
 

 

 

 

 

 

DETROIT. AUGUST 10. 1889.

 

 

THE HOUSEHOLD-"Supplement.

 

 

WHAT ONE BOY THINKS.

 

A stitch is always dropp'ng in the everlasting
knitting,
And the needles that I’ve threaded, no, you
couldn’t count to-day;
And I‘ve hunted for the glasses till I thought
my head was splitting,
When there upon her forehead as calm' as
clocks they lay,

I‘ve read to her till I was hoarse. the Psalms and
the Epistles.
When the other boys were burning tar-barrels
down the street;
And I’ve stayed and learned my verses when I
heard their willow whistles.
And I’ve stayed and said my chapter with ﬁre
in both my feet.

And I’ve had to walk beside her when she went
to evening meeting,
When [wanted to be racing, to be kicking, to
be off;
And I’ve waited while she gave the folks a word
or two of greeting,
First on one foot and the other and 'most
strangled with a cough.

“You can talk of Young America,” I say, “till
you are scarlet,
It‘s Old America that has the inside of the
track 1”
Then she raps me with her thimble and calls me
a young varlet,
And then she looks so wo-begone I have to
take it back.

Butl There always is a peppermint or a penny
in her pocket-—
There never was a pocket that was half so big
and deep—
And she lets the candle in my room burn away
down to the socket,
While she stews and putters round about till I
am sound asleep.

There’s always somebody at home when every
one is scattering;
She spreads thejam upon your bread in a way
to make you grow:
She always takes a fellow’s side when everyone
is battering:
And when I tear my jacket I know just where
to go!

And when I’ve been in swimming after father’s
said I shouldn’t,
And mother has her slipper off according to
the rule:
It sounds as sweet as silver, the voice that says,
“ I wouldn’t;
The boy that won’t go swimming such a day
would be a fool 1”

Sometimes there’s something in her voice as it
, she gave a blessing,

And I look at her a moment and I keep still as a
mouse— 4

And who she is by this time there is no need of
guessing;

For there’s nothing like a Grandmother to
have about the house!
— ~Harrtat Prescott Spoﬂ’ord.

 

THE PICNIC CONSIDERED AS A
REST.

The season of picnics is upon us, and in
my mind I go back to those HOUSEHOLD
letters of previous years, telling how need-
ful for health of mind and body is a little
relaxation for the farmer’s wife, t0%et
away from home, work and care; if only
for one day. The theorist tells us with
what renewed courage she takes up the
burden of life again.

Now I wish to know if the average
picnic ﬁlls the bill; especially for the
woman who does her own work. I’ll ad-
mit it pretty nearly does for the men and
children; but how about the wife and
mother, for whose beneﬁt the day’s outing
is recommended? Let us give a moment’s
time to considering what a picnic means to
her.

To all the usual work of every day of the

week is added the making ready of various“

dishes which must be prepared with care
to be nice when wanted; and the seeing
that every article of the wardrobe of the
diﬁerent members of the family which will
be wanted is clean and in perfect order to
wear; then when the eventful day arnves,
there are many eX‘ra things to be done in
the morning, all the packing, helping the
chi'dven to wash and dress, and perhaps
their father; then her elf. Th an the gen-
erous w: man who has cooked fooi enough
to last her family two or three days at
home, is just as generous of her strength,
getting the dinner in order to eat; and
when things are picked up and packed up
and she is once more at home, if there is
enough that was left in the house with
anything which was not devoured at the
picnic, for supper, she considers ‘here f
fortunate. The next morning the 01d
routine. only intensiﬁed by the interruption
of the previous day; with another washing
to make clean the tablecloth, napkins and
towels, white dresses and skirts, and the
boys’ ﬁne shirts may be needed for Sunday-
school, and if not, this addition will make
the next Monday’s wash too heavy. There
is no need of specifying the many ills apt
to attack children after apicnic; I only ask,
does it pay? Isn’t there some better
method of getting a change of air and sur-
roundings?

