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For Woman’s Work.
THE WELL IN THE WILDERNESS.
(Numbers 21: 17, 18.)
Oh, why burst forth songs of thanksgiving now,
The bright land of promise still so far away,
No gathered vintage, no fruit on the bough.
All thirsty and weary—what gladdens delay?
’Tis the music of water, ’tis the glorious well;
Bright, sparkling water that gladdens delay,
Waves of refreshment that sorrow dispel,—
This blessed gift of the Lord on their way.
While princes obeyed their lawgiver’s voice,
This glad’ning response to their effort was given;
Then princes and people united rejoice,
And their anthems rise upward to heaven.
Spring up, oh, well! to our thirsty lips spring,
Spring up, spring up, and the new tidings tell;
In gladness of heart your praises we sing,
Spring up, spring up, oh, beautiful well!
Mrs. E. E. Orcutt.
WOMAN’S WORK CHATS.
Food and Health.
IT isn’t my pie, it isn’t my pot of col
lards, either, that two of our best sisters
are discussing from different points of
view, but it’s a good pie, and it’s a good
pot of collards. I’m not going to interfere
with that discourse in the least possible
way, for none of us can deny that it is very
entertaining, and the subject is one on
which we like to dwell.
I have been deeply impressed by my
experience on the food and health ques
tion, as most people are, and generosity
prompts me to give other people the ben
efit of my knowledge (perhaps I would do
better to say ignorance), although some
will immediately pronounce it bad medi
cine. Those who judge by science are one
class, those who judge by experience are
another. I have deserted the former
school and joined the latter. The mem
bers of the scientific school need not take
my medicine.
I studied Anatomy, Physiology and Hy
giene, and tried my best to learn them,
but the last two were so full of conditional
premises that I found myself toiling
through an endless array of conditions on
ly to reach a conditional result. I found
myself at the end of the course of study,
as pages go, and I thought I knew a good
deal of the wonderful science of eating and
drinking. But when I came to the prac
tical application I found another course of
study. It generally takes a person a long
time to learn that he knows very little, but
my lessons were rather forcible and I was
an apt scholar.
If you want the greatest truth in the
whole science of hygiene it is this: What
is good for one person may not be good for
another. Some children can sleep in the
open air with the blue sky for a shelter
and be hardy as pigs, while others would
die from one night’s exposure in the open
air. You may eat honey with pleasure
and benefit, while one large spoonful
would cramp me almost to death. How
do I know? Because I tried the honey.
That is the way to learn in the school of
experience. Science may say that honey
is good for thus and so, in a general way,
but when you come to particularize you
can’t tell whether it is good for you or not
until you try it.
I knew one man who had a long illness
during which he begged for watermelon,
but was not allowed to have it. One day
he slipped out and crawled most of the
way to the patch, where he ate all he
wanted, and he improved rapidly from
that time until he was well. I knew an
other man who did about the same thing
and died in an hour.
Everything is organized and classified
these days. The sciences are divided into
schools and subdivided into branches.
Everything on the earth has a special
niche in which it belongs. A short time
ago we could drink a glass of buttermilk
without analyzing it, but we can’t now.
We must be taught the value of things.
We would like to drink a glass of butter
milk, but we must first find out what it
contains and what effect it would have on
our extremely delicate organism if we
were to drink it. We read half a day, and
learn that there are different kinds of but
termilk. Then we examine our particular
glass of buttermilk and study the parasites
microbes, bacilli, or whatever it contains
in the way of living things, and study the
effect of these things as well as the milk.
When we are through with the analysis
we don’t want any buttermilk.
If I had taken a regular physician’s
course of study I might have had better
success, but I made such a poor thing of
applying my lessons on physiology
and hygiene that I bought a large
medical work for home use and stud
ied that. I soon discovered that I had in
digestion and saw horrible visions of a
dyspeptic’s miserable life and a premature
grave. 1 began to be very careful what
and when I ate, and (paring that the whole
family would soon be likewise afflicted I
took some measures to put them “on diet.”
