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DETROIT. JULY 13. 1889.

 

 

THE HOUSEH OLD-"Supplement.

 

 

M Y PHO TOGRAPH.

 

The picture-man’s accusaomed hand
Arranged me with cele ity,

And hid my principal defects
Witn judgment and dexterity.

He turned me right, he turned me left,
With wonderful rapidity,

Securing my inconstant head,
To give it due solidity.

He p'aced a river at my back,
And trees and rocks adjacently
Adjusted, with artistic touch,
And viewed the whole compiacently.
“Just drop your chin l” I dropped it to
The best of my ability;
“ But shut your mouth I" he added. which
I deemed an incivillty.

Across the room with dirty face
A bric a-bracket Psyche sat;
The artist backward jerked his thumb
And bade me keep an eye on that,
And eke to smile and wink,
With dignity and suavity;
Whereat I smiled full solemnly,
And winked with awful gravity.

"l‘was difﬁcult—but now ’tis done,
With secret exultation do
I show to friends my photograph,
And note their admiration too .
“How beaut ful 1” they cry, nor know
Their honest prai=e1s praise of me,
Till pressed to tell them whose it is.
“ ’Tis In ne 1” I say triumphantly.

————.o.—-——

A STUDY OF CHILDHOOD.

“ I only want a tricycle, and a new white
dress, one of those all over embroidery
ones, and to go to dancing school and to
take painting lessons; and—oh yes, one of
these lovely little gold watches at R01-
shoven’s—they’re only $20, and they’re
just perfectly lovely; and then Iwould not
want another thing for ever so long.”

“ Wouldn’t you like the earth, Milli-
cent?”

“N—no, I don’t think I’d care for it.
But I do want a watch and a tricycle just
awful.”

Miss Millicent, aged twelve, has a new
list of wants every week, as fancy inclines
or as she sees others have things she ad-
mires. She wantseverything “ just awful,”
and no sooner is one wish gratiﬁed than she
wants something else just as bad, and runs
up and down the old gamut of coaxing and
teasing to get it. For all small things, her
plea is “Oh mammal it only costs”-——ten
cents or a quarter or half a dollar, as the
case may be. The pocketbook generally
uncloses, the small want of the moment
is satisﬁed, and next day the plea is re-
newed. Her mother says herself that

wants something more to make her happy;
and often adds with a little sigh that tells a
whole history, “ She’s just like her father.”
And I presume some day it will be said of
some child yet to be born, “ She’s just like
her mother,” meaning the little unsatisﬁed
spendthrift of to-day.

Master Harry, of another family, a year
_y0unger than Miss Millicent, diﬂfers from
her in that he wants but one thing at a
time and wants it with a determination to
get it which usually overcomes parental
resistance. But as soon as Whatever is
coveted is his, it has no further value in
his eyes, and he will sell, or trade, or give
it away with what might be called gener—
osity if he cared at all for what he parts
with so freely. It is not true generosity to
give what costs us nothing or what we do
not prize.

I sometimes speculate a little as to the
probable outcome of these young lives, and
wonder what sort of a Wife Miss Millicent
will make, especially should she marry
some poor man, who cannot give her more
than a tithe of what she will want in the
way of luxury.

“ When I grow up I'm going to have a
surrey for the park, and a coupe with a big
gray horse to draw it, and a phaeton. and
then of course I’ll have to have a nice
carriage to go out calling in, and—oh
won’t it be ﬁne!”

“ But who will give you these ﬁne
things? your mamma cannot.”

“ Oh, I shall have them when I get mar-
ried.”

“Then you will have to marry a very
rich man, Millicent.”

“Of course! ”

Well, a child lives largely in an imagina-
tive world, it is true; but I wonder if it is
healthy to have the mind always dwelling
on images of wealth and magniﬁcence.
How Will these bright visions compare with
the dull prosaic reality, should Miss
Millicent fancy a poor man and ﬁnd she
must ridein the street cars instead of keep-
ing a carriage, and tread on ingrain instead
of moquette, and dress like the people she
now characterizes, with the sublime im-
pertinence of childhood, as “ ordinary peo-
ple.” Miss Millicent’s mother is not rich,
but earns a salary by her daily labor. She
dresses like one of the “ordinary people ”
who are objects of Miss Millie’s disap-
proval; but the love light in the child’s
eyes and heart does not acknowledge it or
know it; though “ I think mamma might
get me "—this, that or the other thing

 

Millicent is never contented, but always

  

I long 8) sometimes to see a real child;
one who is not spoiled by grown-up ways,
who possesses Childhood’s democracy, and
has not been taught she must not play with
some children-not becaause they are
vicious or foul-mouthed, but because they
don’t live on “ our street,” or dress well, or
are poor—a child who does not look you
over and appraise the style and value of
your clothing; one who is, in fact, full of
fun and play, with no ideas of social caste,
knowing no distinction between rich and
poor, but just care-free and happy, content
with little things. It seems as if the say-
ing “It takes a small thing to please a
child” is no longer true. It takes a great
deal to please them. The more that is
done for them, the more they demand. And
it is due to the fact that injudieious parents,
through mistaken love, try to gratify every
real and ﬁctitious want, to satisfy every
desire, no matter how unnecessary.
Character is destroyed, they are made dis-
contented, selﬁsh; they expect everything
to be done for them; they grow up inclined
to cast the world from them like a squeezed
orange; they have exhausted life’s pleasures,
and nothing is worth the eﬁort to secure.
The great reason why the children of the
rich so seldom amount to anything at
maturity is because there have been no
“ musts” in their lives; their needs have

been anticipated, they have had no oc-
casion to exert themselves. It is a most
unwise education—this education which
provides everything and leaves nothing to
be gained by personal achievement.
BEATRIX.