I know there are many women who en-
joy picnics, and they are not all those who
carry a very little, and carry away the
heaviest loads in their stomach, and sit
around for others to do the work; we all
know these are the exceptions, not the rule,

 

I think all women enjoy seeing their hus-
bands and children happy a'd having a
“good time;” many delight in the display
of their culinary skill; and all enjoy the
chatting and visiting over their work; but
Does it pay? Isn’t there something dif-
ferent where the same results would be
reached, minus so much extra labor?

If some one of the members had not
promised to give a sketch of their Literary
Society, I would tell the HOUSEHOLD
readers something of ours, which we all
enjoy very much. It is both rest and
recreation, to all except the member who
entertains; ani the one who writes the
essay or learns the recitation; but these are
not burdensome as the entertainment does
not get around to the same member under
nearly a year and a half, and the essays are
several months apart, so the meetings are a
rest and recreation to a majority of the
members. We listen to a well written
paper, a good recitation or two, a biograph-
ical sketch of some noted person, 3.
“Spare Minute Course” pamphlet (Chau-
tauqua), and a good selection by the
reader; then a bit of discussion on some
subject that is expected to interest all; a
few questions asked and answered, then
light refreshments are served. The pro-
gramme is not so long but that there is an
hour, or more sometimes, for social recrea-
tion, then we go home; and if we have not
learned a little something new, and been
refreshed and brightened up, the fault is
our own; and I must say I like it better
than a picnic. Now HOUSEHOLD sisters,
tell me something that will make me love
picnics, if you can; and.don’t wait until
next winter; the case is urgent.

Keturah, it would not be surprising if
we did have acouaintances in common, but
do not think I have any in that direction,
eight miles away.

I would thank Evangeline and Beatrix

for their chapters on ﬁsh.
ALBION. , M. E. H.

——-——.O.—————

IT is a task, in the heat of summer and
the cold of winter, to hang a quantity of
cuffs and collars on the line. - Yet they
need the bleaching of the sun and the frost.
Take a piece of white muslin and on it sew
two or three rows of buttons, according to
the size of your family. On these button
the small things like cuffs, collars, etc., and
hang them out. They are easily put out
and aImbrought in, there is no danger of

as or soil from Clothespins, and you
doaln'1 1n oors, comfortably seated“ 1n 8. ,
let us hope, what otherwise must be done
in scorching sun or wintry blast.

 


i
I :2:

 

wwwvbmmamsmh

Q THE- HOUSEHOLD.

 

HOME TALKS.

 

Reading “ Our Daily Bread” in the
IOUSEHOLD of July 27th, reminded me of
the promise I made to write of my outdoor
work. It is ﬁrst of all to get out into
God’s free air and sunshine, and drink in
its health-giving properties. Hundreds of
dollars are expended for “Compound
Oxygen,” advertised so largely for nervous-
ness and wasted energies. A little effort on
our part will secure it gratis. It is free and
abundant in the country. The desired
effect is not obtained in corset and slippers;
swinging in the hammock; but in some
‘ pleasurable employment. I know there
are those who will say they have sufﬁcient
activity indoors. True; I have often felt
so weary with my forenoon’s work indoors
that I would go with laggard steps to the
garden, get interested clearing out weeds,
sowing seed, transplanting, or whatever
needed to be done; forgettingmy weariness,
thinking the while “ We will enjoy this
vegetable or that choice variety of fruit in
its season. It will be so healthful and
fresh, and a luxury withal.” The mam-
moth berries I have picked this summer
are recompense, surely.

