A FAIRY STORY.
It was a large gander, and it seemed to be a fierce gander, for it hissed loudly when Felix waved a switch before it, and pointed his finger at it crying, "Bohoo, bohoo, you goosey gander."
It was not very polite, and the gander seemed to grow more and more angry, and yet it would not leave Felix. At length Felix still pointing at the gander, said—
"Goosey, goosey, gander,
Whither shall we wander,
Up the hill, or through the vale,
Or in the pinewoods yonder."
And to his great surprise the gander drew in his head, and replied promptly—
"Pinewoods."
And a goose in the distance cried out—
"Make haste then."
Felix dropped the switch, put his hands in his pockets, and stared at both the birds.
"Come," said the gander, spreading out his wings; "get on my back, and
Away we'll sail
Down the river in the vale,
Away to the pinewoods, away, away."
Splash, splash, such a spluttering in the water, and Felix, holding on by the gander's neck, shivered as the water touched him, for it was very cold; which much surprised him, as the day was hot, and the sun was shining.
IT HISSED LOUDLY.
How large the gander had grown! he had seemed a large gander before, but now he seemed quite monstrous. And the river grew wider, and the trees appeared to reach the sky, and the flags and bulrushes were like young palm-trees, and the flowers shot up to a great size. There was one clump of lilies of the valley much taller than Felix, and quite overshadowing a girl in a large cap with a blue ribbon in it, who seemed to be gathering some flowers growing in the water.
As Felix approached the bank the lily bells swayed to and fro with a melodious sound as if bells of the purest silver were ringing.
"Welcoming us to Elfland," observed the gander.
"Isn't it the Pinewood?" asked Felix.
"It's all the same," answered the gander.
"Who is the little girl? She is coming to speak to us."
"THE LILY-BELLS SWAYED."
"Little girl, indeed," returned the gander contemptuously; "it's the Pine Queen; she has been asking you to come for weeks, but you took no notice of her. She sent messages by the swallows and the blackbirds, and the butterflies, and the grasshopper, but you did not heed them."
"I never heard them," said Felix, somewhat bewildered.
"Of course not; boys never do; they are always thinking of toys and games, and tarts and plum-cake, and the birds and butterflies speak to them in vain."
"I don't understand," said Felix.
"Of course not, but now," said the gander, suddenly rising in the water and flapping his wings; "having done my duty in bringing you here, I leave you to take care of yourself."
So saying he tossed Felix off his back to the bank, at the feet of the Pine Queen.
As Felix looked at the Pine Queen he noticed that she was dressed in silk and satin, and that her cap had turned into a crown of diamonds, and that she had diamond buckles on her shoes, and that she seemed very glittering and dazzling altogether.
She looked at Felix, and then said—
"Two little maidens winding wool all day,
If you want to see them please to walk this way."
"I don't care about seeing them," said Felix, who thought this a very odd way of beginning a conversation; nevertheless he followed the Pine Queen along the path through the trees.
It was very pleasant, the great straight pines with their tufted branches, and the sun sending slanting rays of gold through them; whilst the wild strawberries shone like heaps of rubies at his feet. Wonderful birds and butterflies were darting hither and thither amongst the loveliest flowers. And on a grassy nook not far from a waterfall he perceived some white marble steps on which two little girls sat. The one was holding a great skein of wool, and the other was winding it. There was a great heap of wool of all colours on the ground.
"We wind, we wind till we've wound enough
Of wool a hundred balls to stuff."
sang the little maidens.
"What for?" asked Felix.
"For cricket-balls we work away,
With which pine-cricket players play."
sang the maidens.
"But cricket-balls should be hard," said Felix.
"Not in Elfland," answered the Pine Queen, smiling; "it's a different game altogether; we hit 'soft' instead of 'hard,' and our bats are brushes, and we make no scores."
"It must be a queer game," said Felix.
"We think it a much better game than yours," answered the Queen, "pads are never wanted; and there are no wickets, and no one is ever caught out."
"HE PERCEIVED ... TWO LITTLE GIRLS."
"How funny!" exclaimed Felix; "I should not care to play at such a game."
The Queen made no answer, and they walked on until they met a girl with a pail of water, who curtseyed respectfully.
"She's going to wash the cricket-ground," explained the Pine Queen.
"Oh!" said Felix, which was all that he could say, for the fact was everything seemed so very strange to him.
"Scour the ground, mop it, and dry it with care,
Sprinkle it over with Eau-de-Cologne.
Roses in flower-pots put round here and there,
And the roses must all be full-blown."
"THEY MET A GIRL WITH A PAIL."
The eyes of Felix grew rounder and rounder, as the Pine Queen gave these directions, and he rubbed them to be quite certain that he was awake.
