[For The 8unny 8outh.]
BY J. C. HINTON.
The miser sits in his rickety chair.
Counting over and over his gold;
And he laughs “ Ha! ha!”
As he sees it there,
Gained—by the loss of only his soul.
And he drops them one by one;
Nor stops he to think
That each is a link
Formed in a chain which is almost done.
He counts them over and over again;
As he lets them sink.
His eyes never blink.
But lovingly gloat on the soul-bought gain.
He chuckling boasts that his heart of stone
Is cold to entreaties and tears;
And the widow’s moan
And the beggar's groan
Fall light as air on his dull, leaden ears.
Fearful of cost, he has fled
From enticements of comfort or plesaure;
A coarse, narrow bed,
Just one loaf of bread
Each day, is all he can spare from his treasure.
The miser sits in his rickety chair,
And is gloating over his gold.
Ha! what does he care
How came the coins there?
They're gained,—’tis only himself he has sold.
[For The Sunny South.]
WHATS IN A NAME?
BY H. E. SHIPLEY.
Shakspeare had surely never presided in the
character of pater-familins, on the momentous oc
casion of naming the first baby, when he pro
pounded that query.
Mr. Tompkins had often heard the above-
quoted aphorism, but, without taking the trouble
to investigate the subject himself (not being of
an inquiring turn of mind), had accepted the
ipse dixit of the great poet as law and gospel.
Now, for the first time lie felt disposed to ques-
' tion the statement, and this is the way it came
Mr. Tompkins had arrived at that time of
life which poets speak of as sere and yellow leaf,
before he concluded to take unto himself a part
ner of his joys and sorrows. Looking into his
mirror one bright morning, as the sun with un
compromising candor laid bare each defect, Mr.
Tompkins discovered indicative crowfeet about
his eyes, and a well-defined parenthesis around i
his mouth, and viewing these with steadfast,
non-protesting gaze, came to the conclusion that
the sooner he secured a soother of his declining
years, the better it would be for him. Then he
began to cast about in his mind for an eligible
woman to fill this enviable position of soother,
in the way of attending to his shirt buttons and
other little indispensables of a gentleman’s toil
ette, to say nothing of having the sheets prop
erly aired—he was suffering then from rheum,
induced by neglect of the latter precaution—
and three pins were doing duty in his shirt I
Wending his way to his counting-room, he so
“ There is Louisa Jenkins—nice girl; ah ! butt.
‘ one of ten,’and I have no desire to emulate
Tom Twaddles; they’d eat me out of house and 1
home in less than a year. How would Selina [
Wilson do ? Neat girl —always has her hair done
up at breakfast, and wears becoming clothes—
but that horrible brother ! He would be sure to
borrow my new umbrella in season and out, and
all my loose change, too, for that matter. Then
there’s Angelina Brown,—sings divinely, fine
fignre, sweet—pshaw! I forgot that mother of
And at this point, Mr. Tompkins’ matrimo
nial plans were brought up all standing, so far,
at least, as Miss Angelina was concerned, for he
was entirely of Josh Billings’ opinion, that if a
man hopes for any terrestrial comfort, he should
not live with his mother-in-law, but if the worst
comes to the worst, let her live with him; and i
any chance that Miss Brown might have had to I
become Mrs. Tompkins was annihilated by the
recollection of Mrs. Brown’s oft-repeated decla
ration that nothing could induce her to be sepa
rated from her dear Angelina. Wishing to avoid
the before-mentioned contingency altogether, it
was a foregone conclusion with Mr. Tompkins •
that none but an orphan need apply for his hand
and purse—his heart being, with one of his age,
a minor consideration. Thus, one after another
possible Mrs. Tompkins appeared upon, then
disappeared from, the mental horizon of the pros
pective husband, but each one had some flaw of
mind, person or circumstance,
“ Which did quarrel with the noblest grace she owned,
And put it to the foil,
until like a benison came the thought of Miss
Eliza Aramintha Grigsby.
Recommendation No. 1—She was an orphan.