Miss E. CORA DEPUY, of Tecumseh,
says: In “ Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations,”
you will ﬁnd that Izaak Walton, whose
life was comprised within the years 1593—-
1683, said: " We may say of angling as
Dr. Boteler said of strawberries, ‘ Doubt-
less God could have made a better
berry, but doubtless God never did.f ” A
foot-note explains that Dr. Boteler was,
William Butler, whom Dr. Fuller styled"
the “Esculapius of the Age.” Who ,
William Butler was, further than as above ,.
stated, I have not been able to ascertain. ,
The cyclopedias to which the Editor of
the HOUSEHOLD has access are silent, as is
also the Reader’s Handbook of Quotations.
Many thanks for the information; it nail;
the quotation deﬁnitely, at all events,

———400_-—

THE correspondents who send us anony-
mous contributions must not be surprised
if the ultimate destination of their com-

 

wanted at the moment is often on her lips.

munications is the wastebasket.’


    
   
  
  
  
  
   
 
   
  
   
  
  
  
 
    
   
  
   
  
   
    
     
  
  
    
  
  
 
  
   
   
   
   
   
    
  
 
 
  
  
   
   
  
  
   
  
   
     
    
  
  
  
   
   

 

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4:

THE HOUSEHOLD.

   

  

 

A CURE FOB DYSPEPSIA.

 

I will send Philander a cure for dyspep-
sia. Drink a cup of water, as hot as pos-
sible. half an hour before eating and one at
bedtime, and do not eat between meals. I
know whereof I speak, for Seth had the
dyspepsia so that he could hardly eat
enough to keep him alive. By drinking
the hot water and eating graham bread he
can eat anything that anyone can, and as
much.

I enjoy Evangeline’s writings very much,
but wondered how she could accomplish so
much in so short a time. H.

Henson.

 

S GRAPS .

 

HARPER’s Bazar gives a dressing for kid
shoes and slippers which it says is better
than any patent dressing. It is prepared
by putting a little good black ink in a
small jar or something that can be set into
hot water, so as to heat the ink. Melt
down a common tallow candle, and mix it
to a smooth paste with the heated ink.
Rub this on the kid with a piece of old
ﬂannel.

 

QUITEa showy rug for a bedroom may
be made of heavy dark ecru Turkish
toweling. Cut applique designs out of
Turkey red cotton, and sew them down to
form aborder, edging them withawhite
cord, or chainstitch the edges with coarse
cotton. The rug must be lined with can-
vas; bind the edges with red. This is es-
pecially pretty on a ﬂoor covered with
matting, and is not expensive. Often a
pretty pattern for such work may be taken
mm the conventional ﬁgures of oilcloth
by combining and rearranging them.

 

A “literary salad” is the latest novelty
for a bazar. A number of green paper slips
are cut in the shape of lettuce leaves and
arranged in a salad bowl. On the stalk of
each leaf a quotation from some well
known author is written. The person who
guesses where the quotation comes from is
rewarded by drawing from a lucky bag,
which contains a number of triﬂing presents.
The price of a guess may be varied from
ﬁve cents to twenty-ﬁve cents. Shakes
peare is the best author to choose from,
and it is amusing to see how few people
know in which of his plays occur the most
familiar lines. As a social game, literary
salad is also entertaining, and the presents
in the grab bag may be as valuable as the
hostess pleases.

 

A PRETTY fan photograph rack is made
as follows: Cover a palm leaf fan with
any colored plush you prefer, and back it
with satteen of the same color. Edge it
with a fancy cord. Make a pocket of some
pretty contrasting color, stiffened with
cardboard and lined, large enough to cover
about half the front of the fan; ornament
this in any way you prefer, with ribbon
embroidery if you wish it very handsome;
fasten it to the fan. The upper edge—along
the sticks of the fan—is left open, or rather,
ﬁnished with the cord but not sewed to

 

the lining, so that photographs may be
slipped between. Between the upper edge
and the pocket the plush is slashed to form
another small pocket. This will accommo-
date ﬁve cabinets very nicely.

 

THERE is nothing much hotter in hot
weather than a corset and a linen collar.
The “ summer corset,” therefore, ﬁlls that
gap known as “ a long felt want.” It has
the principal whalebones of the ordinary
corset, similar clasps, shape, etc.; but is
made, except the casings of the whalebones,
of a sort of coarse, strong, open-work can-
vas, which is cool and light. It sells, in the
usual sizes, at 39 and 50 cents, and a higher-
priced article can be obtained at $1 and
$1.25 for those who think the others too
cheap. Tourist ruchings, six yards for 15,
25, 40 and 50 cents, according to quality,
banish the uncomfortable collar during the
hot months. When a ruche’costs less than
the laundrying of a collar, we can afford to
combine comfort and economy. The neat
little boxes, which take little room in the
satchel or hand bag, are invaluable to the
traveler, who can keep herself presentable
at hotels and on the cars by a cologne “ rub-
oif ” and a fresh ruche. It is the cheapest
neckwear in summer.

I GREATLY admired some lunch cloths
shown me by Mrs. A. B. Gulley, of Dear-
born, on the occasion of a late visit. They
were of plain linen, with a narrow border of
drawn work above the hem. One had the
corners decorated with drawn work, a
different design in each, and in the center
the owner’s initials and date, done in satin
stitch, and surrounded by a border in
drawn work which resembled alace inser-
tion, so beautifully was it done. The other
was bordered with designs done in Ken-
sington stitch with wash silks in colors,
ﬁrst a spray of ﬂowers, then one of fruit.
There was also two very dainty doyleys in
drawn work which resembled Venetian
embroidery, and must have cost not a little
time and pains. Some of our readers are
probably treasuring old linens, the hand
woven product of an ancestress’s skill and
work; and they might easily be converted
to some such use as this. For the lunch
cloth and the doyley are now almost as nec-
essary as the tablecloth and the napkin.

HOUSEHOLD HINTS.

