[to be continued.]
[FLOWERS IN FANCY DRESS.]
BY MRS. SOPHIE B. HERRICK.
I remember as well as though it were yesterday how, years and years ago, when I was a very little girl, I once went roaming through the beautiful woods of Southern Ohio, hunting for a certain wild flower.
The object of my search was a flower not often found, which we children called the Indian moccasin. It did look like a moccasin, indeed, with its round blunt toe and yellow, leathery, shoe-shaped pouch. I wonder if any prospector ever looked for signs of gold with more intense excitement than I felt when searching for my little golden shoe? Everywhere I turned, in my breathless haste, yellow moccasins seemed dancing before my eyes, and I hardly knew, till my eager hands had grasped the stem, whether it was a real flower I had found or not. I hardly think I could have valued it more if I had known what I have since learned about the wonderful ways of the orchids, to which family my moccasin belonged.
Fig. 1.—Lady's-Slipper.
You may never have found this particular plant in your rambles, and yet may know some other of the orchid tribe which grows wild in our woods. The common names are so different in different places that it is hard to tell you how to know them when you see them. The putty-root, and the lady's-slipper like that in Fig. 1, are some of them. Not the touch-me-not, a plant whose seed-pods snap and curl up if you touch them, and which is sometimes called lady's-slipper.
The orchids are an eccentric family. There is scarcely one of them which is not "queer" in some way or other. They seem always to be trying to look or to act like something besides flowers. They imitate all sorts of things besides little Indian shoes. I wish I could take you into an orchid greenhouse and let you look around. You would think you had been invited to a fancy-dress party of the flowers.
There is one that looks for all the world like a swan, with its long curved neck; there is a beautiful butterfly with spotted golden wings; over yonder stands a scarlet flamingo, in a meditative attitude, on one red leg. Bees and spiders, done in brown and yellow, or perhaps more gorgeous colors, are all around. Here is a long spike of waxen flowers, and in the cup of each nestles a pure white dove with outspreading wings. The Spaniards have given it a name which means the flower of the Holy Ghost, from its resemblance to a dove.
These strange likenesses to other things are, however, the least wonderful thing about orchids. They differ from ordinary plants in many singular ways. Many of them, instead of growing in the ground, and drawing from it their food and drink, grow in the air, and take nourishment from it by means of their naked dangling roots. It seems sometimes as if living as they do high up on the bark of trees had put the notion into their heads of trying to look like birds and butterflies and bees.
The air manages to supply them with food, but they have to depend upon getting drink in some other way. Plants are a good deal like people in that respect; they can manage to get along somehow with very little food, but they soon die of thirst if deprived of water.
Fig. 2.—Young Plant growing on Flower Stem.
In a wild state, the air-plants grow on the bark of trees or on other substances, but they send their little roots into the moist bark or moss to get water. They do not feed on the juices of the trees, as parasites like the mistletoe do; they only want a standing-place, something to push against as they grow, and water. In the greenhouse they are usually planted in pots filled with bits of stone and damp moss, or they grow attached to the parent plant, as you may see in Fig. 2, and send their roots out into the air for food. A few of them—the Indian moccasin, for instance—grow like common plants in the ground.
It would almost seem as if the orchids had an eye to business in their imitation of insects. At any rate, there seems to be a very good understanding between them, and constant business relations are kept up. The flowers always have a little pouch somewhere about them in which they keep a stock of honey on hand. Their beautiful colors and delicious smell attract, by day and night, bees, butterflies, and moths. In return for the "treat" which the flowers give, the insects render a valuable service to the plants.
Fig. 3.—Honey Pouch and Pollen Pods.
