it to what is degrading and mean, and thus become a great deal worse with imagination than they would be without it.

And, even where its subjects are not positively objectionable, imagination sometimes wastes its energy on whimsicalities and runs riot in the broad fields of extravagance and nonsense. Of such a nature was the fertile fancy of an old friend of ours who, to the end of her days, showed great reverence for dogs and cats because she believed them animated by the souls of her ancestors.

A very silly use of imagination is to picture to ourselves suspicions, dangers and misfortunes. Some of us have a great deal of ability in this line, and endure torments daily over evils that never arrive.

“Never trouble trouble till trouble troubles you” is a safe rule, and only a stupid girl will set her imagination working so as to make herself miserable. Caroline, we fear, is of the stupid class—no doubt, Caroline, it is on this occasion only—or she would at once get rid of the dreadful thought she imparted to us last Tuesday that the letters sent to her by her sweetheart were detained at the post office and read. As if the postmistress, even in her country place, had not something better to do!

Another danger of the imagination is that we are apt to take refuge in it against the duties of real life. In real life there is friction, and there is nothing of that in dreamland. We can make that pleasant country to suit ourselves, without irritation, without contradiction, without mishaps, everything coming just right. Our business, however, in the world is not to dream but to act, for which reason this great gift of imagination must be kept in its proper place. It is a good servant, but, by foolish indulgence, may become a very bad master.

But, after making all allowances for dangers—those we have named and others that might be stated—the fact remains that to the greater number of us a little more imagination would not come amiss. It would make our lives richer, and happier, more useful, more kindly, more sensible. It is only a “little more” that is wanted. That any of us are entirely destitute of it is improbable. To be “dry sticks” is not common for girls.

AN EMBROIDERED BABY’S CARRIAGE COVERLID OF HOUSE FLANNEL.I wasrecently asked by a lady friend to design her a simple piece of embroidery for her child’s pram. The chief thing was, that the design was not to be elaborate, as there was very little time to work it.The illustration here given is the design I made, but it has a very different appearance in black and white to what it had when worked in two tones of blue worsted on house flannel. Still, those readers who do embroidery will know what allowances to make.I sketched the design right away in charcoal, and anyone at all accustomed to using a pencil will have no difficulty in doing this. Divide your material in half, and then draw a line in the middle horizontally, and others above and below this. These lines will guide you in getting both sides fairly alike, for, so long as the principal lines are symmetrical, it is enough. I found you can easily sketch in vine charcoal (that is the fine kind) on flannel and it easily dusts off afterwards.The whole of the forms were produced in outline, and to show the sort of stitch, I have given a leaf full size. The ground is soon covered in this way, and it hasn’t a cheap look either. The fault many embroiderers make in carrying out a design is that they miss the “swing” of the lines, get broken-backed curves and clumsy-looking details. To obviate this you ought to keep looking at your work as a whole. Dwelling too long on any part of the design is likely to upset the balance of the whole.It is obvious that in the design given the stems are the first features to be worked, as the leaves and flowers merely grow from them and are of secondary importance. It will add to the grace of the design to get the lower part of the stems gradually thicker, say two strands wide towards the base, just as in nature we find a plant gradually thickening as it nears the root.It will be noticed that a separate border is designed for the piece at the top which turns over. The coverlid should have a worked edging, and to get this even a few niches should be spaced out and drawn on a piece of tracing paper and then pricked over with a coarse needle.All you have to do is to rub a little crushed charcoal, tied up in a piece of coarse linen or muslin, on the reverse side, when the powdered charcoal will pass through the holes leaving an impression which can be worked over at once.Where a border is distinctly geometrical, it should be done evenly, and the eye is not quite correct enough if left to itself, and much of the workmanlike look of the whole would be marred if this edging were badly done. The right initial or name can be added or left out if desired. In the latter case put in a flower and a leaf or two.Those readers who have never worked on house flannel will find it a pleasant material, and for portières and short curtains very excellent both in effect and for wear.

I wasrecently asked by a lady friend to design her a simple piece of embroidery for her child’s pram. The chief thing was, that the design was not to be elaborate, as there was very little time to work it.

The illustration here given is the design I made, but it has a very different appearance in black and white to what it had when worked in two tones of blue worsted on house flannel. Still, those readers who do embroidery will know what allowances to make.

I sketched the design right away in charcoal, and anyone at all accustomed to using a pencil will have no difficulty in doing this. Divide your material in half, and then draw a line in the middle horizontally, and others above and below this. These lines will guide you in getting both sides fairly alike, for, so long as the principal lines are symmetrical, it is enough. I found you can easily sketch in vine charcoal (that is the fine kind) on flannel and it easily dusts off afterwards.

The whole of the forms were produced in outline, and to show the sort of stitch, I have given a leaf full size. The ground is soon covered in this way, and it hasn’t a cheap look either. The fault many embroiderers make in carrying out a design is that they miss the “swing” of the lines, get broken-backed curves and clumsy-looking details. To obviate this you ought to keep looking at your work as a whole. Dwelling too long on any part of the design is likely to upset the balance of the whole.