 

DRIED berries are unsatisfactory winter
stores. Make jam of all imperfect and
surplus blackberries and raspberries, by
allowing one-third their weight in sugar,
cooking twenty or thirty minutes and
sealing in cans or jars.

 

IF a black or dark colored straw hat or
bonnet has become discolored by dust,
brush it well to remove the dust as much
as possible, then rub with a soft cloth on
which you have put a wry little sweet oil.
Too much will make it look worse than
before after it is once worn in the dust, but
just a little will brighten the braid.

 

THE chemist of the Oswego, N. Y.,

 

woolen mills says the following compound
is sure death to carpet bugs: One ounce of‘
alum; one ounce of chloride of zinc; three
ounces of salt. Mix with two quarts of
water, let it stand over night in a covered
vessel; in the morning pour carefully into-
another vessel without sediment. Dilute-
With two quarts of water and apply by
sprinkling the edges of the carpet for a
distance of afoot from the wall. This will
not injure the carpet, and bugs will leave
any carpet, box or bed on its application.

MEx’s Mackinac straw hats may be made-
to look nicely by washing. Have some
clean, cold water, put in enough ammonia.
tosoften it, wash the hat with this; then
with a small, soft scrubbing-brush and
some nice white soap scrub the straw until
clean, rinse in clean water and put in the
sun to dry. Lay the hat on a table or
board, while working, brim down, and it
may be done easier. When drying, lay on
a ﬂat surface in the same position. This-
is only for plain braids and a few fancy,
but usually the latter do not take kindly to-
this treatment. Never use warm or hot
water for this purpose, as it will melt the-
glue used for stiffening, and a general
mess will be the result. When wet press
with the hands the hat as near its original,
shape as you can, then let dry.

 

 

LUMA, of Maple Rapids, says she found2
no diﬂiculty in thoroughly cleansing a nurs-
ing bottle and tube by putting a few drops
of ammonia in the water; and the use of
two brushes with long wires attached, one
for the bottle and the smaller one for the
tube. Such brushes may be obtained at.
any drug store.

___.___...____ _.

Contributed Recipes.

PEACH Possum—Empty a quart can of
peaches into a porcelain-lined kettle; add halt
a pound of sugar, and a quarter of a pound of
butter. While stewing put in little dumplings
of rich biscuit crus:. rolled very thin and cut
in squares. Cook half an hour, or twenty
minutes, and serve with cream. Do not add
water to the fruit. unless a very little if you
use fresh peaches insted of‘ISanned.

BERRY SHORTCAKn.—Bake a Sally Lunn in a
square tin. When done pull it open with the
ﬁngers, or cut with a hot knife, and cover
thickly with any kind of berries in season.
Serve with cream and powdered sugar.

RAISIN PIE-Stone and chop one heaping
cupful of raisins, mix with them the juice
and grated rind of one lemon, the yolks of
two eggs, two tablespoont’uls of water and
half a cupiul of sugar. Bake in a rather rich
paste, putting the beaten whites, sweetened
to taste. over the top. B.

GRAHAM Barnum—Two cups sour milk; half
cup molasses: one tablespoonful soda: salt to
taste. Stir very thick with graham ﬂour, and
bake three-quarters of an hour.

To CAN PUMPKIN—Cook the pumpkin. sift
and pack the cans as full as possible, screw
on the covers just enough to keep out the
water while boiling: have a board full of holes
ﬁtted to the bottom of the boiler, put in the
cans with cold or warm water (never hot) boil
about four hours, then take them out and
turn the covers down tight. a,

HUDSON.

 

 

 

 


 

 

  

NWQLus-a«mamas .
\

I i

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DETROIT. JULY 1.3. 1889.

 

 

THE HOUSEH O LID-"Supplement.

 

 

M Y PHOTOGRAPH.

 

The picture-man‘s accusaomed hand
Arranged me with cele ity,
And hid my principal defects
With judgment and dexterity.
He turned me right, he turned me left,
With wonderful rapidity,
Securing my inconstaut head,
To give it due solidity.
He p‘aced a river at my back,
And trees and rocks' adjacently
Adjusted, with artistic touch,
And viewed the whole complacently.
“Just drop your chin l" I dropped it to
The best of my ability;
“ But shut your mouth I" he added, which
I deemed an inciviliiy.
Across the room with dirty face
A bric a-bracket Psyche sat;
The artist backward jerked his thumb
And bade me keep an eye on that,
And eke to smile and wink,
With dignity and suavity;
Whereat I smiled full solemnly,
And winked with awful gravity.
'Twas difﬁcult—but now ’tis done.
With secret exultation do
I show to friends my photograph,
And note their admiration too .
“How beaut full” they cry, nor know
Their honest prai:e is praise of me,
Till pressed to tell them whose it is,
“Tits In no!” I say triumphantly.

M.—

A STUDY OF CHILDHOOD.

“ I only want a tricycle, and a new white
dress, one of those all over embroidery
ones, and to go to dancing school and to
take painting lessons; and—oh yes, one of
those lovely little gold watches at Rol-
shoven’s—they’re only $20, and they’re
just perfectly lovely; and then Iwould not
want another thing for ever so long.”

“ Wouldn’t you like the earth, Milli-
cent?”

“N—no, I don’t think I’d care for it.
But I do want a watch and a tricycle just
awful.”

Miss Millicent, aged twelve, has a new
list of wants every week, as fancy inclines
or as she sees others have things she ad-
mires. She wants everything “ just awful,”
and no sooner is one wish gratiﬁed than she
wants something else just as bad, and runs
up and down the old gamut of coaxing and
teasing to get it. For all small things, her
plea is “ Oh mammal it only costs”--ten
cents or a Quarter or half a dollar, as the
case may be. The pocketbook generally
uncloses, the small want of the moment
is satisﬁed, and next day the plea is re-
newed. Her mother says herself that
Millicent is never contented, but always

  

 

wants something more to make her happy;
and often adds with a little sigh that tells a
whole history, “ She’s justlike her father.”
And I presume some day it will be said of
some child yet to be born, “ She’s just like
her mother,” meaning the little unsatisﬁed
spendthrift of to-day.