I must remind you of something we have looked into before in "Picciola" (February 14, 1882), and that is that every perfect seed is the result of a partnership entered into by the pollen grains and the ovules of a flower. The pollen is the yellow dust which it is so easy to see on lilies and some other flowers; the ovules are little round bodies lying in the swollen part of a flower where it joins the stem. Above the ovules, and connected with them, is the pistil, sometimes standing up like the lily pistil of the geranium, sometimes only a sticky little pad, as it is in the orchids. Some plants get along perfectly well if this partnership is entirely a family affair, and the pollen of a flower falls on its own pistil, and makes a union with its own ovules, but this is not always the case. Certain plants require that the pollen shall be from another plant if the seed is to be sound and healthy. Orchids require this cross-fertilization, as it is called, and without the help of insects it could not be effected.
Bees and butterflies, it has been found out, always go in a single excursion from one flower of a kind to another of the same kind. They do not mix their drinks. This instinct not only serves to keep the honey stored by the bees pure, but it enables the insects to carry the pollen just where it will be useful. The pollen of a morning-glory would die if put on the rose pistil. It must be placed on a flower of the same family as the one it came from, or very nearly related to it, or it will do no good.
Fig. 4.—Pencil and Needle, with Pollen.
Now look at Fig. 2, and you will see that the flowers have a hollow tube in the centre, with a projecting lower lip. This tube is a single flower leaf curled over to make a tunnel, and through this tunnel is the only path to the honey pouch. When a butterfly feels like taking a drink, and one of these orchids is near, he lights on the lower lip of the tube, and pushing his long proboscis or trunk through it into the pouch, sucks up the honey. Now look at Fig. 3. This is a picture of the tube with its near wall cut away so that you can see the inside arrangement. As he works his proboscis down into the honey pouch, N, it is pressed against r, and touches a spring there; the little cap at r snaps open, and leaves a sticky ball resting on the proboscis. As the butterfly goes on sucking, this ball dries as if it were glued to his trunk. When he draws his head out, this proboscis is ornamented with one or two little tufts which look like the trees in a child's toy village, as you will see in the illustration.
Fig. 5.—Butterfly's Proboscis, with Pollen.
Now look at the fragment of a flower in the lower part of the same illustration. Suppose the pollen tuft to stay just where it is when the butterfly comes out of the flower. You can see by looking at the figure that it would strike r in the next flower it entered, and that would do no good; s is the place it should strike; s is the pistil. Now take an orchid flower, if you can get one; if not, look at Fig. 4, and see what will happen. I push into it a sharpened lead-pencil, and it comes out with the pollen tuft standing up as it does on the butterfly's trunk. Watch it a minute. As it dries, the stem of the tuft bends down, toward the point of the pencil. Now push it into another flower. Wait a little while—a minute perhaps—and take the pencil out. You will see that the pollen has been pulled out of its little case. If you tear open the flower, you will find the pollen sticking so tight on the pistil, s, that you can scarcely brush it off. In this upper flower the drawing is from Mr. Darwin's book; but the lower one is one of the flowers in Fig. 2, which I picked off the plant after drawing it, and tried with a pencil myself. r in the lower drawing looks like a little purple velvet pouch swung lightly on its stalk. The pencil came out, leaving the little bag empty, and the pollen glued fast to its side. But they were not glued so fast that they were not pulled off by the next flower that the pencil entered.
Some of the orchids have two pistils, one on each side. In these, if you push into the tube a bristle or needle, the two pollen cases come out as in Fig. 4; as they dry, they spread apart, and bend forward so that both pistils are struck at once as it is pushed into the next blossom. The contrivances by which each orchid receives on just the right spot exactly the right pollen are perfectly marvellous. I have only told you a very few of the simplest facts in regard to the help the insects give to the flowers. Many a poor butterfly goes through life having its proboscis loaded down with the glued-on pollen cases (Fig. 5). It is one of those business arrangements which does not work equally well for both parties. All this is beautiful for the flowers, but it seems rather hard on the butterflies.
[ANIMALS.]
BY JIMMY BROWN.
I should like to be an animal. Not an insect, of course, nor a snake, but a nice kind of animal, like an elephant or a dog with a good master.