Recommendation No. 2—She had always been
mindful of his personal wants, in the way of
handing him the warmest cakes and best "but
tered toast, as they sat side by side at their mu
tual boarding-house table.
At the time of the rendition of those services,
he had been only vaguely conscious of a kindly
interest on her part, unmerited and but half ap
preciated on his; but now his heart, or whatever
answered now in the place of one, ran over in
an exuberance of gratitude when he remembered
all those delicate attentions, not the least of
which was her telling their mutual laundress,
who had carried a pair of his socks by mistake
to her room, that Mr. Tompkins, poor man!
had no wife to do such things for him, so she
would darn them; and he remembered likewise
wearing those veritable socks, with their rents
duly footed up, and experiencing an unwonted
degree of comfort therefrom. He had been quite
a mole, he told himself, not to recognize the I
attributes of his ideal soother before. True,
Miss Araminta's neck was a trifle long, and her
complexion a trifle sallow, her voice a decided
tenor, and her positive way of expressing her
opinions calculated to leave little doubt on the
minds of her auditors of a firm will to back
The first two objections were minor ones, inas
much as Mr. Tompkins, with an unusual sense
of justice, thought he had no right to demand
more than he gave, and certainly he had no
beauty to speak of; but the latter two were not
so easily disposed of, for Mr. Tompkins agreed
with the immortal bard of Avon in thinking that
a low voice is an excellent thing in woman.
However, after much deliberation and a careful
weighing of the pros and cons, he concluded he
would risk it, and embark forthwith on the un
tried sea of matrimony with Miss Araminta, if,
Barkis was willing.
When he came home to dinner that day, in
stead of hurrying into the dining-room, as was
his wont, he took an unreasonable time to hang
his hat on the rack, which delay was more
noticeable as every one else was seated. The
truth is, he was trying his very best to see him
self in the little cracked looking-glass, which
ornamented the centre of that article of furni
ture, which end he might only hope to attain by
standing on the extreme tips of his toes, he
being of the style-dapper, and the rack (one to
him indeed just then) having been selected by
the “dear departed” of the landlady, who;
stoed six feet in his socks. Whether he suc-
I ceeded in his attempts to catch a view of his
visage or not. is more than can be positively as
serted; but certain it is that when lie at last took
his customary seat by his fair enslaver, he was
rosy-red in the face, very nervous in manner,
very incoherent in speech, and slightly irrele
vant, as, when Miss Araminta, observing his
eyes fixed upon her plate, remarked that those
rings were beautiful. He replied:
“Oh, yes; about ten dollars, r I suppose.”
His thoughts running upon the cost of wed
ding-rings, hers upon the beet she was eating.
In fact, he behaved in such an unusual and un
accountable way as to impress Miss Grigsby with
the belief that he had been taking something,
I medicinally, of course. He doubtless elucidated
matters shortly afterwards, for the.next day the
female part of Mrs. Horton’s “happy family,”
as that lady playfully styled her boarders, was
electrified by the announcement from Miss
Grigsby’s own lips, that she would soon become
Mrs. Tompkins. Electrified because they had
all with one accord agreed that, having neither
wealth, beauty nor youth, Miss Araminta was
predestined to that unpleasant duty of conduct
ing long-tailed animals to a place not to be men
tioned to ears polite. But she possessed one
trait which, in its results, often outgenerals that
desirable trio—to-wit, sagacity. Probably in a
previous state of existence, Miss Araminta was a
The weeks intervening between this startling
announcement and its heart-rending consumma
tion—weeks devoted by her to the preparation
of as elaborate a trousseau as her slender purse
would admit—by him to setting his house in
order, literally and figuratively, came to an end
at last. Mrs. Tompkins, looking better than
ever before, as all brides do in their wedding
paraphernalia, received the congratulations of
friends, masculine and feminine, in her own
parlor, the former asserting, when out of ear-
| shot of the happy pair, that she married that
bald-headed Tompkins for nothing but his
money—the latter insisting they might tweak
her nose instead of giving' her the regulation
Then the honeymoon flew by. Then eleven
other moons followed suit; whether honeyed or
not, let every married couple answer from their
own experience, but don’t all answer in the neg
ative. Then came the point at which Mr. Tomp
kins began to differ from Shakspeare.