Master Harry, of another family, a year

. younger than Miss Millicent, differs from

her in that he wants but one thing at a
time and wants it with a determination to
get it which usually overcomes parental
resistance. But as soon as whatever is
coveted is his, it has no further value in
his eyes, and he will sell, or trade, or give
it away with what might be called gener-
osity if he cared at all for what he parts
with so freely. It is not true generosity to
give what costs us nothing or what we do
not prize.

I sometimes speculate a little as to the
probable outcome of these young lives, and
wonder what sort of a wife Miss Millicent
will make, especially should she marry
some poor man, who cannot give her more
than a tithe of what she will want in the
way of luxury.

“ When I grow up I’m going to have a
surrey for the park, and a coupe with abig
gray horse to draw it, and a phaeton, and
then of course I’ll have to have a nice
carriage to go out calling in, and—oh
won’t it be ﬁne 1”

“But who will give you these ﬁne
things? your mamma cannot.”

“Oh, I shall have them when I get mar-
ried.”

“Then you will have to marry a very
rich man, Millicent.”

“Of course! ”

Well, a child lives largely in an imagina-
tive world, it is true; but I wonder if it is
healthy to have the mind always dwelling
on images of wealth and magniﬁcence.
How will these bright visions compare with
the dull prosaic reality, should Miss
Millicent fancy a poor man and ﬁnd she
must ride in the street cars instead of keep-
ing a carriage, and tread on ingrain instead
of moquette, and dress like the people she
now characterizes, with the sublime im-
pertinence of childhood, as “ ordinary peo-
ple.” Miss Millicent’s mother is not rich,
but earns a salary by her daily labor. She
dresses like one of the “ordinary people”
who are objects of Miss Millie’s disap-
proval; but the love light in the child’s
eyes and heart does not acknowledge it or
know it; though “I think mamma might
get me "—this, that or the other thing
wanted at the moment is often on her lips.

I long 8) sometimes to see a real child;
one who is not spoiled by grown—up ways,
who possesses Childhood’s democracy, and
has not been taught she must not play with
some children—not becaause they are
vicious or foul-mouthed, but because they
don’t live on “our street,” or dress well, or
are poor—a child who does not look you
over and appraise the style and value of
your clothing; one who is, in fact, full of
fun and play, with no ideas of social caste,
knowing no distinction between rich and
poor, but just care-free and happy, content
with little things. It seems as if the say-
ing “It takes a small thing to please a
child” is no longer true. It takes a great
deal to please them. The more that is
done for them, the more they demand. And
it is due to the fact thatinjudicious parents,
through mistaken love, try to gratify every
real and ﬁctitious want, to satisfy every
desire, no matter how unnecessary.
Character is destroyed, they are made dis-
contented, selﬁsh; they expect everything
to be done for them; they grow up inclined
to cast the world from them like a squeezed
orange; they have exhausted life’s pleasures,
and nothing is worth the effort to secure.
The great reason why the children of the
rich so seldom amount to anything at
maturity is because there have been no
“ musts” in their lives; their needs have

been anticipated, they have had no oc-
casion to exert themselves. It is a most
unwise education—this education which
provides everything and leaves nothing to
be gained by personal achievement.
BEATRIX.

Miss E. Cons DEPUY, of Tecumseh,
says: In “ Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations,”
you will ﬁnd that Izaak Walton, whose
life was comprised within the years 1593—
1683, said: “ We may say of angling as
Dr. Boteler said of strawberries, ‘Doubt-
less God could have made a better
berry, but doubtless God never did.’. ” A.
foot-note explains that Dr. Boteler was,
William Butler, whom Dr. Fuller styled‘-
the “ Esculapius of the Age.” Who
William Butler was, further than as above .
stated, I have not been able to ascertain.
The cyclopedias to which the Editor of
the HOUSEHOLD has access are silent, as is
also the Reader’s Handbook of Quotations.
Many thanks for the information; it nails
the quotation deﬁnitely, at all events,

——OO.———-

THE correspondents who send us anony-
mous contributions must not be surprised
if the ultimate destination of their com-

 

munications is the wastebasket.


 

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2 THE HOUSEHOLD.

 

 

THE HOUSEKEEPER.

 

I was reading not long since that what
mankind most needed was less advice and
more strawberries in the Shortcake. But
it don’t say one word about the women, so
it‘is presumable that they, being “weaker
vesse ” will need a little propping up.
Our little HOUSEHOLD wings its way into
each home once a week, freighted with
words of cheer and experience, telling of
plans for the future, of petty trials that
have been left behind, of joys that have
come to us, making life more bearable; of
sorrows that have left the home sad and
hnely. And ever there is awakened a re
sponsive chord, there is that silent sympathy
that goes from one to another. We are a
little band, bound together with bands of
long companionship; we can rejoice with
those who rejoice, and mourn with those
who mourn. Human sympathy! what a
hard cold world this would be without it!
We all need it, we must have it, the heart
reaches out after it, just as the ﬂower
reaches up for the light, the sunshine, the
dew and showers; but how often when
we want sympathy, kind words, approval
and encouragement the most, we are liable
toget the least, for along with the good,
kind hearted ones, we ﬁnd fault-ﬁnders.