Animals are awfully intelligent, but they haven't any souls. There was once an elephant in a circus, and one day a boy said to him, "Want a lump of sugar, old fellow?" The elephant he nodded, and felt real grateful, for elephants are very fond of lump-sugar, which is what they live on in their native forests. But the boy put a cigar instead of a lump of sugar in his mouth.
The sagacious animal, instead of eating up the cigar or trying to smoke it and making himself dreadfully sick, took it and carried it across the circus to a man who kept a candy and cigar stand, and made signs that he'd sell the cigar for twelve lumps of sugar. The man gave the elephant the sugar and took the cigar, and then the intelligent animal sat down on his hind-legs and laughed at the boy who had tried to play a joke on him, until the boy felt that much ashamed that he went right home and went to bed.
In the days when there were fairies—only I don't believe there ever were any fairies, and Mr. Travers says they were rubbish—boys were frequently changed into animals. There was once a boy who did something that made a wicked fairy angry, and she changed him into a cat, and thought she had punished him dreadfully. But the boy after he was a cat used to come and get on her back fence and yowl as if he was ten or twelve cats all night long, and she couldn't get a wink of sleep, and fell into a fever, and had to take lots of castor-oil and dreadful medicines.
So she sent for the boy who was a cat, you understand, and said she'd change him back again. But he said, "Oh no; I'd much rather be a cat, for I'm so fond of singing on the back fence." And the end of it was that she had to give him a tremendous pile of money before he'd consent to be changed back into a boy again.
Boys can play being animals, and it's great fun, only the other boys who don't play they are animals get punished for it, and I say it's unjust, especially as I never meant any harm at all, and was doing my very best to amuse the children.
This is the way it happened. Aunt Sarah came to see us the other day, and brought her three boys with her. I don't think you ever heard of Aunt Sarah, and I wish I never had. She's one of father's sisters, and he thinks a great deal more of her than I would if she was my sister, and I don't think it's much credit to anybody to be a sister anyway. The boys are twins, that is, two of them are, and they are all about three or four years old.
Well, one day just before Christmas, when it was almost as warm out-doors as it is in summer, Aunt Sarah said:
"Jimmy, I want you to take the dear children out and amuse them a few hours. I know you're so fond of your dear little cousins and what a fine manly boy you are!" So I took them out, though I didn't want to waste my time with little children, for we are responsible for wasting time, and ought to use every minute to improve ourselves.
The boys wanted to see the pigs that belong to Mr. Taylor, who lives next door, so I took them through a hole in the fence, and they looked at the pigs, and one of them said,
"Oh my how sweet they are and how I would like to be a little pig and never be washed and have lots of swill!"
So I said, "Why don't you play you are pigs, and crawl round and grunt? It's just as easy, and I'll look at you."
You see, I thought I ought to amuse them, and that this would be a nice way to teach them to amuse themselves.
"'WE'VE BEEN PLAYING PIGS, MA.'"
Well, they got down on all fours and ran round and grunted, until they began to get tired of it, and then wanted to know what else pigs could do; so I told them that pigs generally rolled in the mud, and the more mud a pig could get on himself the happier he would be, and that there was a mud puddle in our back yard that would make a pig cry like a child with delight.
The boys went straight to that mud puddle, and they rolled in the mud until there wasn't an inch of them that wasn't covered with mud so thick that you would have to get a crowbar to pry it off.
Just then Aunt Sarah came to the door and called them, and when she saw them she said, "Good gracious what on earth have you been doing?" and Tommy, that's the oldest boy, said,
"We've been playing we were pigs ma and it's real fun and wasn't Jimmy good to show us how?"
I think they had to boil the boys in hot water before they could get the mud off, and their clothes have all got to be sent to the poor people out West whose things were all lost in the great floods. If you'll believe it, I never got the least bit of thanks for showing the boys how to amuse themselves, but Aunt Sarah said that I'd get something when father came home, and she wasn't mistaken. I'd rather not mention what it was that I got, but I got it mostly on the legs, and I think bamboo canes ought not to be sold to fathers any more than poison.