It is obvious that in the design given the stems are the first features to be worked, as the leaves and flowers merely grow from them and are of secondary importance. It will add to the grace of the design to get the lower part of the stems gradually thicker, say two strands wide towards the base, just as in nature we find a plant gradually thickening as it nears the root.

It will be noticed that a separate border is designed for the piece at the top which turns over. The coverlid should have a worked edging, and to get this even a few niches should be spaced out and drawn on a piece of tracing paper and then pricked over with a coarse needle.

All you have to do is to rub a little crushed charcoal, tied up in a piece of coarse linen or muslin, on the reverse side, when the powdered charcoal will pass through the holes leaving an impression which can be worked over at once.

Where a border is distinctly geometrical, it should be done evenly, and the eye is not quite correct enough if left to itself, and much of the workmanlike look of the whole would be marred if this edging were badly done. The right initial or name can be added or left out if desired. In the latter case put in a flower and a leaf or two.

Those readers who have never worked on house flannel will find it a pleasant material, and for portières and short curtains very excellent both in effect and for wear.

A DREAM OF FAIR SERVICE.ByC. A. MACIRONE.CHAPTER I.DOMESTIC SERVICE.Sittingin a cool green shade of trees and flowers, in the still heat of a summer afternoon, I read in your most interesting paper, dear Mr. Editor, a record of noble women who, from the slippery places of wealth and ease, had sprung a mine of happiness in lightening the burdens, and in sympathies for the sorrows, of many who had no helper.I read and enthusiastically admired, and while admiring tried to appreciate the difficulty which women so placed would find in realising sufferings of which they could know so little by experience—of some troubles they could absolutely know nothing—the want of bread, the deadly fatigue of overwork, the misery of children crying for food, the bitterness of bare poverty, of homes which do not shelter, of empty fireplaces in cold, and shadowless rooms in the heat—and in such heat as we have been taught lately can be suffered even in this dear England of ours.In the intense heat of the day—while the roses drooped and seemed to sigh for rain, and the birds were silent, and by the shaded pool, at the dark water’s edge, the cows were enjoying some freshness, and the white flocks of waterfowl cowered and waited for the evening breeze—in the stillness my thoughts floated away to curious visions, partly suggested by a lovely series of pictures in theArabian Nightsof magical help and daring exploits, and one, the last (not in any English edition), of a range of mountain caverns, with glittering temptations, through which the prince has to fight his way till he comes to the last vast hall shrouded in darkness and ended by dim heavy curtains, which opened, disclosing the radiant islands in the seven seas, where his love reigns, and the water-nymphs receive him as he leaps into the waves and, singing, bear him to his queen, to rescue and love her.Visions are curious and arbitrary things, and while dreaming of this often haunting story, I thought that, instead of the gigantic fiend who in the story waves his scimitar over the lover, I saw two radiant angels parting those magic curtains as I in my dream gazed, and they said to me—“You have loved and revered the courage and self-devotion of the noble servants of the Most High, who have abandoned the luxuries and repose of wealth to save their fellow mortals—the poor, the helpless, and the suffering. Would you know what more can be done?“There are records in the kingdom of our Master of fellow-servants of ours—women, with no power but their faith, no means but those like the feast for five thousand provided by their Lord by the Galilean lake from a few loaves and small fishes, no strength but the divine energy of love—these servants of God, poor, weak, alone, have done work which has caused joy in Heaven and saved those who, but for them and others like them, would have been lost. Will you dream on, and we will show you visions of some of these?”In breathless expectation I waited, and gradually the vision resolved itself before me into a wild mountainous country. A castle up the hills was besieged by a horde of savage and furious soldiery. Defence was hopeless, but the few loyal retainers held their own till the three little orphan children of the lord were hurried out of the back postern by their nurse and one (the only) trooper who could be spared to drive the mule on which the two little leddies were seated and to carry the young lord.Heaven helped them and they safely reached the hut where, concealed and protected by Elspeth the nurse, they escaped the search of their enemies. By day and night this devoted servant worked for them, tended them. To feed them she starved, to clothe them she managed to get by night and hidden mountain paths to the few nobles still left on whom she could rely with the words “My young leddies need this,” “My little lord needs that.”Years go by, and the brave old Scotchwoman has fulfilled her trust. The young lord has regained his inheritance, and now they all plead that she to whom they owe everything should accompany them to the noble home she has so helped them to regain. But I see her, in advancing years, still spinning on in the Highland home. At all times of need, whether of joy or woe, they call for Elspeth, and she is with them again; but she died as she lived, in the poor home of her fathers, but up-borne by the prayers and the reverence of her people. “Poor, yet making many rich.”It was in vain the young lord and her leddies claimed her for their richer life of competence and power, but the old Hieland woman said, “Na, na.” She would go to them when on great occasions they wanted her, but her strong independent life was still to be lived among the hills she loved and among her own people; and by the work of her own hands she would still live, and in her hut she would die.The dream curtains slowly descended, but my last look at the beautiful Highland scene was on the cottage on which the sunshine of Heaven’s blessing still lingered, and on the noble peasant woman who had saved her chieftain’s children.I might be allowed to mention that, remembering this touching story of fidelity and loyalty as it was told me by the Earl himself years ago, I have searched through many volumes of the history of this great family for further details of the time and place, but in vain, so I must leave the little history as I heard it from the chief’s own lips.In writing of servants, an anecdote of Lord Shaftesbury, mentioned in a recent work—Collections and Recollections—is worth remembering.“Speaking of his early and troubled childhood, he said, one only element of joy he recognised in looking back to those dark days, and that was the devotion of an old maid-servant, who comforted him in his childish sorrows and taught him the rudiments of the Christian faith. In all the struggles and distresses of boyhood and manhood, he used the words of prayer which he had learned from the good woman before he was seven years old. And of a keepsake which she left him—the gold watch which he wore to the last day of his life—he used to say, ‘That was given to me by the best friend I ever had in the world.’”(To be continued.)