When I see a little, sensitive child to
whom a cross word is as bad as a blow, I
feel like taking the little shrinking body in
my arms and shielding it, for a sensitive
nature gets hard usage when it comes in
contact with the world. It is an Old say-
iig and a trite one the “ misery likes com-
pany.” We may be practicing some little
economy, we are forced to manage to get
along; it makes it easier to know that some
one else is in just the same condition. If
we thought our case was an isolated one it
would be a great deal harder to bear. In
our HOUSEHOLD we ﬁnd the doors of many
homes ajar, we can see their workings. how
they are managed; there are suggestions,
ways and means, that a great many put
into practice; it is natural to try ways dif-
ferent from our own if no better, it is a
change and “variety is the spice of life.”
On a farm the outdoor work is managed
much the same—the routine of plowing,
dragging, cultivating, sowing, reaping,
threshing. Men vary in their ideas of fer-
tilizers. but the main crops are put in and
secured much alike. But in our house-
keeping we can never adopt the same ways,
they areas varied as the scenery spread out
before us. One may. perhaps practice
“unconscious housekeeping;” there is
never any work around; a regular system
i adopted, everything goes off like clock-
work. If there is a baby he seems to
grasp the situation, and unlike babies in
general is always on his good behavior; the
yeast never sours, the cuisine is perfect,
ﬁe hottest day in summer with the ther-
mometer playin gin the nineties, the butter

ihard and ﬁrm and the house cool, good
temper reigns, and why shouldn’t it with no
friction, nothing to upset the equilibrium?
The farmer is a lucky individual who
min sweaty and tired from the hay
fold and ﬁnds things “on velvet,” and

changes work with a neighbor where the
ﬂies swarm round the table like bees, the
butter runs like oil, disorder is rampant,
eight or ten children clamor to be helped to
something to eat, and in place of the nice
white bread there is a “ steamed Indian
loaf”—the children’s favorite dish—for in
this home the children are ﬁrst, foremost
and uppermost, and he wonders if the dif-
ference is in the “household fairy,” and if
there is really anything in system. So
many homes, so many methods of house-
keeping, and human beings so constituted
that each is happy in his own home, satis-
ﬁed with all conditions. Oh yes, occas-
ionallyapair of wings is beating against
the cage that holds them fast; fretting at
present surroundings, longing for the world
beyond their little domain, longing for
something better than they have known.

Housekeeping probably will never be
managed and carried on on scientiﬁc
principles. Suppose we have the week’s
work mapped out—each day we shall have
to work so and so. The day that we have
staked our bottom dollar on, the baby is
sick, company arrives, husband has an ex-
tra force, the bread refuses to rise, the
butter is forever coming, and to top off
with, the meat-cart does not make its usual
round. Who wants to havea greater mud-
dle than this is? If one had been stirring
things up with a pudding-stick, there could
not have been more confusion; and because
things are so different from what we had
planned, the nerves give out, a headache
results, and how natural it is to want
mother, and rue the day that we ever,
yes ever, undertook the position of “boss
balancer” in a farm house? There are
ups and downs in nearly all kinds of busi-
ness; but for crooks and turns and disap-
pointments, I think housekeeping will
“ take the cake.”

The month that has just closed—June,
with its profusion of ﬂowers, but capricious
this year with chill air and showers, always
my favorite month, and one in whichI'take
the most ease and comfort, was unusually
hard. With a family numbering from
thirteen to seventeen, I found myself turn-
ing out twenty-four loaves of bread every
six days, and other things in proportion.
For three consecutive weeks I stood at my
post, vascillating between the moulding-
board and the oven, but the fourth week,
Monday found me on the bed, and I was
forced to remain there three days with
a nervous headache, which is my terror,
leaving me in much the shape a run of
fever would. But when the sun dropped
in the west on Wednesday, leaving the sky
aﬁame, and the birds were singing their
evening hymn, the headache left me and I
fell into that delicious sleep that always
follows, and in the morning when I looked
out over the yard that had just been mowed,
the air full of music and fragrant with
clover bloom, Iwondered how I ever could
have been sorry, the day before,.that my
home was on afarm with its hard work and
worry. So you see that it is the condi-
tions that make our life. We are the same
always. “ Seasons may come and go; Hope

break its wings against the iron bars of
Fate; Illusion may crumble as the cloudy
towers of sunset ﬂame; Faith as running
water may slip from beneath our feet;
Solitude may stretch itself around us, like
the measureless desert sand; Old Age may
creep as the gathering night over our
bowed heads; but still through all we are
the same.”
There are very few of us behemoths, in
fact the majority of farmers’ wives are
slight, slender women, but blest withwill
force that will stand in stead Of strength;
feeling that their possessions lie about and
it needs a shoulder to the wheel to keep
things moving, while Hope ever holds be-
fore our eyes the beautiful illusory bubble.
rainbow hued, decoyin g us with the promise
that sometime, somewhere, things will be
easier, perfection will be realized. And
how could we live and struggle along with-
out this hope? We would faint by the
way, there would be nothing to live for, if
for time and eternity we should plod along
carrying the burdens, bearing the heat of
the day. It is well that hope is such a
large element in our organization, for with-
out aprize the race were not worth run-
ning. EVANGELINE.
BATTLE Casnx.

.___...__..

POLLY’S OPINION ON ROAD-MAKING.

You thought Polly had “ done gone
died,” didn’t you? Well, you see how
easy it is to be mistaken, and still you came
pretty near being right; she was almost
gone; it wasn’t Warner’s Safe Cure nor
Compound Oxygen Rheumatic Syrup that
resuscitated her; what do you think it was?
It was “ getting mad ” that revived her.

NO doubt you have all read in the news-
papers and almanacs of the man who asked
his wife (who imagined herself dying)
which one of their acquaintances she
thought would make him the best wife
when she was gone; and of course you re-
member how quick she revived, and was
up and around as well as usual. Well,
that was something like Polly’s case, only
hers was quite a different cause. Now I’ll
tell you all about it. I have asked myself
many times in the last few weeks why the
men of today will follow the old ruts and
ways of their fathers in road-making.

. If women every spring began house-
cleaning by tearing up the rooms, piling
things up, and ﬁnished, leaving them in such
a condition that every one must move slowly
and with care to avoid running against or
over something that might destroy their
equilibrium, and wiping something that
would seriously soil their best coat or
pants nearly every time they stirred, is
there any expletive a man would think too
bad for the occasion? I guess not! I feel
just that way about the manner in which
our country roads are worked.