I was going to tell why I should like to be an animal; but as it is getting late, I must close.
[A LITTLE GENTLEMAN.]
BY M. E. SANGSTER.
His cap is old, but his hair is gold,
And his face is clear as the sky;
And whoever he meets, on lanes or streets,
He looks him straight in the eye,
With a fearless pride that has naught to hide,
Though he bows like a little knight,
Quite debonair, to a lady fair,
With a smile that is swift as light.
Does his mother call? Not kite, or ball,
Or the prettiest game, can stay
His eager feet as he hastes to greet
Whatever she means to say.
And the teachers depend on the little friend
At school in his place at nine,
With his lessons learned and his good marks earned,
All ready to toe the line.
I wonder if you have seen him too,
This boy, who is not too big
For a morning kiss from mother and Sis,
Who isn't a bit of a prig,
But gentle and strong, and the whole day long
As merry as boy can be.
A gentleman, dears, in the coming years,
And at present the boy for me.
[HOW JAMIE SAILED IN THE "SCUD."]
BY MATTHEW WHITE, JUN.
The Scud was a cat-rigged, clipper-built pleasure-yacht, belonging to Mr. Trenwick, and now for sale. It had never been used very much, and now that Jamie was almost old enough to want to sail himself, and still sufficiently young to run a good chance of being drowned in the attempt, Mrs. Trenwick declared that she would sleep much easier at night if "that boat" were owned by somebody else.
Jamie was nearly eleven, and both he and his twin sister Marian knew how to row, and, in their pretty little boat would paddle about for hours in shallow water, so that it was considered perfectly safe to allow Jamie to pump out the Scud after a rain.
But as time went on and no purchaser appeared, the yacht seemed to feel the neglect with which it was being treated, and by way of attracting more attention to itself, suddenly began to leak.
"Well, pump her out every day if necessary, my son," said Mr. Trenwick, when informed of the fact, for he was very busy at his office in the city just then, and was never at home during the day except on Sundays.
The Scud was moored on the edge of the channel, only a few yards from the outer end of the Trenwicks' dock, and formerly a pretty blue and white buoy had floated above the spot where the anchor lay; but this had been lost by some means, and now the cable was fastened directly to the bow of the boat.
In the course of a week or so the pump, too, gave out, so that the water had to be patiently taken out by means of pail, bailer, and sponge, which Jamie found to be not nearly as interesting an occupation as pumping, which was certainly more "ship-shape."
"I don't wonder that nobody wants to buy her," he remarked to Marian one very hot afternoon, as she rowed him out to the scene of his daily task. "Look out, now, and don't let her bunk," he added, as his sister brought the boat up alongside the Scud with a swoop that threatened to considerably damage the paint of both, had not Jamie skillfully warded off the blow.
At the same moment there was a sound of wheels on the gravelled driveway leading to the house, and a handsome village cart was seen to stop at the front door.
"Oh, it's Mamie Henley!" cried Marian, clapping her hands. "Hurry out, Jamie; here's your pail and things;" and quickly catching up her oars again, the little girl shoved off, and was nearly back at the dock before her brother could shout after her:
"But how am I going to get ashore? Come on out here again and take me in; then I can leave you and keep the boat;" and Jamie beckoned violently with the pail, as if to add emphasis to his words.
"Oh, I can't stop now," Marian screamed in reply, as she nimbly slipped the painter over a post, and scrambled out on the dock. "There's Mamie beckoning to me now. I'll run up and see her first, and when I come back you'll be all through;" and throwing out the last sentence as she ran, Jamie's twin flew on her way to the house. Jamie himself took up his bailer and went to work, hoping that Mamie Henley's call would be a very formal and consequently short one.
As it happened, it was not a call at all, for she had simply come to take Marian out riding with her old pony in his new cart.
"But there's Jamie out there in the Scud," began Marian, when she had been hugged and told that if she could not go at once she couldn't go at all, as the coachman must be at home in time to meet the train.