The frost took half my strawberries,
which does not often happen. The scarcity
gave» the better relish to those left us. The
currants we are having yet for tea. “We
all do like good things to eat.” What is
more reﬁning or elevating to the senses
than fruit or vegetables temptingly spread
before us during the hot sweltering months
of summer? I scarcely taste meat when I
"can get them. I went out to spend the day
last week, to visit and call on neighboring
farmers a few miles away. - The complaint
was made at meal time, “ It is so hard at
this time of the year to get up a meal!” I
did not ﬁnd it so. I did not wonder when
I found they had no fruit or vegetables.
The garden was planted entirely to pota-
toes. The man of the house must have pie
three times a day; what the good wife h d
to do it with was a mystery to me. On
this particular day a neighbor had sent in
some cultivated berries which were made
into pies; I would have relished mine with
sugar'and cream. I would consider it a
poor meal indeed to set before my own
family potatoes and meat alone, without
one or two vegetables from the garden. I
mean dinner of course. with fruit or pud-
ding for dessert.

I do not mean to say I do the entire work
of‘ the garden. Oftentimes I ﬁnd on re-
turning from a day’s drive the long rows of
vegetables nicely cultivated out with the
horse or else hoed by the “ gude mon.”
He well knows there is nothing will better
please the “ better half” than to surprise
her with such kindness. I think I can say
with truth, that from one to three hours
each day have been spent out of doors since
the ﬁrst of April, when weather would per-
mit.

In April I took one hour each morning
raring for the mother hen, hatching her
:hicks. These are kept separate from the
other fowls in the henhouse. A suﬂicien
number are saved before giving the eggs to

 

bring out all together. In my chicken
park I have n .w nearly three hundred
chickens hatched the ﬁrst week in May, all
healthy and ready for the three meals a day
they get. I can now give my family a treat
of plump spring chicken. They also ﬁnd
ready sale. This constitutes part of my
outdoor work also.

I extend congratulations to Mr. and Mrs.
Edmund Davis. The acquaintance of E.
L. Nye has been very agreeable indeed.
We will be glad to learn of her experiences
in founding a happy home.

I am now after Beatrix’s " sweet Sunday
bonnet.” I am one of the ten who have a
claim on it. From the very ﬁrst appear-
ance of E. S. B.’s recipe I tried it, found it
so valuable I have used it ever since, Ihave
given it to many others also. Our family
consists of three households, and all use it.
I have often thought I would like to know
mo e of the good benefactor. She is de-
sé ng of those “ words of praise and ap-
preciation.” I will not “- forget to speak
them.” Home“.

NEW YORK.

——-—“.——————

THAT BREAD RECIPE.

Beatrix begins to tremble for her “ sweet
Sunday bonnet,” so many have claimed it
because of their ﬁdelity to E. S. B.’s recipe
for bread. It is certainly gratifying to
learn that so many housekeepers, to drop
into idiomatic English, “know a good
thing when they see it.” Will the ladies
draw lots for the bonnet, or shall it be dis-
membered and each claimant have a scrap?
Mrs. C., of Kalamazoo, was the ﬁrst to
present her claim; she says:

“ I write to say that I know of one house-
keeper besides myself, and think I know of
several others who still make bread after
E. S. B.’s recipe. I am afraid Beatrix will
lose her bonnet, but please let me have it—
before we need our fall bonnets. By the
way, what has become of E. S. B? So
good a bread maker must have many other
good things for us. I have often wished
that I could thank her personally for that
recipe. I am getting tired of a steady diet
of “ weeks;” I imagine that it is much
easier to put some of those elaborate meals
on paper than on the table.”

Sunﬂower, of Pe-wamo, writes:

“ I have just ﬁnished reading Beatrix’s
article in the HOUSEHOLD of c:Iuly 27th.
Now Beatrix, I can assure you in regard to
bread making by E. S. B.’s recipe. that I
know of at least half a dozen families who
are making bread by her formula. I tried
her method when ﬁrst ublished, and it
was so satisfactory that have followed it
ever since. It is so little trouble too, and
that with me is quite an item, having to
make about twenty-one loaves a week, and
doing the work alone for ten in the famil .
Maybe at some future time (when e
eighteen months old baby is asleep) I will
tell the Housnnom) readers some of my
schemes in the economy of time and
strengt .”