In our road districts, and the same is true
in districts adjoining us, the biggest fools-—
the men with the least brains—excuse this
strong term please, and remember Polly is
mad about the mud on her new carriage—
the biggest fools are nominated and imme-

 

 

Iow he congratulates himself when he

like a bird may ﬂy away; Passion may

diately elected pathmasters. Men of. sense

    
  
  
  
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
  
  
  
 
  
  
  
 
  
 
   
  
   
  
   
   
 
 
  
 
 
   
 
  
  
 
  
  
 
 
  
 
  
 
 
  
  
 
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
  
  
 
 
   
  
 
  
 
 
   
    
     

 

 


 

 

. '.:If’7"‘?... .k ,4

 

 

 

 

 

   
  

 

 

 

    

THE HOUSEHOLD. 3

 

0r brains generally think they have what
they consider things of more importance to
:attend to, and do not want to be bothered
with pathmastership. Well, these pathmas-
ters cannot use brains which nature never
endowed them with, so they, remembering
how their fathers set teams and plows to
plowing up the roads, proceed to do like-
wise. This job is left until the roads are
worn down smooth and hard, and people
:get their new carriages out, and those who
haven’t new ones get their old ones painted
and varnished. Then if the “ fool-killer”
only would come! But alas, no! It’s only
the pathmaster, who warns every man to
come on the road with team and plow, etc.
And then good-by to all comfort or pleas-
ure or patience, riding over that portion of
the road they have desecrated. I thank
the Lord earnestly and honestly they do
not have time to get the whole length of
the district. After they have done their
work we can say good-by to the exquisite
shine of our new varnish, and also to sev-
eral hours’ hard work by the one who has
to wash the carriage after running through
this soft dirt after a shower. And Polly is
the one at this house.

I guess I will describe a few of the pieces
.of artistic road work I have had the for-
tune, good or bad, to ride over in the last
two weeks. I do not expect it will at all
compare with Evangeline’s (bless her) One
Week. On one road the pathmaster wanted
to make the road oval on a certain hill, so
instead of taking off the sides and leaving
the hard middle, they plowed and turned the
dirt into the middle, of course making the
hill so much higher for the horses to climb.
Then they thought to still improve upon
the job, so they built—really, I do not
know what the scientiﬁc name might be—
but they are ridges a foot and a half or
'two feet high across the track. I was told
these were to prevent the water running
down hill; ahem! Yes! Well, at least un-
til it got out to the sides of the road. On
one hill I counted three or four and the hill
was not a very long one. My horse is a
very good-natured animal, so she mounted
the hill without any protest but with a long
drawn sigh of relief when the top was
reached.

On another piece the road was pretty
ﬂat, but there was a small ditch each side
and the soil was gravelly. No matter how
long or hard it rains in summer, in twelve
hours a carriage can run almost anywhere
without soiling any more than the felly,
before the pathmaster gets abroad. Well,
this piece of twenty or thirty rods was
plowed in and in until it was raised, I
should think, two feet; in a few days there
‘came a heavy rain, and horses and wagons
went down and down through this newly
piled up earth, and the soil and the water
were trampled and mixed so it remained
deep mud for days after the rest of the road
was perfectly dry. And it dried in that
cut and trampled condition; and no amount
of travel has yet succeeded in making it
.smooth. It is enough to give any one
spinal diﬁiculty or liver complaint to ride
'over it. Does the pathmaster think it
duty to hitch to a scraper and level it a bit?

 

Oh no, not he! He imagines he has done all
his duty in tearing up the road—or rather
ordering others to do it.

To tell you the truth, I see no help for
this state of things until women can have
the ballot and be pathmasters. Then it
would be done right. POLLY.

——___...____-

ANOTHER WEEK’S PROGRAMME.

 

(Continued from June 29th.)

Sunday morning dawned clear and
warm, and after indulging in a short nap,
I arose, dressed and began to help with
breakfast. Mutton chops, potatoes warmed
in milk and butter, bread, butter, ginger
cookies and coffee was our bill of fare; and
when the meal was over and the chickens
attended to, the dishes were washed and
the dining room attended to. I wanted to
attend the morning services in town, so I
hurried up with the sweeping, dusting and
bed-making and proceeded to get ready.
The boy, Karl, had been ready some time
and had the horse and carriage at the door
before I put in an appearance. A pleasant
drive of two and one-half miles and we
were there. Owning to the difference in
clocks we were late, and then had the
pleasure of sitting near a baby that moved
from one end of the pew u) the other con-
tinually. The ride from town was not
very pleasant owing to the heat, and I was
glad when we reached home and I could
change my thick dress for a cool one.

Dinner was soon ready and consisted of
ham, eggs, mashed potatoes, bread, butter,
pickles, fruitcake, bananas sliced and
eaten with cream and sugar, pie and tea.

It was very warm and I made a silent
wish that chicks and lambs might not get
hungry so often. But then they do, and
some one has to take pity on them and at-
tend tc their wants. Dishes are washed
and we are at liberty for a few hours. The

day has passed rapidly thus far, and so I‘

take a book, fan and chair and settle my-
self on the veranda for a little while. My
book proving uninteresting I read the story
in the last FARMER to Mary, who is also
enjoying the shade and breeze. We laugh
over Hetty’s adventure with the calf, and
are glad that she at last comes to her senses
and accepts Nathan.