ByC. A. MACIRONE.

DOMESTIC SERVICE.

Sittingin a cool green shade of trees and flowers, in the still heat of a summer afternoon, I read in your most interesting paper, dear Mr. Editor, a record of noble women who, from the slippery places of wealth and ease, had sprung a mine of happiness in lightening the burdens, and in sympathies for the sorrows, of many who had no helper.

I read and enthusiastically admired, and while admiring tried to appreciate the difficulty which women so placed would find in realising sufferings of which they could know so little by experience—of some troubles they could absolutely know nothing—the want of bread, the deadly fatigue of overwork, the misery of children crying for food, the bitterness of bare poverty, of homes which do not shelter, of empty fireplaces in cold, and shadowless rooms in the heat—and in such heat as we have been taught lately can be suffered even in this dear England of ours.

In the intense heat of the day—while the roses drooped and seemed to sigh for rain, and the birds were silent, and by the shaded pool, at the dark water’s edge, the cows were enjoying some freshness, and the white flocks of waterfowl cowered and waited for the evening breeze—in the stillness my thoughts floated away to curious visions, partly suggested by a lovely series of pictures in theArabian Nightsof magical help and daring exploits, and one, the last (not in any English edition), of a range of mountain caverns, with glittering temptations, through which the prince has to fight his way till he comes to the last vast hall shrouded in darkness and ended by dim heavy curtains, which opened, disclosing the radiant islands in the seven seas, where his love reigns, and the water-nymphs receive him as he leaps into the waves and, singing, bear him to his queen, to rescue and love her.

Visions are curious and arbitrary things, and while dreaming of this often haunting story, I thought that, instead of the gigantic fiend who in the story waves his scimitar over the lover, I saw two radiant angels parting those magic curtains as I in my dream gazed, and they said to me—

“You have loved and revered the courage and self-devotion of the noble servants of the Most High, who have abandoned the luxuries and repose of wealth to save their fellow mortals—the poor, the helpless, and the suffering. Would you know what more can be done?

“There are records in the kingdom of our Master of fellow-servants of ours—women, with no power but their faith, no means but those like the feast for five thousand provided by their Lord by the Galilean lake from a few loaves and small fishes, no strength but the divine energy of love—these servants of God, poor, weak, alone, have done work which has caused joy in Heaven and saved those who, but for them and others like them, would have been lost. Will you dream on, and we will show you visions of some of these?”

In breathless expectation I waited, and gradually the vision resolved itself before me into a wild mountainous country. A castle up the hills was besieged by a horde of savage and furious soldiery. Defence was hopeless, but the few loyal retainers held their own till the three little orphan children of the lord were hurried out of the back postern by their nurse and one (the only) trooper who could be spared to drive the mule on which the two little leddies were seated and to carry the young lord.

Heaven helped them and they safely reached the hut where, concealed and protected by Elspeth the nurse, they escaped the search of their enemies. By day and night this devoted servant worked for them, tended them. To feed them she starved, to clothe them she managed to get by night and hidden mountain paths to the few nobles still left on whom she could rely with the words “My young leddies need this,” “My little lord needs that.”

Years go by, and the brave old Scotchwoman has fulfilled her trust. The young lord has regained his inheritance, and now they all plead that she to whom they owe everything should accompany them to the noble home she has so helped them to regain. But I see her, in advancing years, still spinning on in the Highland home. At all times of need, whether of joy or woe, they call for Elspeth, and she is with them again; but she died as she lived, in the poor home of her fathers, but up-borne by the prayers and the reverence of her people. “Poor, yet making many rich.”

It was in vain the young lord and her leddies claimed her for their richer life of competence and power, but the old Hieland woman said, “Na, na.” She would go to them when on great occasions they wanted her, but her strong independent life was still to be lived among the hills she loved and among her own people; and by the work of her own hands she would still live, and in her hut she would die.