"We roll and mow the grass," he half whispered.
"We scour, and mop, and dry, and polish," murmured the Queen.
"We play with bats," Felix went on.
"We play with brushes," continued the Queen; "and here is one of our players in full costume."
Felix glanced round, but he only saw a boy who looked like a street sweeper, with a hand-brush in one hand and a broom in the other. He had on a sailor's hat, and he touched the brim of it with the broom-handle, as a salutation to the Queen.
"Queer, queerer, queerest!" thought Felix.
"Are you a good brusher?" asked the boy, suddenly; "can you brush the balls well?"
Felix stared at him.
"Oh!" said the boy; "I thought you would be sure to be a good cricketer."
"So I am," returned Felix; "I am a good batter. I've got a prize bat."
The boy burst out laughing, so did some magpies and squirrels. So did the streamlet that was running along so fast. Even the little fishes popped up their heads and laughed—
"Haha! haha! hoho! hoho!"
There was such a noise that Felix had to ask several times before he got an answer.
"What are they laughing at?"
"At you," answered the boy.
"It's very rude of them," said Felix, taking up a stone to throw at the magpies, which were chattering.
"Don't, don't," said the stone. "I don't want to hurt any one."
Felix, in his surprise, dropped the stone, and it fell to the ground, saying—
"Thank you! thank you!"
"Queer, queerer, queerest!" said Felix to himself. But the Pine Queen knew what he was saying, for she said—
"Wait till you have seen the practice." Felix rubbed his eyes again, for though the sun was shining, there was certainly snow upon the ground, and the two little players, who stood with brush and ball in their hands, were clad in warm coats and gloves and winter boots, which Felix thought must prevent their running well. The girl had a scarlet feather in her felt hat, and the boy a long blue tassel hanging from his velvet cap. The girl was raising her brush to ward off the ball that the boy was about to throw.
"Isn't it pretty?" said the Pine Queen—
"Throw, throw, hit, hit!
No danger, not a bit."
But Felix was thinking about "Scour, mop, and dry it," as he looked at the snow-covered patch of land.
"Ah!" continued the Pine Queen, divining his thoughts, "snow is soft, so that if the players fall it does not hurt them. But there is no snow to be seen when the regular game begins."
And the Queen waved a rose that she held in her hand, and in a moment the scene was changed, and Felix saw before him a smooth piece of lawn that looked like shining velvet. The flower-pots with full-blown roses were there, so was the girl with the pail and the player with the long broom, looking quite hot, as if they had been at work for hours.
"A good morning's work," observed the Queen. "See how neat it is."
"HE ONLY SAW A BOY ... LIKE A STREET-SWEEPER."
Felix grew more and more perplexed. How could they scour and sweep under the snow? And how did the flower-pots get there, and the players; for the ground was all covered with the pine-wood cricket-players, dressed in the gayest and airiest of costumes. Half had brushes and half had balls. And the balls were flying here and there, and if the players hit them so that they rose in the air, they burst, and butterflies of the loveliest colours issued forth; whilst if the balls fell to the ground, frogs innumerable hopped out of them, and making their way to the banks of the river, sat there singing in a most delightful manner.
"THE GIRL WAS RAISING HER BRUSH" (p. [107]).
Yet, sweet as it was, the music seemed to confuse him as much as the game, which grew every moment more and more intricate; the players, brandishing their brushes, flew round, and the balls flashed about, and at last all that Felix could see was a mass of dazzling rainbow colours whirling past him.
All at once he heard a loud hissing, and he saw the large gander waddling up from the river; and beside him was the little girl with the large cap with the blue bow in it, and she held out her hand, saying—
"Good-bye, Felix. Come and see us again."
"That I will," replied Felix.
But he never did.
For from that day he never saw the gander again; nor could he ever find the way to the pine-forest, though he fancied he had remembered it quite well; nor did he ever see the game of brush-cricket played again.
Sometimes he even doubted whether he had been to Pineland, and had seen the wonderful game.
"But yet," said he, "if I had not seen it, how should I know anything about the forest and the Pine Queen? and how should I know how brush-cricket is played?"
And how should he?
Julia Goddard.
HARVEST DAYS.
Over the cornfield fell the sunlight,
And turned all the stubble to gold,
And 'neath the pale cloud-shades of evening
Deep crimson and purple unrolled.
The gleaners were busily gleaning
The yellow corn scattered around;
The waggons, all heavily laden,
Were tracing with furrows the ground.
The farmer stood lazily viewing
The harvesting in of his wheat,
His daughters were standing beside him,
His faithful dog lay at his feet.