Here’s a more determined claimant, the
saucy Kitsy, of Ceresco:

“ I’ll take that bonnet. if you please. I
made reparation after E. S. B.’s recipe the
day a ter the HOUSEHOLD containing it was
received, and the bread was so satisfactory
and the process so little trouble that I have
used no other since. Never mind paying
the express charges, but send the bonnet
quick; I do hope t will be becoming.”

CITY SOUNDS.

 

“Te—e—e-(lo! Tee—e—e—do! Tee~e—e—do!”
'(translated, potatOes) “ Ras—ber—ries, ﬁne
red ras—ber—ries, only ten cents a quart,”
come up to my window in most unmusical
tones as I sit down to write, and the buck-
sters pass on with their one-horse carts
shouting their “ Tee—dos and res—berries.”
Now comes up the sound of a milkman’s
rattling call, and happy shouts and laugh-
ing of a score of little ones out for their
afternoon play on the lawns and about the
yards close by. Here comes a rag man
tooting his rattling tin horn. Oh the rags
of a large city! Judging by the rag men’s
carts that pass through the streets each day,
and the loads they carry, rags are an im-
portant article of manufacture and trade.

“ Sweet-corn! sw—e—e—t—co-r—n! ap—p—
u—ls! ta~tersl pears!” on goes the' cart.
Ah, yes, that is the butcher’s cart now at
the door. I must run down and take the
pressed beef and pork chop that I ordered
this morning, for there is no one in the
kitchen.

“ Nan—0s, nan—cs, ban—nans,” and the
dirty little Italian with his handcart of
tropical fruits, most of them in a state of
semi-decomposition, trundles by. What’s
that? It sounds as though the noise was a
part of the business. Yes, of course. The
gasoline man. Thank fortune I don’t have
to buy it today.

“ Huck-le—berries, black—berries! ﬁne red
and black raspberries! ap—puls! ”

Yesterday I bought a peek of apples for
twenty-ﬁve cents; they were Astrachans and
some hard green ones mixed. I sorted
them, and of the Astrachans made some
pies. But they were a bad lot, and I
thought “ How much better fare the swine
on the generous old farm so far as apples
go than do I! ” But I‘m going down and
see what I can get on the market some day.

Another rag man with a two-horse cart.
Ah, he bears himself like a king in a coal
scuttle. Another milkman’s rattle, and the
customary yelping of “ that dog over
there,” which dog Abraham, as he sits in
the door of his tent smoking at the close of
the day, grimly swears that he will “ buy.”
And I know by the' blood in his eye that
he will not suffer much longer from the
bark of beast. From across the street
comes the song of bird. Some lunatic
canary! And next door some one is bang-
ing a piano, while over, under, through
and around all these sounds is the steady,
unbroken roar of the city’s streets, ever
conspicuous and deﬁnite, amongst which
are the sounds of the street cars. At ﬁrst,
coming from my quiet little nook in Flint,
it seemed as though the noise would deafen
me; and I did not see how I would ever
get so that I could converse on a car or
sidewalk without screaming. Perhaps I
do scream. I converse at any rate, and
don’t feel so deaf as I did. But this con.
tinual rattle, clatter, call, din, roar and
bustle, thoughI never can like or be in-
different to it, is less fatiguing ,to me than
it was four weeks ago, when for “ better or
for worse” I became a part of it.

Drrnorr. E. L. NYE.

 

 


9. ‘ ' THE HOUSEHOLD. 3

 

TEE MISLDVENT'URES OF THE
3— FAMILY.

 

( Continued.)