"Oh, I'll see to your brother," returned Mamie, "and I know your mother will let you go, for we met her on the road, and I asked her if you might. Now hurry and put on your other hat," and as Marian vanished on the instant, her friend walked to the bank and called to Jamie to know how long it would take him to finish his work.
"About ten minutes," he shouted back.
"Well, I'm going to take Marian for a quarter of an hour's drive," screamed Mamie; "so you needn't hurry. I can't wait until she rows the boat out to you. Good-by;" and before Jamie could make her understand that it would be possible for them to let the boat drift out to him on the ebb-tide, Marian appeared in her best hat, both girls hurried into the cart, and with a cry of farewell went rattling off down the avenue.
"Well, this is a pretty fix to be left in!" thought Jamie, as he stood up on the deck of the Scud and looked out over the river in search of a crab boy, or any other sort of boy with a boat.
But as it was quite early in the afternoon, there was not a single one visible. Then, as it was so very warm, Jamie decided to rest awhile before going on with his work, so he crawled in under the forward deck, where there was shade and a strong smell of damp wood, and pillowing his head on a sand-bag, lay there listening contentedly to the regular lap, lap of the river against the Scud, wondering if each little ripple wasn't a sort of water-sprite in disguise.
Of course it was but a wave's-breadth from thinking about water-sprites to dreaming about them, and as the weather was extremely sultry, and the slight motion of the boat very soothing, Jamie was soon seeing strange sights.
First there were only the tiny water-sprites that seemed to flit before him; then these gradually grew into dwarfs with large heads, which they took off and tossed back and forth like foot-balls, until finally they themselves changed into giants, while the heads were transformed into immense cannon-balls, which crashed into one another, as they whizzed through the air, with a terrible report.
Boom! bang! b-o-o-m! The noise was so loud that it woke Jamie with a start, and even then he heard it, for in truth it was not all a dream, but a fierce thunder-storm which had suddenly swooped down upon the calm afternoon, and churned the peaceful river into a raging sea.
Jamie quickly turned over, and backed out of his retreat, to be at once soaked through by the driving rain.
The Scud was rising and falling on the waves with mighty thuds, tugging at the cable like a spirited horse eager to be off, and even as the boy stood there, transfixed with amazement, the rope parted, and the liberated boat shot swiftly down the river with the wind and tide.
Then Jamie rushed to the stern, thinking he might be able to steer the yacht in such a way that she would speedily be blown ashore; but with a thrill of terror he discovered that there was no tiller on board, nor even an oar or boat-hook to take its place, and thus, the rudder was rendered practically useless. The next instant a zigzag flame lit up the darkened heavens with its awful light, followed by a succession of thunder-claps, which sent Jamie back under the deck with a heart that nearly failed him as he realized how helpless he was.
The river was a broad one, and not particularly deep, except in the channel, although now that the tide had only been falling for about an hour there was not much hope of the Scud running aground anywhere near home. Faster and faster she drifted, or rather sailed along, until Jamie, unable to longer lie there in suspense, came out from his refuge, and, prepared to face the worst, gazed out upon the wild scene about him.
There was not a boat to be seen, with the exception of a schooner running down the river before the gale in the direction of the sea. The sea! Yes, it was only five miles off; and as Jamie recollected the fact, it seemed as if there must be something he could do to check his swift, dashing course toward it.
But he was quite powerless, and the Scud went whirling on, now bow first, now sidewise, yet ever moving on toward the ocean, between which and it there now loomed up the draw-bridge.
With wide-open, anxious eyes Jamie gazed at the latter as the schooner passed safely through, wondering in a dazed sort of way if the keeper would see him before he closed the draw.
"But how can I be sure of not missing it, even if it is open?"
The question was a momentous one, and, alas! how difficult to answer! And still onward sped the Scud, swiftly nearing the spot that now seemed more terrible to Jamie than the ocean itself.