Every time I took up a pair of Tim’s little
trousers there was a great confusion of
green apples, raw onions, cucumbers, raw
turnips, and so forth, rolling from the
pockets, while I was often finding some of
these with papers of salt behind things in
his room. Sol spent all his little change
for fruit and luncheons down town, and I
grew thin and hungry. I couldn’t check
the appetites, that wasn’t possible.
I finally concluded that I might be mis
taken in the disease, and looked more care
fully in the medical book. Sure enough, I
found that I didn’t have indigestion at all
but I had “heart trouble.” Then I ate
what I pleased and doctored for “heart
trouble,” until I discovered that I had
liver disease and spinal affection and
symptoms of paralysis and rheumatism
and nervous debility, ana so on. I doc
tored and dieted again for some time, then
I discovered that I had consumption. Os
course I began to “wind up my business
and make my will,” tried to be reconciled
to die and to put on a becoming appear
ance of submission to Providence, but I
still wanted to live, as before.
Somebody suggested that perhaps my
“assimilation” wasn’t good. This put me
to wondering whether I really ate any
thing that could be assimilated or not. A
close and impartial study compelled me to
acknowledge that there was very little
chance for assimilation, that I was living
on dieting instead of nourishment. I took
a tonic for a while and began to eat nour
ishing food. An old-fashioned, motterly
woman told me to eat a slice of bacon ev
ery morning whether I wanted it or not.
I did so, sometimes a very small slice, but
my appetite improved after taking the ba
con, as the old lady said, “to stay the
stomach.”
By bacon I mean the flesh of a healthy,
well-fed hog, salted well, then smoked
with hickory wood until the meat is firm
and well “cured.” I gained strength and
flesh rapidly, locked the medical book
away to be consulted in sudden accidents
when there is no doubt of the ailment, and
made a new rule to go by. My rule now
is something like this: “I’ll eat any food
that my appetite craves, being governed
by common sense, and not by science, in
quality and quantity.”
I don’t know what becomes of all the lit
tle animals in the hog meat, but I am al
ways certain that they are well cooked,
then I forget all about them—although I
have read that cooking didn’t kill them,
or that they appeared rapidly after the
meat was cooked. I don't believe in par
asites unless in professional cases, because
one can’t understand the subject thor
oughly and it takes away the appetite for
certain very strengthening foods—bacon
and buttermilk, especially. Candidly, I
am inclined to think that the parasites, if
they exist at all, are a part of the food and
are wholesome food themselves. That is
very shocking, isn’t it? I am no great
lover of the hog, but bacon is a good thing
occasionally, and a roasted ham of fresh
shoat is not to be winked at in cold weath
er, especially if it is well seasoned and
thoroughly cooked.
I could not subscribe to the science that
teaches that everything exists only in be
lief, although this same school of experi
ence teaches me that there is a good deal
in belief when it comes to food and health.
People eat too much and have too great a
variety of food. Fourteen courses at din
ner and three hours at the table are unrea
sonable and unnecessary. People who ex
pect to pay their board in the world have
no time for such extreme self-indulgence.
The enjoyment of life is measured by
most people according to the good things
they have to eat. The tired housewife
finds it almost as bard work to plan three
meals a day as to cook them, yet she makes
those three meals the uppermost item of
the day. The meals control the stomach,
and the stomach is the household barome
ter. Wholesome and palatable food is a
great thing, but we needn’t worship it
The good housewife would do well to put
more into her children’s heads and less
into their stomachs. Many of us older 1
children would be better off by this treat
ment. Some fast too much, some feast too
much; there is a happy medium for each
individual, and no silly notion of form
should interfere with it seriously.
We are told repeatedly that health is the
greatest blessing on earth. I don’t know
whether that is true or not, but I believe
that health is every person's birthright,
and that it has been injured by abuse. It
is well for the housekeeper, be she mother
or employee, to know the wholesome arti
cles of food from the unwholesome, and to
guide the appetites of the family as well
as possible to the wholesome fare; to con
trol the taste is impossible—l mean con
trol, not cultivate. My personal opinion
is, however, that it is a waste of time and
thought to study the analysis of every ar
ticle of food, with its effect, on the human
WOMAN’S WORK.
system in general, and then apply it to
any particular stomach with assurance of
success. This isn’t a professional view I
know. It is not science, alone, it is phi
losophy; it is not theory, it is practice.