Yesterday morning one of the neighbors
eame for me to go huckleberrying with her.
We had made it up the day before, though
Bruno was going to begin harvest. But
things would not be in , full swing for a
day or two, so Idecided to go, and left a
substantial lunch for the men, with
promise of a more substantial supper.
The swamp is over on the north forty, and
only a wood road leads to it. The tramp
through the woods was rather pleasant, but
for the mosquitoes which were both nu-
merous and hungry. If you have never
been in a huckleberry swamp you have a
new experience to live for. This swamp is
small, but big enough to tire one’s self to
death in. We pushed aside the briar
roses on the edge, and with a prayer to be
delivered from snakes, ventured through
the thick gray moss—they call it spaghnum,
I believe—which was almost knee deep
:and more elastic than sponge, into the
middle where the berry bushes were. The
swamp was dry, which was a mercy, but

. the sun was hot, and the scraggly tam-

aracks gave next to no shade at all. I pre-
sume the Lord had some use for the tam-
arack or He wouldn’t have made it, but I
am sure nobody else knows what it is good
for. We picked away till our pails were
full and it was two o’clock, when we
decided we knew when we had enough
and would go home. Going out, we were
struggling through the tree-roots and

' ‘ ‘hummocks” when Kit gave a little scream;

I thought of snakes and jumped, of course,
and over went my pail of berries. I had
two—thirds of a notion to leave them there,
I was so disgusted, but I scraped up most
of them, only I had eight quarts instead of
ten after this little episode. And it wasn’t
a snake after all. The huckleberries might
feed the birds for all me, if our farm was
only large enough to grow small fruits on.
But it isn’t. There doesn’t seem to be even
room enough for a row of currant brush.
On the garden and small fruit business
Bruno and I are eternally at variance.
More than once I’ve been sorely tempted to
hire a man to come and set out fruit, and
attend to it every spring. But there are
difﬁculties. I don’t know if the fault is
in me or the difﬁculties, but they are too
many for me and we go on in the old
fashion. It is always going to be cheaper
to buy than to grow such things, but when
buying time comes there’s never money to

spare. And anyway, what are six or eight

quarts toward a family supply and for
canning?

I was awfully tired when I got home,
but there was the lunch to clear away and

. supper to get, and then the usual routine

of milk to skim, pans to wash, and bread
to sponge. I make butter by the old way,

. shallow settingin tin pans, but pride my-

self on making a pretty good article all the

-- same. I haven’t the new-fashioned helps,

but manage to salt with brine when the

q butter is in the granular state. When I
;' began keeping house, I hated to take care

 

Of milk the worst of anything about the
housework; now I like to do it. One day
I took a basket of butter to town, and
while the clerk was weighing it, I saw the
“big man” of our town walk up to the
scales, look at the butter, smell of it, in-
quire who made it, and order it sent to his
house. 1 could not hear the price he was
asked, but I got an idea just the same. The
next week I called at his ofﬁce and asked
him how he liked my butter. At the close
of our conversation I had a contract to sup-
ply a certain number of pounds per week,
at ﬁve cents above market price, quality
guaranteed; and I ﬁnally succeeded in an
ranging for the sale of all our surplus in
the same way. I kept my customers by
never delivering any that was not up to the
mark, and always took pains to deliver it
looking nice. Our cows are grades, but
they are good ones; our cellar is cool and
well ventilated and we have goodgater.
Pretty soon I got into the way of Selling
eggs on the same plan, so I very seldom had
anything of that kind to trade off. One
day when I had a caller Bruno came in
bringing a hatfull of eggs he had found in
the clover ﬁeld. They were a little too
ripe to use, and I told him to throw them
away, when my caller said dip them in
vinegar and it would clean the shells so
they would look and feel like fresh eggs
and I could sell them. I guess she saw
Bruno did not quite approve, the scheme, for
she added, “They’ll be as good then as
half the eggs are they ship to the city.”
But Bruno carried the eggs outwith him.