Only too soon is it time to go to the Sun-
day school at the school house, and an hour
is very pleasantly spent there. We walk
slowly home and then indulge in day-
dreams, until “Old Sol,” slowly retiring
to his bed in the west, warns us that it is
time to be “up and doing.” Everything
is soon done and we have lunch, consisting
of cold mutton and ham, bread, butter,
radishes, cookies and pie. The working
hours on a farm begin early and so we are
soon asleep that we may prove that “the
early bird catches the worm.” Monday
comes all too soon, but hearing no one up
when I awake at ﬁve o’clock, I settle my-
self fora short nap before beginning the
day’s work. Finally I stir up enough
energy to get up “for good,” and after
dressing proceed to the kitchen and ﬁnd

1115 that Mary has been up nearly an hour,

and has hot water in the boiler and the

 

ﬁrst tubful of clothes soaking.
sooner the washing is done the better,
so I go at that while she ﬁnishes the

The

breakfast. Soon I hear “Breakfast is
ready. Come,” and I start for the dining-
room, where fried white ﬁsh, fried pota
toes, bread, butter, ginger cookies and
coffee are ready for us to partake of. Im-
mediately after the meal is over I again go
to washing and succeed in getting the
white clothes on the line by half past
eight. I am glad so much is done, but a
sigh will come when I survey the great
pile of clothes yet to be washed. But they
are all done by half past eleven, and I be-
gin to put the wash-room to rights. Mary
has done all the other work and has dinner
ready at noon. Pork pot-pie, potatoes,
chopped cabbage, bread, butter and queen
pudding make up the bill of fare, and it
is with a sigh of relief that I sit down for a
few minutes. Dinner over I mop off the
ﬂoor while Mary does the dishes, and we
then have the afternoon to ourselves. I
am undecided Whether to crochet or paint
on some ground glass. Right here let me
say to those who paint with the oil paints
that a spray of ﬂowers painted on a piece
of ground glass makes a very pretty
and inexpensive ornament. I ﬁnally de-
cide to crochet and go out on the veran-
da, followed soon after by Mary, who ﬁnds
the air indoors rather warm.. The hours
soon pass and it is supper time. Mary
folds the clothes while I make biscuit,
gather eggs and get the supper; the latter,
consisting of cold meat, warmed pot-pie,
biscuit, butter, pickles, canned cherries
and fruit cake, is ready by the time the
boy comes with the cows. Supper over,
dishes are washed, milk skimmed, bread
sponge made, coifee prepared for break-
fast, and our day’s work is done. This is
always the only time I can ﬁnd for the care
of ﬂowers, as it is so warm to work among
them during the day. The chickens have
helped all they could to undo what I have
done, but I have them in check now, for
the beds are thickly covered with brush.
This is more useful than ornamental, and I
hope soon to be able to do away with it.
Such work as they do make! A nice bed
of young verbena plants was all scratched
out while I was away one afternoon. That
made me wrathy, and I said I’d banish every
hen and chicken from the place, but the
are all here yet, with no prospect of them
gomg very soon.
(To be continued.)
-———...—-_

WILL Keturah, of Concord, please hurry
up her week’s programme a little? Housm-
HOLD copy is called for the ﬁrst thing .
after the FARMEB goes to press Friday
night. and is needed not later than Tues-
day for insertion in the next issue.

 

ON Thursday, June 25th, Miss Jennie
Wickham, of Flint, was married to Mr.
Edmund Davis, of this city. As E. L.
Nye, Miss Wickham has been pleasantly
known to readers of the HOUSEHOLD for
the past ten years, and the many who made
her acquaintance through her spicy con-
tributions will extend their congratulations
and good wishes to her in her new estate,
and will be glad to learn she promises not
to forget to visit us as heretofore.

    


  
    
   
  
   
  
   
 
  
  
    
    
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
   
 
 
 
  
    
 
 
  
  
  
   
   
  
 
  
   
  
 
 
 
  
  
    
     
  
 
  
     
    
   
 
 
    
  
  
   
    
    
   
    
  
  
  
   

 

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4 THE HOUSEHOLD.

 

LIVING BELOW OUR IDEALS.

 

Dear friends of the HOUSEHOLD, I want
an introduction to Mrs. Cloudy Week. I
am longing to shake both her hands. She
is a housekeeper after my own experience.
Iactually looked for the signature before
I had ﬁnished reading the ﬁrst letter to see
if I had not written it myself in some absent-
minded half hour and forgotten about it, it
wasso like what I should say if I had time.

Evangeline’s profusion and unvarying
perfection tire me while I envy her. If I
could choose my lot in this life I would be
such a housekeeper and home-maker as she.
I would have a good house, large enough
for my family and a few guests, well
furnished; and sufﬁcient time and strength
at command to keep it clean and in order,
and a supply of food prepared so that no
guest would hear an apology or be felt a
burden. But money, time and strength
(especially woman’s strength) are limited
quantities; and I say that the woman who
makes the best use of the portion of these
allotted to her, is the best housekeeper.
Probably one woman in twenty-ﬁve can do
all the work her household requires and
still have time for rest, even three hour
naps, writing, reading and fancy work.
But with the most of us the programme for
the day must be made out something like
this. The three meals must be cooked and
the dishes washed; chamber work and
sweeping must be done. We think it over
as we open our eyes and realize that the
clock will soon strike ﬁve. If Monday,
we add washing to the “must-he’s” and
hope we can mop, black the stove and
possibly ﬁnish Nellie’s dress or some other
piece of necessary sewing in the afternoon;
but all the time we know by past experience
that callers, the children and chickens are
likely to take up so much of our time and
strength that if the clothes are made clean
and folded “agin to-morrer’s ironing," it is
all we can expect to accomplish in one day.

After settling the “must-he’s” for the
day, and hopefully planning to bring in
as many as possible of the tasks that ought
to be, then the imagination runs along
hopelessly over the things we would like
to do—write a letter, read a new book or
some of the long columns in the newspaper,
or call on a friend. The newspapers con-
tain much information that every mother
ought to know if she is to answer all the
questions asked her.