The man had evidently seen him, for the draw remained wide open, but already the course of the boat was tending in such a way that a collision with the bridge appeared to be almost inevitable. Jamie sprang to the stern, and made a desperate effort to turn the rudder-post with his hands, but all in vain.
The bridge-keeper had by this time perceived the full extent of the lad's peril, but he could do nothing to help him—could only stand there on the draw with straining eyes fixed on the Scud.
Yet would the shock really be great enough to harm him? Jamie wondered; and for an instant or two he thought that the bridge might be the means of saving him from a worse fate, for perhaps the boat would remain unhurt, and he could manage to clamber up by the spiles. Then he noticed how rapidly he was passing each landmark on shore, and felt the full force of the gale as he turned to face it.
"The Scud can never stand it," he cried aloud in his excitement. "She's so old and leaky that at the first jar her timbers will give way, and I—"
But he was almost there now, and Jamie closed his eyes for an instant, as he fell to wondering vaguely whether the bridge-keeper would ever find him, or if he would be swept out to sea with the wreck. Then there came a sudden shock, which threw him from his feet, and caused him to put up his hands as if to ward off the mast, which he felt must now crash down upon him.
But nothing of the kind occurred, and venturing to raise his head, Jamie saw that the boat had not yet reached the bridge, and what was stranger still, remained stationary, with the spray dashing over its decks in great sheets. And now he understood it all: the Scud had run aground, and just in time too, for the bridge was less than ten feet distant.
All was safe, then, for as the tide was falling, the boat would undoubtedly remain where it was until the gale should subside, and Jamie could be taken off. Meantime, after shouting to the bridge-keeper to send some one out to him as soon as it was possible to do so, he crept under the deck and awaited the end of the storm. This was not long in coming, and soon the stout arms of a hardy fisherman lifted Jamie's chilled and dripping form from the Scud, in which he had sailed in spite of all, and he was rowed over to the beach in time to take the same train back in which his father was returning from the city.
"An' am dat you or yer ghost, Mas'r Jamie?" exclaimed the colored coachman, as they got into the carriage at the station. "There's yer pore ma at home lookin' up an' down de ribber as white as yerself, an' Miss Marian, she am dat scared 'bout yer dat—"
"But where was she all the time?" eagerly interrupted the boy, as his father took the reins from Pomp, and started the horses at their liveliest pace. "Why didn't she or somebody come out after me?"
"Why," replied Pomp, as he feasted his eyes on Jamie, sitting there in flesh and blood between himself and Mr. Trenwick, "yer see she went on dat ride wid Miss Mamie, an' dey was jist goin' to turn roun' an' come home, when de storm broke ober 'em. An' Miss Mamie's pony he am powerful 'fraid o' thunder, so dey couldn't jist do nothin' at all wid him,' cept drive into a barn 'long de road an' wait for clar weather. An' Miss Marian, she say she wur a-frettin' 'bout yer all de time, although she tink of course you had seen de storm a-comin' an' hollered to de gardener or somebody roun' dar (yer ma an' me bein' out wid de kerridge). An' when she come home an' find dat de Scud wur gone an' you in it, yer should hab seen her an' yer ma take on, like— But yer can see 'em now, tank de Lord!" added the good soul, as the team dashed up to the piazza, and Jamie sprang into his mother's arms, with Marian sobbing for joy on his damp jacket.
THE FINE ART OF COOKING.
BY AUNT MARJORIE PRECEPT.
A fine art, like painting, music, embroidery or sculpture? Yes, my dears, and an art which involves as much industry, skill, and taste as any of the others. Good cooking is an important element in home life and happiness. Health depends upon it, for nobody can be well and strong who suffers from indigestion, and nothing causes indigestion sooner than ill-cooked food.
Many people think that while a girl must go to school for years to acquire a knowledge of her own and foreign languages, and must have masters for this and that accomplishment, she may be safely left to pick up an acquaintance with cooking after she has a household of her own. This is a great mistake, as hundreds of ladies who remember the trouble they have had through want of experience can tell you. I myself once had a dreadful time trying to prepare a dinner, in the absence of my faithful Bridget, and I would have given up Latin, Greek, and French that day to have known when the potatoes were done, and to have discovered how to get the pease and beans out of the water in which they were floating.