We read a great many menus on paper
that never were materialized so we could
eat them from the table; it is a blessing
that we could not eat some of them. Often
a grain of allowance should be added to
the recipe. My dear housekeeper, be lib
eral with the allowance in selecting rec
ipes. When you read about a poor wo
man with a large family and no help, who
has six kinds of fresh bread three times a
day that is a dream of deliciousness, don’t
be tempted to try it; you can’t do it.
All that is to read about. Besides, it is
not in good taste to load your table with
so many varieties of the same article. It
adds nothing to a woman’s taste or to the
attraction of her table to offend the eye by
a great mixture of food. Study daintiness
in cooking and serving in a practical way,
and not quantity or unnecessary varieties.
Common sense is worth more in the
kitchen than all the recipes in the world,
and without it recipes are of little value.
Katk Carrington.
For Woman’s Work.
BEL RODNEY’S EASTER SUN
DAY.
-
Lr I'VE years ago that very April day
I since Bel Rodney and her mother
had literally come “over the hills to
tue poor house.” She remembered that the
violets were blooming shyly in the woods
through which Farmer Harley’s wag
on passed, that it rained and then
the sun shone again, and that she
wondered what a Poor House was.
It couldn’t be any worse place for
her than Peter Pruden’s. Her mother had
married Mr. Pruden when Bel was only
three years old. When Mary, his wife,
fell ill and lost her mind be procured a
divorce as soon as the law would allow it.
The neighbors sent “Mary” to the Asylum
for awhile; when she was returned as
“hopeless’’ the Harleys, who had Bel, took
her, and cared kindly for them both. Ty
phoid fever had taken Aunt Lucy and
Uncle John away within a few days of
each other. Then no one in the Centre
ville neighborhood would have “crazy
Mary” and no one really wanted the nine
years old girl. Henry Harley, a nephew
of the kind old couple, arranged to send
them to the County Poor Farm at once!
He was the heir,’ by will, of his uncle
and aunt’s estate, and was manifesting an
unseemly haste in taking possession and
getting rid of all encumbrances.
He bade Bel pack up her mother’s things
the second day after the funeral.
Then he sent a farm hand to drive them to
their destination.
“It’ll be five minutes too late, no, ten
minutes—one hour— what shall I do!"
Mary held in her hand a lead pencil, and
bent over a piece of paper on her lap.
Alfred will come, come if he gets it, —but
it’s too late.” She had been writing the
same letter for years; she always went to
sleep with paper and pencil in her hand;
she was writing it on the road to the Poor
House!
No one who knew her now, knew who
“Alfred” was. The heartless old man who
had been her second husband had probably
known, but six months before he had been
killed by a falling tree. Bel could tell
nothing of her own or her mother’s former
history, but there were a few letters evi
dently written on shipboard to her mother
and signed “Alfred.”
Six only of these, written in as many
different years. That Alfred was a brother
seemed evident, and that he was the “re
lief” which was sought by his sister’s
clouded mind was just as evident; yet
there were no clues,even if anyone had been
interested, by which to reach him. The
keeper of the Poor House was an excellent
man, and his wife a gentle, well informed
lady; she interested herself in “Mary” and
the little girl at once. They were espe
cially well cared for, Bel being taught all
that her kind benefactress was able to
teach her; “Mary” was given a nice room,
made bright with flowers, pictures and
music. Mrs. Jellars hoped to improve
her—to at least make her in every way
comfortable. Mary had a sweet voice,
and she was at last won over to give up
“writing” for a time and play on the
guitar, which she did with more than
ordinary skill. Then she would talk of
Beatrice and “Sister Annabel,” of the
“expected company,” but always as a con
clusion: “It’ll be five minutes too late no,
ten minutes—one hour, what shall I do!”
She at times called herself “Mary Rod
ney,” then pressing her hand to her beau
tiful white brow she would say “no, I
mean Mary Arvington of Morleigh.”
Mrs, Jellars, after a long search, extend
ing over four years of correspondence with
various parties, concluded that she had 10-'
cated “Alfred.” How ardently the good
woman hoped that her letters might reach
him, and that he would come at once to
“Mary.” Eminent medical skill might yet
help her! The chance was very slight—and
yet, at the very thought, Mrs. Jellars shed
hopeful tears! Eight months had now
passed since she had written the last letter.