The dream curtains slowly descended, but my last look at the beautiful Highland scene was on the cottage on which the sunshine of Heaven’s blessing still lingered, and on the noble peasant woman who had saved her chieftain’s children.

I might be allowed to mention that, remembering this touching story of fidelity and loyalty as it was told me by the Earl himself years ago, I have searched through many volumes of the history of this great family for further details of the time and place, but in vain, so I must leave the little history as I heard it from the chief’s own lips.

In writing of servants, an anecdote of Lord Shaftesbury, mentioned in a recent work—Collections and Recollections—is worth remembering.

“Speaking of his early and troubled childhood, he said, one only element of joy he recognised in looking back to those dark days, and that was the devotion of an old maid-servant, who comforted him in his childish sorrows and taught him the rudiments of the Christian faith. In all the struggles and distresses of boyhood and manhood, he used the words of prayer which he had learned from the good woman before he was seven years old. And of a keepsake which she left him—the gold watch which he wore to the last day of his life—he used to say, ‘That was given to me by the best friend I ever had in the world.’”

(To be continued.)

“IN MINE HOUSE.”ByLINA ORMAN COOPER, Author of “The King’s Daughters,” etc.PART II.ITS INGLE-NOOKS AND HOW TO ECONOMISE THEM.Inolden days the ingle-nook was the centre of the home. Built in a deep recess of the wall, with its copper or brazen cupola, it had benches fitted into its chimney corner on each side. Here, after a day’s work was done, assembled the mistress with her distaff, maidens with their lovers, sons with their netting, and the father with his book. Here chat and song and sacred lore flowed freely and fast. On its wide breast lay large logs of hazel and oak, beechen boughs and green ashwood. Bit by bit as they smouldered away fresh limbs were added, keeping up a crimson glow on the wide hearth.Nowadays, in mine house slow combustion grates and stoves reign supreme. By their use much of the picturesqueness of our fires is done away with, but a wonderful economy in the coal-bill effected. This is not the case, however, if our particular Mary Jane be allowed to make and mend at her own sweet will. The “Eagle Range” is quite as omnivorous as its namesake if cook keeps every damper out and every cross-door shut. Unless she cleans each flue scrupulously, the “Eagle” and its ilk will only consume lumps of best Orrell—and consume them much faster than an open fireplace would do.In mine house the first lesson taught a new maid is how to lay and light a fire. Scientifically done, it takes far less kindling wood and far fewer matches than when built up at haphazard. There are two methods of laying a fire. A range or stove must burn from the bottom upwards; the open grate may be ignited on the top.We will consider our drawing-room fire first. See that every bit of ancient fire is raked away and every cinder riddled on the spot through a 6d. wire-shovel. The meshes of this instrument are wide apart, so only the large cinders are retained by its use; all small morsels and dust fall through without raising a “pother,” and may be sifted afterwards. Now fit a sheet of brown paper across the lower bars and lay over it some lumps of clean round coal. On the top of these empty your cinders, and over them again place wood and bits of crumpled paper in the order named. One match applied to this topmost layer will ignite the tissue, and very slowly it will burn downwards until the Orrell be reached.This glowing mass must on no account be poked. In fact, if this mode of lighting our sitting-room fires be adopted, sets of fire-irons should be conspicuous by their absence. A very distinct saving is effected by this; first we are spared initial cost of purchase, and afterwards constant extravagant use of the poker is avoided.Some folk seem to think that flames alone give heat. Now, as a matter of fact, it is the glowing mass which most quickly warms a room. Others talk of “the cheerful blaze.” In mine house we esteem the red heart far more beautiful. As a matter of fact, in mine house, which boasts of ten grates, only two pokers areen evidence. Yet last winter ournext door neighbour—who burned double the quantity of coal—complained she could not get her parlour to register 60°, whilst my sitting-room pumped up to and maintained 70° without any difficulty.There are two ways of minimising the consumption of coal in our modern grates—either get a firebrick to fill up the back thereof and burn only a frontage of bottled sunshine, or leave it as the builder intended and after drawing every bit of round coal to the front bars and seen them well alight, pack the cavity behind with a bucket of well-damped “slack” or coal-dust. This mass will gradually heat and ignite all through and throw out a heat never attained by the ordinary lump fire.The very best Orrell slack is like small coal, and costs only from 6d. to 8d. a sack as against £1 1s. a ton for bright coal. A fire made up after this economical plan will burn from morning till night without attention. Then, breaking up the solid cake, a bright cheerful result is gained for the hours of twilight and night. Such a fire, too, is invaluable in a sick room—requiring no noisy repairing when sleep ought to reign.In mine house the kitchen range is scientifically treated also and consumes every bit of refuse.I allow neither ashpit, pigbucket, or dustbin at the back door. Such extravagant conveniences should never be tolerated where economy in fuel is an object. Even if we have no poultry or porcine animal to devour potato peels, vegetable parings, or scraps of meat, our kitchen range can have its omnivorous mouth filled daily with such. Of course every house mother knows that when cooking is being done, a clear good fire is necessary.Mary Jane may during those halcyon hours pile on the best coal and be allowed liberally to “rake” it with a heavy poker, otherwise she will send up flabby pastry, raw potatoes, and half-cooked beef. But directly the midday meal be over, every scrap of green stuff, cabbage stalks, every bone—fish or flesh—is laid on the glowing embers of the range in mine house. A layer of wet coal-dust is added, the iron rings are put in place, the door is shut, and all dampers are pulled out. Thus,sans odeur, those atoms of waste food are consumed which, left to lie on an ashpit, would infallibly breed fever of all sorts.When, at six o’clock, another meal is required, the range is opened, lungs perforated through its crust, some knots of coal allowed, and a liberal use of the “curate” recommended.For toasting or ironing purposes we utilise a heap of clean cinders which has gradually been accumulating in a corner of the yard. The dews of heaven have kept these damp, and the raindrops have cleaned them before we shovel them on to the fire. Ram them into the grate, and thus provide the best (because most smokeless) fuel for laundry work. Our flat irons, heated by these cinders, are not smoke begrimed or sooty, but keep bright and smooth all the year round.In the ingle-nook of mine house open fireplaces are, in two rooms, replaced by American stoves. One of them stands about two and a half feet high and cost only 15s. It juts well out in the study—close to the writing-table—and keeps