To be a good cook, girls, one needs a light, firm hand, an accurate eye, and a patient temper. One needs, too, a few rules and a trustworthy receipt-book. We have all seen the easy way in which a good cook makes a cake. She tosses three or four things together, gives a flirt of the spice box, and a feathery touch or two to her foamy eggs, pops the pan into the oven, and presto! there appears the perfect loaf. And if you ask her why and how she did this or the other part of her work, she will very likely smile and say, "Oh, I used my judgment."
This judgment is the quality which no novice in cooking can expect to possess, just as no novice on the piano can perform the "Moonlight Sonata" after learning two or three scales, and no beginner with the pencil can paint such sea-pieces as those of De Haas.
But if you are watchful and persevering, the judgment will surely come, and by-and-by you will be as independent as a dear old colored aunty who once cooked for me. One day when I had asked some friends, and wanted a very nice dinner indeed, I asked Aunt Hannah how she intended to prepare the turkey. She raised herself to her full height, and looking like a queen, said, "Now, honey, you jest go 'long and sit by de fire. It's my business to cook de dinner, an' it'll be yours to eat it, chile."
Have your receipt-books, at least until you know certain rules by heart, and minutely follow their directions. Still, as no receipt-book can tell you just when bread is light or precisely when meat is done, you must watch whatever you are cooking very carefully, and you will gradually acquire a sort of sense which will not fail you.
One of the things you must learn if you wish to cook successfully is the management of your fire. A range is a splendid servant if under proper control; but unless you understand dampers and draughts, you will probably have no end of trouble with your ovens. The skillful cook keeps her fire raked clear of ashes from beneath. She never heaps coals up so high that they over-brim the fire-chamber and rattle against the lids, and she does not let her heat go up the chimney when it ought to be baking her biscuits.
Try your oven with the thermometer. Miss Juliet Corson says that a good temperature for baking meat is from 320° to 400° Fahr. Beef and mutton require about twenty minutes to the pound, and you may tell when they are done, and how much, by pressing the surface with the finger. Rare or little-cooked meat will spring back from the touch. There will be little resistance if it is quite well done, and none at all if it is baked thoroughly.
In baking bread, which is, I think, the real test of a cook's merits, a great deal depends on the kneading. You can not knead bread too long or too often, and the more it is kneaded, by which I mean rolled over and pounded with the clinched fist, the finer and closer-grained it will be.
If you have never made bread, ask mamma to let you try, and then, if once or twice she will stand by, and show you how to sift the flour, how to heap the right quantity into a deep pan, and make a hollow in the middle, into which you shall pour your lukewarm water, your yeast, your wee bit of sugar, and your spoonful of salt, following this by enough tepid water to make a soft dough, you will not require her instructions often. The art of making bread once learned is never forgotten. And how proud papa will be the first time he eats a slice of his daughter's home-made bread!
Whatever else you omit, girls, do not omit to learn to prepare food properly; for
"You may live without friends, you may live without books,
But civilized man can not live without cooks."
THE SPRING CONCERT.
[RACKETS.]
BY B. HARDWICK.
Did you ever play rackets? If not, come and have a game with me. But first we must understand the court and the implements.
Here we have a picture of the racket-court on the corner of Twenty-sixth Street and Sixth Avenue, New York city. The figures are those of the two markers, whose business it is to keep the score. The court is eighty feet long by forty feet wide. The front wall is thirty feet high, and the back twelve. Over this wall there are galleries for the spectators. These you can not see in the picture, as they form the point of sight. The floor of the court is divided by a line from side to side, and where this line meets the side walls there are quarter-circles marked. These are called the service courts; there is also another line dividing the nearer half of the court. The spaces on either side of this line are called the right and left courts. The front wall to the height of twenty-six inches is covered by a wooden board. And seven feet from the floor there runs a line, over which every served ball must be struck. The walls and sides of the court are of brick and plaster, hard and smooth.