Mrs. Cloudy Week is not the only home-
maker who has studied night and day on
the problem, what is the most essential
thing—the house, the food, the clothing,
the children, or social and religious duties.
The clock strikes, and with the prayer

“Keep me, my God. from stain of sin
Just for 10-day.
Let me both diligently work
And daily pray;
Let me be kind in word; and deed
Just for today,"
on our lips we begin the tasks so rarely
ﬁnished to our satisfaction when we again
press our pillows. “ Good housekeeping
is a luxury I cannot afford,” said one tired
mother when the work required twice her
strength and there was no money to hire.

“ The work I ought to do and cannot, tires

 

  

me more than the work I do,” said another.
The great question of the time is “ How
can we build up pleasant, attractive Chris-
tian homes with the least outlay of time
and strength. AUNT BESSIE.

 

A CLOUDY WEEK.

 

( Concluded .)

I think no one who has taken an interest
in this record of six days will blame me
for concluding to rest from writing at least
on the seventh. I don’t believe in whin-
ing, but I set out to tell about our clouds
and was bound to do it, even if they did
rain down sulphured turkeys and a choked
cow. I can not claim that my lot is any
harder than the average farmer’s wife, but
troubles and worries seem to have come
thick and fast just because I was telling of
them. If you don’t notice your worries
they seem to shrink and get far between.
But just give them plenty of attention and
they spring up everywhere.

Saturday is always a sort of day of judg-
ment with me. Whatever I’ve let slip be-
hind in my work through the week has got
to be made up. Simon began haying this
morning, and I knew he wouldn’t want to
drive the horses to-morrow and we couldn’t
go to meeting; so I tried to do up the work
in such a way that I might hope for three
or four hours’ rest. I never get a bit when
we go. I set Phil churning, Lou washing
dishes, Kate cutting out cookies, while the
baby took a notion to ﬁll the wood-box—
one stick at a time—with the screen propped
open to let the ﬂies in or out, just as they
chose. I baked bread, beans, pies and
cake, and had middling good luck with
them all. About eleven o’clock Simon’s
cousin John and his wife stopped at the
gate; he went on to mill, and she came in
for a visit. We were all young folks to
gether, married about the same time, and
started pretty even. But somehow they’ve
never done so well as we have; I don’t
know why, unless it is because they never
had any children to spur them up. Our
crops, fruit, garden and whatever I buy is
so much better than theirs—at least she tells
me so in a way that makes me feel I am to
blame for it all. She was worse than usual
today, even ﬂinging out about the gingham
I bought for the girls’ dresses; she had to
get along with calico. I explained that I
thought it cheaper in the long run, as the
two dresses made over into one at last, and
it wore and washed so well. But when I
touched my carpet grievance she snapped
out, rather than said, that she supposed
such a smart woman as I had got to be
could have what she wanted, and she
couldn’t expect me to enjoy the company
of common folks like her any more. I
made her explain. It seems our children
told at school that I was writing for the
papers. The news got to Mrs. Smith, and
she said her cousin’s sister-in-law got twen-
ty dollars a week for writing, and they
patched it up that I must be making as
much or more. They talked it up at the
sewing society yesterday and expect me to
pay liberally for the gold watch they are
going to buy for the minister’s wife. I

 

thought John would never come back—at
least not until I was dead; and when he-
did I had to urge them to stay to supper,
and felt awful glad to hear him hold out
about going, on account of chores. I was
tired out when the work was done, and it
seemed as if I could not bathe the children;
but I did, because I knew if I put it off it:
wouldn’t be done at all, and I do like to-
know they are clean once a week. All the
time I was at them Simon sat out on the
porch with his pipe, so comfortable it made
me feel mad to think of it. But when I
got through and all was quiet he asked me
to come out a few minutes, and added that
I must be tired. That was a good deal for
him to say and made me feel like crying;
and as we talked over the day and week
there in the moonlight, he said if he had‘
such a grumbling, mean-dispositioned wo-
man as John had he would hang himselfr
I knew he wouldn’t do any such thing, for
fear it might pain him; but it ﬂattered me-
in an underhand way just the same, and I
grew quite cheerful. When we talked over
the writing business—and I couldn’t help
wishing I did earn so much—he told me he
bet that New York woman was no such
good cook and housekeeper as I am. I.
guess he thought I needed a little tender-
ness after such a week of trials; and as all
women love to be loved, even if it is in a.
hinting, blundering sort of way, I have
concluded to conclude my story by signing;
myself SIMON’S WIFE.

Wu...

HOUSEHOLD HINTS.

 

Do not rinse the baby’s clothing in water'
which you have blued. The use of bluing
is not to be recommended for any clothing;.
and the tender skin of infancy_ should not.
be exposed to the chance of absorbing the
poisonous dye.

 

A CORRESPONDENT of the N. Y. Tribune
says: “ An item circulating in the country
press tells of a woman making butter with-
out churning—by placing the cream in &
muslin sack, and burying it in the ground
twenty-four hours, when it can be taken.
out a lump of solid butter. A neighbor
had the curiosity to try it and the result.
was half as much butter as cream put in.

It was salvy, and tasted more like cheese. ‘

than butter. In treating cream this way
no chemical action occurs, the water or
whey simply drains out, leaving everything
else. It would do this were the sack of
cream laid or hung anywhere in a cool
place, contact with the‘ ground having
nothing to do with it. As butter it is a
failure; as ﬁrst-class pot-cheese a success.”
It will be remembered Evangeline men-
tioned this as one of her to—be-tried experi-
ments, in “ One Week.” The item had
often been noticed by the HOUSEHOLD
Editor in exchanges, it seeming to have
had “quite a run,” but was never men-
tioned in the HOUSEHOLD as we were sure-
the result could not be satisfactory, and
that even if there were no other objection-
able feature, the earthy taste or ﬂavor
which might be acquired would be highly‘
undesirable.

    

 

WE w

. . Mme. M..W-.:_..m ”a”.

 

     
       

   

 