my toes and fingers warm and comfortable at a minimum cost of fuel. An iron arm elbows its way up the closed chimney, and a sheet of zinc nailed over the ordinary grate gives a good draught. The fire-space in this stove is very tiny—a handful of shavings and a spoonful of coal makes it light up cheerfully, and a little damp slack keeps it at furnace heat for hours.This wee warming-stove has saved its cost over and over again, and is so easily lit up that I manage to have the comfort of a fire long before my house-maidens have quitted the beautiful land of nod. All undue dryness of the atmosphere is counteracted by keeping a pipkin of water steaming on its face, and it is so clean that even the most delicate curtains are not soiled by its use.The value of having a smutless, smokeless, dustless fire can never be over-estimated in this uncertain climate. Even many evenings in July or August call for a small fire, and the easiness of lighting this stove in the ingle-nook of mine house prevents such a necessity (as I consider it) being considered a luxury.I do not think I need speak of the virtues of gas as a heating agent. We all recognise the desirability of its use; but, alas! where economy has to be considered in our ingle-nooks, we cannot recommend it. In place of coal gas is desirable; but in addition to coal it is fearfully expensive. In mine house—when dog-days protest against any artificial heat—we use paraffin.Rippingill has invented and patented so many excellent elaborate cooking-stoves that it is easy to do without our kitchen range. At the cost of about four farthings a dinner consisting of half a leg of mutton, boiled potatoes, peas, cauliflower, and a rice pudding can be cooked to perfection. Even after these are done the ovens will be still hot enough to bake a cake for afternoon tea or some pastry for supper.The equable temperature maintained by an adjustable flame enables me to “rise” all kinds of fancy bread in my “A.B.C.” stove splendidly, and for making jam it is invaluable. No longer do I dread the annual eruption of stones of ripe raspberries or the arrival of hairy, sweet gooseberries by the gallon. The winter supply of jam in mine house is made without burnt brows or scalded fingers over the little Rippingill that stands in the store-room.“But don’t the stoves smell fearfully?” is a question often asked. I answer truthfully that they are absolutely odourless when properly attended to. Loose particles of charred wick cause a loss of proper ventilation; drops of oil spilt outside the reservoir, clogged burners, all prevent proper combustion and produce a bad effluvia.I find that constant supervision is necessary when we use oil in mine house. Then only are the wicks well rubbed, then only are scissors tabooed, then only fags and edges flame not, then only doth economy wait on comfort in my ingle-nook. It requires skilled fingers to keep chimneys clear enough to read by. A drop of ammonia added to the water in which they are washed helps towards this crystalline condition. Then no longer“Our wasted oil unprofitably burnsLike hidden lamps in old sepulchral urns,”but sheds round a clear shining light.Perhaps a word or two about kindling may not be out of place in considering this subject of economy in our ingle-nooks. Our grandmother’s axiom was—“A fire well mendedIs a fire well tended.”But I think the making of a fire is even more important than its mending or tending. To give our maids inadequate lighting material is very false economy. Well dried, well chopped, well seasoned faggots are a necessity in mine house.“Ash green” may be “fire-wood fit for a queen,” but it makes bad kindling. Bundles of small sticks may be bought so cheaply nowadays that we should never be without them. Unlike Hamlet, we need not “for the day be confined to fast in fires” if we provide these and a few medicated wheels for hasty work.On the other hand Mary Jane must be impressed with the fact that twelve bundles represent twenty-four fires at the least. Half a dozen sticks laid lightly in a basket-fashion will do the same work as a whole handful lumped on together. “Waste not, want not,” is a motto much to be observed in this matter.It is a good thing to have a regular weekly supply sent in, regulated by the number of fires in general use. For extra ones, half a dozen medicated wheels should be kept in the store press, and only given out when one is unexpectedly called for.I cannot quit this subject of the ingle-nook in mine house without speaking a little about the summer ornamentation thereof. As I hinted before, I personally consider the best ornament of our fire-stoves to be a fire, even in August—or, at least, the makings of a fire if required.In my best room we lift out the leaded bars and replace them with bright brass ones, filling in the space with faggots and coal and fircones. The glistening rods do not prevent our having an occasional blaze, for a rub with “Globe” polish soon polishes them after use. We do not lift away the pierced brass curb or dogs, but amongst and behind them a few pots of ferns are stood about. They do not mind the draught up the chimney (N.B.—No register is ever drawn down in mine house), and can be judiciously damped as they stand on the tiled hearth. A second suffices to shift these when a fire is called for.I think easy removal is the primary rule in decoration of our ingle-nook. Thus, heavy, dust-collecting curtains should never be attached to the mantelpiece; much less may art muslin draperies be tolerated. I have seen them in some houses with all their suggestiveness of downright tragedy veiled by flimsy unreality. One spark, one splutter, one fizz, and flames would lick them up like paper. A hammered brass and iron screen—a sheet of looking-glass—if you must hide the settee. On the other hand, a fir or larch bough, with its red-brown stem and crimson tassels, may be laid across the set fire, and one has decoration enough.Nothing can be beautiful in our ingle-nook which conveys a false notion of the purpose to which it will be applied. Decorative art requires that the nature of construction should as far as possible be revealed or indicated by the ornament which it bears.“The beauty of fitness” must be borne in mind when we are tempted to fill the fire-baskets in our ingle-nooks with tinsel and shavings, paper designs or artificial flowers. In the huge chimney space of an ancient fireplace logs of wood carelessly piled on dogs was a fit and appropriate decoration. So a well laid fire is, after all, to end with as well as to begin with the best ornament we can stand in the ingle-nook.Perhaps no object in mine house speaks of higher things in a louder voice than does the fire in its ingle-nook. Scenes of terror and beauty in the Bible often surround a hearth and a flame. The burning bush which hid Jehovah; the flashing fire enfolding itself (Ezek. i.) displayed Him; a furnace lit up the first covenant (Gen. xv. 17), and so on through the whole book.In one of the Significant Rooms of the Interpreter’s House a fire burned all the year round upon which rival forces poured oil and water—a picture this of God’s grace overcoming the evil one.And so we weave round the most sacred spot in our homes a fabric of thought and poetry and prayer—“Where glowing embers through the roomTeach light to counterfeit a gloom.”A little cricket still chirps of love and help and warmth and all that makes life lovely.(To be continued.)