The rackets, or bats, have handles about two feet long, and their frames are strung with catgut. They are much smaller than tennis bats. The balls are of white leather, very hard, and tightly sewn, and little more than an inch in diameter. The game is played by either two or four persons. If by four, two play on a side. Let us have a single-handed game, you and I, so that we may understand it more easily. I will begin.
I go to the right-hand service court, and throwing up the ball, I strike it with the racket so that it bounds back into the left-hand court, in which you stand ready to receive it. If I fail to strike over the line, or play the ball so that it does not bound back into the left court, it is a fault. Two faults would put me out. But now, see, I give my racket a sweep, cutting the ball rather than striking it. The effect of this is that when the ball strikes the wall it does not rise, but returns at a low angle. Now it has bounded, and you strike it back, before its second bound, on to the front wall. After the service you are not bound to strike any higher than the twenty-six inches of wood. If you strike the wood, the ace counts to me, or if you fail to return the ball on to the front wall, it counts to me, and I score one. Then I go over to the other service court, and serve again, so that the ball returns into the right-hand court, and so on, until one of us fails. If you fail to return the ball properly, it counts another ace to me; but if I fail, it does not count one to you, but simply puts me out, and you go in and serve. Only the server can add to his score. The one who first scores fifteen aces, or points, wins the game.
This seems very easy, does it not? But if you take the racket you will find it is not so easy as it looks. There are several tricks in the game, the object of which is to make your opponent's return difficult if not impossible. Thus, sometimes a player will volley a ball—that is, strike it before it has bounded—and, playing it downward just a few inches above the wood, it will bound downward, and touch the floor where it can not be reached, or a player will strike very low, so as to produce the same effect. I should have mentioned that you are not bound to strike the front wall first. You may play off the side walls, and sometimes by this play make it very difficult indeed for your adversary to return the ball. Thus, if you play on to the side wall at an angle of anything like forty-five degrees, the ball will take a similar angle off the front and side walls, and never come down to the end of the court where the players stand at all.
There is another point to be learned—the science of twist. If you strike the ball very low, cutting it with the racket held with the face slanting, it will give a twisting movement to the ball, so that the return will not come off at the usual angle, but in a very unexpected manner. This makes it very difficult for the other player to know where to place himself to receive the stroke. The French, who are great racket-players, have a saying, "La balle cherche le bon joueur" (the ball seeks the good player). In point of fact, the really good player, the moment a ball is struck, places himself so that the ball comes to him. Nothing marks more clearly the difference between good and bad players than ability in this respect.
When four players play together, they play, as I have said, two on a side. Each side goes in alternately. One player on one side serves until he is put out, and then his partner serves until he is put out. Then the other side goes in, and so on. The non-strikers are bound to get out of the way. If they in any way embarrass a striker, it is called a "let," and counts for nothing.
The Spring Handicap Championship games were lately held at the Racket Club. There were thirty-eight entries, divided into first and second class, with a prize for each class. In order to make the chances of the good and the bad players as nearly equal as possible, the good ones gave odds to the bad ones. Thus Mr. Allen, who is one of the best players in the club, was put down as "scratch," that is, he received no odds. Mr. Leavitt and another gentleman were in the same position. After these, all the other players received odds—one or more aces, for instance, or an "extra hand."
There is scarcely any game in which difference of skill is so apparent as in rackets. Luck or chance has but little to do with it. The great art is, the moment a ball is struck on to the front wall, to judge exactly where it will return, and to get in that particular spot.
Quickness in getting over the court is another great point. Short, quick steps are better than a run, as they are more easily checked. With good players in the court, the game is almost as exciting to witness as to play. The constant movement, the volleys, the rallies, the drops, twists, and cuts, succeeding one another rapidly, require all the observer's attention. For affording the greatest amount of exercise in the shortest time there is no game like rackets.