This morning I was “ all full of bones,”
I suppose because of my climbing round in
the swamp yesterday. I had the baking
out of the way by half-past nine, and sat
down to look over my berries to can, when
Bruno came in and said one of his men had
disappointed him and he wished I’d come
and drive the machine for awhile. Luckily,
I had everything ready for dinner—po’a-
toes pared, meat cut, and the cucumbers in
a pan Of water, so I put on my sunbonnet
and climbed up on the reaper. With all
the jolting—for I was not heavy enough
to get the “ spring ” of the seat—I’d rather
run the reaper in the fresh air and sunshine
than cook in a little kitchen with a hot stove
as a neighbor. All the sympathy goes to
the “ poor men ” who have to work so
hard in the ” hot sun.” When they come
into the dining-room, kept cool and shady
for their comfort, they seem to think the
women got the dinner right there and have
quite a snap. They’d have a change of
heart if they could stand in the kitchen
where the work is done, for awhile. Of the
two, I really think I would prefer a sun-
stroke to a “ stove-stroke.”

Round and round we went. I like to
watch the yellow grain standing so straight
and sturdy till it falls over on the table, and
as Iturned the corners “ clean,” I couldn’t
help thinking how strange it was that I
was so perfectly competent to manage the
horses before the machine, yet could never
be trusted to drive them on the road.
There’s something remarkable about it.

At eleven o’clock Iwent to the house and

got dinner; I was out in the ﬁeld again at

 

two o’clock, and my berries were looked
over and canned after supper.

(To be continued.)
W

STINGY HUSBANDS .

 

SO much has been said about farmers
preaching economv until it amounts to
stinginess, that I will relate a short con-
versation I overheard not long since in a
store.

The wife of the proprietor came hur-
riedly in and asked for some money. No
notice was taken of the request until it was
preferred the third time. " Come, I am in
a hurry, I want some money.” “ Well,
how much do you want? What are you
going to get? I am pretty short this morn.
ing.” She replied. “ I want a pair of
shoes, some dye stuif, and meat for dinner;
the shoes I could get for one dollar, but I
cannot ﬁnd a ﬁt.” Thereupon this gens
erous husband put his hand deep down in
his pocket and drew out some change, she
held out her hand and he counted out the
muniﬁcent sum of thirty—eight cents. She
closed her hand and started out laughing
(not a pleasant laugh) saying as she went,
“ Shoes, dye stuff, and meat for ﬁve, out Of
thirty-eight cents!”

SO you see, dear ladies, that it is not only
farmers’ wives who have that hardest task
in life, to make three dollars do the work
of ﬁve, for this man was no farmer. On
the contrary, to all appearances he is doing
a ﬂourishing business, none better in the
town. I felt that I would have tossed the
money in his face, gone home and hung out
a shingle bearing the inscription “Wash-
ing done here.” But then I am only a
farmer’s'wife, and of course this would not
do for a lady in town.

One thing I will say to Polly; when I get
to be a pathmaster I will devise some plan
to keep the dock out of the public high-
way, as I see it growing rank and thrifty
in many places along the road. NO doubt
it is cut once a year, which only grafts it
into sending forth instead of one seed stalk,
four or ﬁve, but I will have it cut at least
three times. Once in making the tour of
Pine Lake (by land), I was much surprised
to see the road just lined with great thrifty
dock, both yellow dock andburdock; and
in one place the barn opened to the road, .
and the fence on each side was buried up
in it.

If there is one of the HOUSEHOLD mem-
bers whom I envy more than another, it is
not the one that has the most good things
to eat, but she who has seen Evangeline. I
wish I had a cousin living thereabouts, or
was entitled to a HOUSEHOLD album. Dare
I say that I have the Editor’s photograph
nicely framed, and hanging where she
looks down on me every day. Evangeline
will never know how I enjoy some of her
letters.

“ A Cloudy Week I ascribed to Polly,
and I think she served us a shabby trick
when she signed herself only “ Simon’s
Wife!” How do we know who she is or
where she lives? Bass.

PLanr...

 


 

 

4

'TI-IE HOUSEHOLD.

 

a vrsrr. To A LUMBER CAMP.