ByLINA ORMAN COOPER, Author of “The King’s Daughters,” etc.

ITS INGLE-NOOKS AND HOW TO ECONOMISE THEM.

Inolden days the ingle-nook was the centre of the home. Built in a deep recess of the wall, with its copper or brazen cupola, it had benches fitted into its chimney corner on each side. Here, after a day’s work was done, assembled the mistress with her distaff, maidens with their lovers, sons with their netting, and the father with his book. Here chat and song and sacred lore flowed freely and fast. On its wide breast lay large logs of hazel and oak, beechen boughs and green ashwood. Bit by bit as they smouldered away fresh limbs were added, keeping up a crimson glow on the wide hearth.

Nowadays, in mine house slow combustion grates and stoves reign supreme. By their use much of the picturesqueness of our fires is done away with, but a wonderful economy in the coal-bill effected. This is not the case, however, if our particular Mary Jane be allowed to make and mend at her own sweet will. The “Eagle Range” is quite as omnivorous as its namesake if cook keeps every damper out and every cross-door shut. Unless she cleans each flue scrupulously, the “Eagle” and its ilk will only consume lumps of best Orrell—and consume them much faster than an open fireplace would do.

In mine house the first lesson taught a new maid is how to lay and light a fire. Scientifically done, it takes far less kindling wood and far fewer matches than when built up at haphazard. There are two methods of laying a fire. A range or stove must burn from the bottom upwards; the open grate may be ignited on the top.

We will consider our drawing-room fire first. See that every bit of ancient fire is raked away and every cinder riddled on the spot through a 6d. wire-shovel. The meshes of this instrument are wide apart, so only the large cinders are retained by its use; all small morsels and dust fall through without raising a “pother,” and may be sifted afterwards. Now fit a sheet of brown paper across the lower bars and lay over it some lumps of clean round coal. On the top of these empty your cinders, and over them again place wood and bits of crumpled paper in the order named. One match applied to this topmost layer will ignite the tissue, and very slowly it will burn downwards until the Orrell be reached.