“Mary” had been very ill, and was grow
ing weaker all the time.
she had never at any time been vicious
or violent, but at times she would cry
and mourn it Bel came near her. The
girl was very fond of her mother, very at
tentive to her wants; when she was repelled
it caused her great grief.
“O, Mrs. Jellars, I’ve just got nobody!
I’d rather be dead anyway!—you’re good
to me, but then”—
For five days “Mary ’’had not permitted
her daughter in her presence.
The girl could scarcely endure it longer!
One Thursday morning—the Thursday be
fore Easter Sunday—the mother seemed
calmer, better.
“I want Bel, my Be], my own little girl!"
She stretched her thin hands towaras the
door. Bel was waiting outside, only too
eager to enter. She tiptoed softly in.
Mrs. Jellars held out a bunch of sweet vi
olets to Mary, violets and English wall
flowers. At once her face lit up, her beau
tiful brown eyes, long devoid of reason,
filled with a strange, a glowing light.
“I’ve come home to Morleigh with Bea
trice and Alfred! The wall flowers are in
bloom, how sweet!” She clasped her
hands in ecstacy. “Where am 1?” she
gazed from Mrs. Jellars to Bel. “Yes,
my young husband with whom I ran away
is dying in an American hospital. We
have changed our names, they will not
find us. My twin brother, my Alfred, I
will write all to him, he will forgive, he
loved Mary so!”
“Mary” never spoke again. She was
laid to rest, not in the Potter’s field, but in
the old Jellars family burying ground.
Luke Jellars took a pride in burying, at
his own expense, the poor woman as near
like “folks” as possible.
He had no children; they might adopt
Bel. He had lately come into a small in
heritance. Another year some other man
would keep the Poor Farm, and they
would do their best for the orphan girl.
Sunday afternoon—as fair an Easter Sun
day as ever shone—Bel started to visit her
mother’s grave. She carried a wreath of
arbor-vilie and a bunch of scarlet gerani
ums. Her mother had loved the bright
flowers which had grown in the windows
of her room. As she walked slowly down
the road a team approached—a livery team
from the county town. The driver pulled
up and asked if he was near the Poor
Farm.
“Just over the hill half a mile
away.” Bel found herself wondering who
would visit the “House” with such a fine
team as that. The gentleman within asked •
“Where are you going with the wreath and
Bel answered, almost sobbing, “To my
mother’s grave.’’ J
“We will drive you there; is it far?”
“A half mile further.” Bel was lifted in.
“Whose child are you?” the stranger
asked with emotion. “Mary Mary Rod
ney’s?” J
“O.Mary, my sister!” Bel was clasped In
astrong embrace, while her uncle sought
amid falling tears all the story the yountr
girl could tell. He had come to take them
both sister and her daughter
He had long thought Mary dead, hiving
made every effort to find her, without suc
cess.
Now Bel would return with him to Enin
land and be cared for and educated as his
own daughter. Uncle Arvington had
brought his sister’s favorite flowers Easter
Lilies—a great box of them— frmn New
u '‘hem on the lowly mound
beside Bel s wreath, with sweet and tender
thoughts of the old days with Mary and
with hopeful ones of that resurrection
morn, that Easter-tide, where friend should
know friend, and the white Lilies of iov
and peace bloom on forever! J J
E. S. L. Thompson.
MONEY EASILY MADE BY HUSTLERS.
Dear Editor:—My experience may in
terest others who need money. Fifteen
years’ clerking, farming, hustling, trying to
sell books, wringers, and every contrivance
made me discouraged and mad when I
met my cousin in lowa making $45 a
week, plating tableware and jewelry
I got a complete outfit from Gray * Co
Columbus, O. They send materials in’.
structions, receipts, trade secrets, and teach
the agent, and have treated me elee-ant
I plate gold, silver, nickel and white
metal, get all the knives, forks and other
goods I can plate; make from $45 t o
per week plating and sell some platers
besides. Anyone can get a good plating
outfit by writing ttjeip, J, K
JUNE, 1896.