I should hardly ﬁnd time in these busy
days of haying and harvesting, berry-pick-
ing and canning, to send some copy to the
HOUSEHOLD, only that now we are speak-
ing of accomplishing a large amount of
work in a short time, I want to tell you
of a woman who prepared from raw mate-
rials—nothing ready made—a good dinner
for one hundred men, in four hours. Last
winter I accompanied my husband to a
lumber camp, and while he was transacting
his business I went into the camp kitchen
to get warm. Camp buildings are usually
large, low, log structures—two large build-
ings with one roof over both, having a
covered passageway between, large enough
to drive a team through; one building is
the sleeping-room for all the men, the
other is the dining-room, with one end
partly partitioned from it for a kitchen.
In the dining-room there is nothing super-
ﬂuous. Tables of rough boards, no chairs,
benches instead; one permanent tablecloth
of oilcloth; the table service of the cheapest,
strongest materials. But the food is
abundant and various, and usually well
cooked. This kitchen was presided over
by a Scotch woman of ﬁfty, a “ dacent
body,” a widow whose only son worked in
the same camp. I judge she had not had
another woman to talk to in a long time,
for she made the most of me. I asked her
if the work was not terribly severe for her.
“ Oh no,” she said, “I work now like a
machine, it is the same day after day. But
the ﬁrst day here I own I was discouraged.
You see the cook they had got mad and
left one morning, and by the time they got
me here it was two o’clock in the afternoon.
They had taken everything that was cooked
out to the men for the noon lunch, and
there was nothing ready for supper. I
own, when I thought of the hundred men
working all day in the woods with an in-
suﬁicient lunch, coming in for their sup-
per at six, I sat down, threw my apron

over my head and cried. Then I thought
of them with pity, some of them my own
countrymen, not long over, one, my own
boy. Then I went to work. The chore
boy had washed the dishes, put everything
in order, ﬁlled the boilers and had the ﬁres
going.” - '

Right hereI will tell you the duties of a
chore boy in a lumber camp, a boy that is
not old enough or strong enough for work
in the woods. He gets up at two, lights
up and builds ﬁres—three or four of them
—wakes the teamsters at three, who must
be up before the rest of the men to attend
to their teams. Then the men, who must
be through with breakfast and ready for
work at the ﬁrst streak of daylight. He
must furnish wood for all the ﬁres, cutting,
splitting and bringing it in himself, though
he sometimes has a man to help saw. The
rest of the time he helps the cook, washes
the dishes, prepares the vegetables, sets the
table, keeps the sweeping done and the
lamps ﬁlled, and must be ready at any
time to do anything a chore boy could be
called on for. But let Mrs. Duncan ﬁnish
the story herself:

beef and get it into the boiler, and while he
was peeling potatoes and turnips I put to
stewing the evaporamd apples to have
them ready for pics. Then I made the
bread by mixing ﬂour. baking powder,
milk and water, mixing it soft and pour—
ing into tins. It makes passible bread on
an emergency, and I made it ﬁrst to have
it cold enough to slice. Then having had
the lard already over the ﬁre I made two
bushels of doughnuts.” I must have
looked my surprise at this statement, for
she added. “ Oh, I did’t cut them out with
a scolloped tin with a hole in the middle,
and turn each one four times with afork
while frying. They were fried in this”
indicating a stewpan the size of the top
of an ordinary stove, (by the way, two‘
cook stoves were in use in this kitchen)
“ and I cut the dough in strips with only
one twist to each one, and they are put on
this'sig skimmer and put in the fat at once
and taken out at once. That was an easy
job, it was the pies that took the most of
my time. There is no hurrying them. The
real secret of my getting the work all done
is not doing unnecessary work. Those
apples for pies looked clean and were taken
from a clean box, so they went straight
into the water to boil; you would have
washed them in two waters and looked at
both sides of each piece. If I had done
that way my men wouldn’t have had t heir
supper. But they had it on time. The
beef was boiled tender and beginning _ to
brown, so I had it taken up and made
gravy in the boiler. The chore boy had
ground the coffee and that was made the
last thing, and it was a good meal for
hungry men.” “You seem to make no
distinction in your meals, you have pies for
every one.” “Yes, men always like pie,
you know.” “ How many 'does it take for
one hundred men for one meal” I asked,
out of curiosity. “Just ﬁfteen of this
size,” indicating an ordinary round pie tin,
“ Hardly ever varies.”