This glowing mass must on no account be poked. In fact, if this mode of lighting our sitting-room fires be adopted, sets of fire-irons should be conspicuous by their absence. A very distinct saving is effected by this; first we are spared initial cost of purchase, and afterwards constant extravagant use of the poker is avoided.

Some folk seem to think that flames alone give heat. Now, as a matter of fact, it is the glowing mass which most quickly warms a room. Others talk of “the cheerful blaze.” In mine house we esteem the red heart far more beautiful. As a matter of fact, in mine house, which boasts of ten grates, only two pokers areen evidence. Yet last winter ournext door neighbour—who burned double the quantity of coal—complained she could not get her parlour to register 60°, whilst my sitting-room pumped up to and maintained 70° without any difficulty.

There are two ways of minimising the consumption of coal in our modern grates—either get a firebrick to fill up the back thereof and burn only a frontage of bottled sunshine, or leave it as the builder intended and after drawing every bit of round coal to the front bars and seen them well alight, pack the cavity behind with a bucket of well-damped “slack” or coal-dust. This mass will gradually heat and ignite all through and throw out a heat never attained by the ordinary lump fire.

The very best Orrell slack is like small coal, and costs only from 6d. to 8d. a sack as against £1 1s. a ton for bright coal. A fire made up after this economical plan will burn from morning till night without attention. Then, breaking up the solid cake, a bright cheerful result is gained for the hours of twilight and night. Such a fire, too, is invaluable in a sick room—requiring no noisy repairing when sleep ought to reign.

In mine house the kitchen range is scientifically treated also and consumes every bit of refuse.

I allow neither ashpit, pigbucket, or dustbin at the back door. Such extravagant conveniences should never be tolerated where economy in fuel is an object. Even if we have no poultry or porcine animal to devour potato peels, vegetable parings, or scraps of meat, our kitchen range can have its omnivorous mouth filled daily with such. Of course every house mother knows that when cooking is being done, a clear good fire is necessary.

Mary Jane may during those halcyon hours pile on the best coal and be allowed liberally to “rake” it with a heavy poker, otherwise she will send up flabby pastry, raw potatoes, and half-cooked beef. But directly the midday meal be over, every scrap of green stuff, cabbage stalks, every bone—fish or flesh—is laid on the glowing embers of the range in mine house. A layer of wet coal-dust is added, the iron rings are put in place, the door is shut, and all dampers are pulled out. Thus,sans odeur, those atoms of waste food are consumed which, left to lie on an ashpit, would infallibly breed fever of all sorts.

When, at six o’clock, another meal is required, the range is opened, lungs perforated through its crust, some knots of coal allowed, and a liberal use of the “curate” recommended.

For toasting or ironing purposes we utilise a heap of clean cinders which has gradually been accumulating in a corner of the yard. The dews of heaven have kept these damp, and the raindrops have cleaned them before we shovel them on to the fire. Ram them into the grate, and thus provide the best (because most smokeless) fuel for laundry work. Our flat irons, heated by these cinders, are not smoke begrimed or sooty, but keep bright and smooth all the year round.

In the ingle-nook of mine house open fireplaces are, in two rooms, replaced by American stoves. One of them stands about two and a half feet high and cost only 15s. It juts well out in the study—close to the writing-table—and keeps my toes and fingers warm and comfortable at a minimum cost of fuel. An iron arm elbows its way up the closed chimney, and a sheet of zinc nailed over the ordinary grate gives a good draught. The fire-space in this stove is very tiny—a handful of shavings and a spoonful of coal makes it light up cheerfully, and a little damp slack keeps it at furnace heat for hours.

This wee warming-stove has saved its cost over and over again, and is so easily lit up that I manage to have the comfort of a fire long before my house-maidens have quitted the beautiful land of nod. All undue dryness of the atmosphere is counteracted by keeping a pipkin of water steaming on its face, and it is so clean that even the most delicate curtains are not soiled by its use.

The value of having a smutless, smokeless, dustless fire can never be over-estimated in this uncertain climate. Even many evenings in July or August call for a small fire, and the easiness of lighting this stove in the ingle-nook of mine house prevents such a necessity (as I consider it) being considered a luxury.

I do not think I need speak of the virtues of gas as a heating agent. We all recognise the desirability of its use; but, alas! where economy has to be considered in our ingle-nooks, we cannot recommend it. In place of coal gas is desirable; but in addition to coal it is fearfully expensive. In mine house—when dog-days protest against any artificial heat—we use paraffin.

Rippingill has invented and patented so many excellent elaborate cooking-stoves that it is easy to do without our kitchen range. At the cost of about four farthings a dinner consisting of half a leg of mutton, boiled potatoes, peas, cauliflower, and a rice pudding can be cooked to perfection. Even after these are done the ovens will be still hot enough to bake a cake for afternoon tea or some pastry for supper.