There came by a shy little gleaner,
Flaxen-headed, with eyes bright and blue,
And the farmer smiled down, "Little maiden,
Come here—here's a gleaning for you."
THE GLEANER. (See p. [108].)
He pulled from the waggon an armful
Of corn; and the gleaner's eyes gleamed:
She dimpled, she flushed, and she curtsied,
Such a great golden treasure it seemed.
"Ay, sowing, and reaping, and harvest,"
The farmer soft spake as she passed,
And he thought of earth's sowing and reaping,
And the harvest that must come at last.
LITTLE MARGARET'S KITCHEN, AND WHAT SHE DID IN IT.—VIII.
By Phillis Browne, Author of "A Year's Cookery," "What Girls can Do," &c.
When Margaret and Mary entered the kitchen on the day on which the children were to learn how to bake meat, they found Mrs. Herbert already there. As usual, everything was laid ready for them. The meat was on a dish, the tins and various utensils were clean and bright, and there was a clear bright fire, while a general feeling of warmth and comfort pervaded everything, which was very agreeable, as it was a cold day.
"You have cleared out the flues properly and cleaned the oven for us, I hope, cook," said Mrs. Herbert.
"Oh yes, ma'am; it is all as it should be," replied cook, with a satisfied look as she watched Mrs. Herbert open the oven door, glance quickly in all the corners, put her hand inside for a moment to test the heat, then draw it out, and shut the oven door once more.
"That is well," said Mrs. Herbert. "Now remember, children, when you are going to bake meat, the first thing you have to look after is the condition of the oven. If the soot has not been swept away from the back and round about, your oven will not heat satisfactorily, no matter how much coal you pile on the fire; and if the shelves are dirty, that is, if a little syrup from the last pie which was baked in it, or splashes of fat from the last joint, are left to burn on the shelves, the meat will taste unpleasantly, and very likely be indigestible also."
"But we cannot prevent syrup boiling over," said Margaret.
"Perhaps not; but you can scrape off what was spilt before it has time to burn on the shelves, and you can clean out thoroughly, and wash the shelves with weak vinegar and water, to make them fresh and sweet. We very often hear people say they do not like baked meat, because it tastes of the oven."
"Yes, I have often heard them say so," said Margaret.
"Ah! This remark would not be made so frequently as it is if cooks were careful to keep the oven perfectly clean. Cleanliness is most important in all cookery, and never more so than with regard to an oven."
"What is that little iron slide which you pushed in when you opened the oven, mother?" said Margaret.
"It is a ventilator, and is intended to let fresh air into the oven, and to allow the smell of the roasting meat and the fumes which rise from it to escape. I shut it because we are just going to put in the meat, and I wish it to remain shut for about ten minutes, so as to make the oven very hot till the outside is cooked."
"I know what that is for," said Mary, hurriedly: "to harden the outside, and make a case to keep in the juice."
"Quite right, Mary," said Mrs. Herbert, smiling. "In ten minutes, however, we will push the slide out again, and that will admit the fresh air, slightly cool the oven, and allow the fumes to escape. Always recollect, however, that the oven must be hot. We need a good hot oven for roasting meat."
"Cook has put two dripping-tins here," said Margaret. "We do not want two tins."
"Yes, we do. To use two tins is another way of preventing the taste of the oven which is so objectionable. Usually I should use what is called a hot-water tin for baking meat. That is a tin made for the purpose, with a place inside for holding hot water. I shall not do so to-day, however, because I want to show you how to manage when there is no hot-water tin. See, I lay two or three thick sticks in the larger of the two tins, and put the smaller tin inside the other. Then I fill the bottom tin with hot water. I put this small stand in the uppermost tin, and place the meat on this, and then I put the whole affair into the oven."
"But what is the good of it all?" said Margaret.
"This is the good: when the meat has been a little while in the oven, the fat will melt, and will fall into the dripping-tin."
"I know that," said Margaret.
"Well, then, if we were to let the meat lie in the tin, don't you think it would get soaked in fat? Of course it would, and that wouldn't be agreeable."
"And the hot water: what is that for?"
"If we were to leave a tin containing melted dripping in a hot oven it would get brown, burnt, smoky, and disagreeable?"
"But what has the water to do with the fat burning?" persisted Margaret.
"I will try to explain, if you on your part will try to understand something which is difficult to understand. First of all, what is boiling water?"
"It is water which is so hot that it bubbles all over, and steam rises from it."
"Quite so. If we were using a thermometer, and were to put it into water which was bubbling all over, we should find that the silvery line, or mercury, in the thermometer rose until it came to 212°. We might put a hotter fire under the water, but under ordinary circumstances we should never get the mercury higher than 212°. Under extraordinary circumstances, I confess we could get it higher. For instance, if we were at the bottom of a mine, boiling-point would be two degrees higher, and if we were to put some salt in the water, boiling-point would be four degrees higher."