I have translated her Scotch into English,
but this is just what she told me.

I suspect “ Simon’s Wife” to be A. H.
J ., but don’t suppose I shall ever know if
my impression is right.

To another correspondent, it was not
Fanny Fern who ﬁrst used the expression,
“ Total depravity of inanimate things,”
though it sounds like her. It was Harriet
Beecher Stowe, in the Atlantic Monthly
twenty-two years ago.

PIONEER. HULDAH PERKINS.

-——...-—_

THE FARMER'S GARDEN .

 

In L. C.’s criticism of Ven’s week she
thinks it harder to prepare the food Ven
cooked than that Evangeline prepared.
Well, I do not know about that. It takes

cake can be made and baked while one is
preparing a meal. I do not think cookies
at all extravagant; it does not take much
more material to make 75 or 100 cookies
than it does fora large cake, then think
how long they will keep, while after a cake

but a few moments to make a pie, and a _

family is fond of “ pies ’n things;” I know
some men who do not think a meal com-
plete without one or both are on the table,
And again, any one living on a farm knows-
there is a time after the winter vegetables
are gone and before the summer ones are
grown, that they have to depend on the
potato and baked victuals. How often at
this season we hear housekeepers ask,
“ What do you ﬁnd to cook?” Some think
farmers’ families ought to be supplied with
the earliest fruits and vegetables; they do
not take into consideration the great
pressure of work that comes at the time a
garden ought to have care. Why it would
take one man nearly all the time to ﬁght
the bugs and weeds, so no wonder the gar-
den is sometimes neglected. Nearlv every
farmer I know tries to have early vege-
tables, but as they are not market gardeners
and do not make it their whole business, so
fruits and vegetables are in the city mar-
kets before theirs are hardly in bloom.
Pray do not think I advocate this state of
things, for I do not; if there is a way to
better it I will be glad to know.
Like A. L. L., I never have any dry
bread; if there chances to be a piece
left I do not consider it a waste if it goes to
help feed the pigs or calf; then there is the
family cat that has to eat. Nor do I think
it wasteful if every bit of food left from a
meal be not made over into something for
.the next, using enough eggs, butter and
milk and other ingredients to make some-
thing entirely new, besides the time spent
in preparing a mixture nine out of ten
would not eat. If there is anything left I
had rather warm it over in its natural state.
I am one of those who never doubted
Evangeline’s “ week” was an actual ex-
perience. I think she must be a woman,
who, when she starts to do a thing does it
instead of considering what would be a
better way, and ﬁnally putting it off al—
together.

Give us your hand, Polly, let’s “ shake!"
I am with you in regard to roadmaking,
and when women get their rights I will
help put you in pathmaster.

Waconsrs. LAUREL VANE.

.__.___...—————

RUB out peach stains with clean cold
water. Boiling water is best for stains of
other fruits.

U seiul Recipes.

 

mos Snare—Three cups white sugar,
three and a half cups cream, half cup of wa-
ter with the juice of two lemons; three eggs.
one teaspoonful saiaratus: salt to taste. Roll
thin and bake quickly.

PICKLED Srarsa Balms—Boil in slightly
salted water until they can be pierced with a
fork. then dr0p into vinegar. In twenty-four
hours they will be ready for use.

 

Gnan'Conx Fairness—Grate green corn
from the cob until you have a quart. Into
this stir alarge spoonful of melted butter; a
pint of fresh milk; halt a teaspoonful salt;
two tablespoonfuls of ﬂour and three eggs,
yolks and whites beaten separately till very

 

 

“ I had the chore boy cut up a quarter of

is cut it soon dries out. Perhaps Ven’s

light. Fry in boiling lard.

 

 

%
i

  
  
 

    