The equable temperature maintained by an adjustable flame enables me to “rise” all kinds of fancy bread in my “A.B.C.” stove splendidly, and for making jam it is invaluable. No longer do I dread the annual eruption of stones of ripe raspberries or the arrival of hairy, sweet gooseberries by the gallon. The winter supply of jam in mine house is made without burnt brows or scalded fingers over the little Rippingill that stands in the store-room.

“But don’t the stoves smell fearfully?” is a question often asked. I answer truthfully that they are absolutely odourless when properly attended to. Loose particles of charred wick cause a loss of proper ventilation; drops of oil spilt outside the reservoir, clogged burners, all prevent proper combustion and produce a bad effluvia.

I find that constant supervision is necessary when we use oil in mine house. Then only are the wicks well rubbed, then only are scissors tabooed, then only fags and edges flame not, then only doth economy wait on comfort in my ingle-nook. It requires skilled fingers to keep chimneys clear enough to read by. A drop of ammonia added to the water in which they are washed helps towards this crystalline condition. Then no longer

“Our wasted oil unprofitably burnsLike hidden lamps in old sepulchral urns,”

“Our wasted oil unprofitably burnsLike hidden lamps in old sepulchral urns,”

but sheds round a clear shining light.

Perhaps a word or two about kindling may not be out of place in considering this subject of economy in our ingle-nooks. Our grandmother’s axiom was—

“A fire well mendedIs a fire well tended.”

“A fire well mendedIs a fire well tended.”

But I think the making of a fire is even more important than its mending or tending. To give our maids inadequate lighting material is very false economy. Well dried, well chopped, well seasoned faggots are a necessity in mine house.

“Ash green” may be “fire-wood fit for a queen,” but it makes bad kindling. Bundles of small sticks may be bought so cheaply nowadays that we should never be without them. Unlike Hamlet, we need not “for the day be confined to fast in fires” if we provide these and a few medicated wheels for hasty work.

On the other hand Mary Jane must be impressed with the fact that twelve bundles represent twenty-four fires at the least. Half a dozen sticks laid lightly in a basket-fashion will do the same work as a whole handful lumped on together. “Waste not, want not,” is a motto much to be observed in this matter.

It is a good thing to have a regular weekly supply sent in, regulated by the number of fires in general use. For extra ones, half a dozen medicated wheels should be kept in the store press, and only given out when one is unexpectedly called for.

I cannot quit this subject of the ingle-nook in mine house without speaking a little about the summer ornamentation thereof. As I hinted before, I personally consider the best ornament of our fire-stoves to be a fire, even in August—or, at least, the makings of a fire if required.

In my best room we lift out the leaded bars and replace them with bright brass ones, filling in the space with faggots and coal and fircones. The glistening rods do not prevent our having an occasional blaze, for a rub with “Globe” polish soon polishes them after use. We do not lift away the pierced brass curb or dogs, but amongst and behind them a few pots of ferns are stood about. They do not mind the draught up the chimney (N.B.—No register is ever drawn down in mine house), and can be judiciously damped as they stand on the tiled hearth. A second suffices to shift these when a fire is called for.

I think easy removal is the primary rule in decoration of our ingle-nook. Thus, heavy, dust-collecting curtains should never be attached to the mantelpiece; much less may art muslin draperies be tolerated. I have seen them in some houses with all their suggestiveness of downright tragedy veiled by flimsy unreality. One spark, one splutter, one fizz, and flames would lick them up like paper. A hammered brass and iron screen—a sheet of looking-glass—if you must hide the settee. On the other hand, a fir or larch bough, with its red-brown stem and crimson tassels, may be laid across the set fire, and one has decoration enough.

Nothing can be beautiful in our ingle-nook which conveys a false notion of the purpose to which it will be applied. Decorative art requires that the nature of construction should as far as possible be revealed or indicated by the ornament which it bears.

“The beauty of fitness” must be borne in mind when we are tempted to fill the fire-baskets in our ingle-nooks with tinsel and shavings, paper designs or artificial flowers. In the huge chimney space of an ancient fireplace logs of wood carelessly piled on dogs was a fit and appropriate decoration. So a well laid fire is, after all, to end with as well as to begin with the best ornament we can stand in the ingle-nook.

Perhaps no object in mine house speaks of higher things in a louder voice than does the fire in its ingle-nook. Scenes of terror and beauty in the Bible often surround a hearth and a flame. The burning bush which hid Jehovah; the flashing fire enfolding itself (Ezek. i.) displayed Him; a furnace lit up the first covenant (Gen. xv. 17), and so on through the whole book.

In one of the Significant Rooms of the Interpreter’s House a fire burned all the year round upon which rival forces poured oil and water—a picture this of God’s grace overcoming the evil one.

And so we weave round the most sacred spot in our homes a fabric of thought and poetry and prayer—

“Where glowing embers through the roomTeach light to counterfeit a gloom.”

“Where glowing embers through the roomTeach light to counterfeit a gloom.”

A little cricket still chirps of love and help and warmth and all that makes life lovely.

(To be continued.)

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