The little girls listened very attentively while Mrs. Herbert was speaking. When she paused, they looked very solemn, and said nothing.
"Fat, on the other hand, can be made very much hotter: more than three times as hot as boiling water. When heat is first applied to fat, it bubbles, but as it gets hotter it becomes still. As it gets hotter and hotter, it remains still, but it turns dark, and smokes, and smells burnt. This is what would happen to our fat in the tin if we were to let it come in contact with the heat of the oven shelf; but you can see that when water, which never rises beyond 212°, is under it, it cannot burn in this way."
"I see that perfectly," said Margaret, joyfully. "I like to be told difficult things when once I understand them. But, mother, will not the water boil away?"
"Yes; we must watch it, and as it does so, we must add fresh boiling water. It would never do to add cold water, because that would make the fat too cool, and would lessen the heat of the oven also."
"We should have to open the door, though, to see how the water was getting on," said Mary. "Would not that be a pity?"
"It would have to be done in any case to baste the meat," said Mrs. Herbert. "Remember, we can no more dispense with basting in baking meat than we can in roasting it before the fire. If we try to do so, our meat will be spoilt. We must baste every quarter of an hour, and to do this we must lift the meat right out of the oven, and shut the door as soon as possible. If we were to baste the meat while it was in the oven, the latter would become cool, and we wish to keep the heat up the whole time. We should be careful also to shut the oven door gently. If we slam it, we shall force some of the hot air out of it."
"I never saw anything like it," said Margaret. "In cookery there are so many little things to remember."
"That is the case with whatever we learn, my dear little girl, if we try to learn thoroughly. And there is still another point to remember: when we take the meat out of the oven to baste it, we must notice whether it is browner in one part than another, and if it is, we must turn the tin, so that the side which is less cooked may take its turn in going to the hottest part of the oven. You know that one part of the oven is always hotter than another. In the same way, you should turn the meat over once or twice, that it may be equally cooked."
"How long will it have to be in the oven, ma'am?" said Mary.
"If you use the ventilator as I have told you to do, you may follow the same rules in baking meat that would hold good for roasting it: that is, you may allow a quarter of an hour to the pound, and a quarter of an hour over for red meats, and twenty minutes to the pound for white meats. But if the ventilator is not used, the oven would get very hot, and ten minutes to the pound, with ten minutes over, would probably be sufficient, excepting in cases where the meat was very thick and solid."
"And do we make gravy for baked meat in the same way that we make it for roast meat, ma'am?" said Mary.
"Certainly," said Mrs. Herbert.
"Well, I must say," said Margaret, when in course of time the baked meat was dished and set on the table, "that I think baked meat tastes quite as well as roast meat, and it is much less troublesome to cook."
"I do not agree with you, Margaret," replied her mother. "I do not consider baked meat is equal to roast meat. Nevertheless, if it is carefully cooked, if the ventilator is left open, and if the meat is well basted, there is not much difference between the two, and certainly baking is a very convenient mode of dressing meat. Besides this, it is a way which nine people out of every ten must adopt; they have no choice in the matter. Therefore, I hope you will try to remember what I have told you about baking."
"Indeed we will," said both the children.
(To be continued.)
A Harvest Song.
Words by George Davies.
Music by J. M. Bentley, Mus. Doc.
1. With the set-ting of the sun All the work is near-ly done,
And the last up-lift-ed sheaf Brings the toil-ers sweet re-lief.
2. Down the nar-row coun-try lane Trails the hea-vy-la-den wain;
Men and wo-men, old and young, Singing loud their sim-ple song.
3. Now the barn the corn re-ceives—Piled up high the gold-en sheaves;
While the jol-ly reap-ers sing Till the ve-ry raft-ers ring.
Repeat in Chorus.
Greet the reap-ers as they come With a wel-come har-vest-home!
WAITING FOR FATHER.
"ON THE SHORE STAND WATCHING."
Father's boat comes sailing,
Sailing from the west;
On the shore stand watching
Those who love him best.
Blooms the gorse so golden
On the breezy down,
Comes a sound of joy-bells
From the busy town.
In the fisher's cottage
Mother's work is done,
Through the open window
Streams the sinking sun.
Cheerily the kettle
Sings upon the fire,
Ticks the old clock loudly,
Creep the shadows higher.
Just now, in the gloaming,
When the boat is in,
And the fish are counted
With a merry din,
All those five together
Up the cliff will come,
Peacefully and gladly,
To their cosy home.