1 One auspicious day Mr. Tompkins found his
image reflected in a bit of humanity, very bald-
headed, very red in the face, very squinty about ;
the eyes. For the sake of the reputation of Mr.
Tompkins as a well-conducted man, his extrava
gances of speech and action on that day shall
not be recorded. It is said he went so far as to
kiss Miss Jerusha Potts, a withered old maiden
cousin of his dear Araminta, who dropped in
upon them a few weeks after their marriage, and
who proved, in spite of all their efforts to dis
lodge her, a veritable Old Man of the Sea to this
unhappy couple. This lady labored under the
impression that she was young and very beauti
ful. and deported herself accordingly. Her thin
lips expanded in a winning smile, regardless of
the fact that what might have been once teeth of
pearly whitness were now a set of yellow pegs,
and like angels’ visits, at that. What with her .
long, thin nose, receding forehead and chin, a
slight drop of the head to one side, and a way of
looking out of the comers or her bright, bead
like, black eyes, one was involuntarily reminded
of an exaggerated tomtit.
The daughter and heiress was a month old be
fore Mr. Tompkins metaphorically alighted on
terra firma, and bethought himself that his in
fant prodigy' might possibly have some more
sensible name than “Tweety-eety,” “Inky-dinc-
The trio were in full conclave that morning —
Mr. Tompkins, as usual, ecstatic; Mrs. Tomp
kins, quiescent; Miss Jerusha, gushing; the in
fant paragon, with its usual pugilistic demon
stration of clenched fists, lies winking and blink
ing on the lap of that young creature. She bends
over the phenomenon.
“Was it a itty bitty tweetnin dinctum?” she
inquires, in that patois babies are supposed to
understand. “Dinctuin” doesn’t reply, how
ever, but preserves as dignified a silence as is
compatible with a horizontal position.
“ The precious child ! see how she laughs !”
exclaims Mr. Tompkins exuberantly, as the
prodigy makes a grimmace common with babies
who need catnip tea. “The dashing little thing !
what shall we name her, my dear ?”
“Anything you wish, love,” sweetly replies
“Well, but you must have a say r -so in the mat
ter, my dear.”
“Well, darling, let us give her a pretty name,”
suggests the wife.
“Certainly, my love,” assents the husband.
“ Something like Jane, for instance, or Jemima.”
“Oh, no,” replies she, decidedly.
“ Why not?” asks he in surprise.
“It is too old-fashioned; how do you like Fe
“ I don’t like it at all. Jemima was my moth- :
er’s name, and is my preference.”
“ And what accounts for y r our fancy for Jane ?”
“ It is the name of my aunt, whom I love very
“That is too old-fashioned, also,” declares
“The reason I like it,” says he, briefly.
“ The reason I do not,” says she, decidedly
“I shall call her Fedora Zuleika.”
Mrs. Tompkins was fond of romances.
“Humph,” grunts Mr, Tompkins contemptu
ously. “ Fedora Zuleika, indeed ! No child of
mine shall be called by such a fandangle name
“Nor mine by such an outlandish one as
Jemima Jane. Jemima Jane !”
She repeats the name with ineffable disgust.
“Mrs. Tompkins, you will remember that Je
mima was my mother’s name.”
“ That doesn’t prevent its being a horrid one,” :
retorts that lady.
“ Madame!” " thunders Mr. Tompkins, “her
name shall be Jemima Jane! I’ll have none of
your Fedora Zuliekas. That is the nonsense
you get into your head by reading novels while j
my shirts go without buttons and the house is
“You know that is not so !” cries Mrs. Tomp
kins, in her shrillest tones. “You ungrateful
“I know it is so; and %at is not all,” he re
torts. “ You let Dilsey have full swing in the
kitchen; everything is wasted or stolen, while
you are reading about your Fedora Zuliekas.
My mother always attended to her domestic du
ties. She never——”
“I never saw or heard of a man who did not
make a hobby horse of his mother’s perfections,
which he trots out on every possible occasion for
the admiration and imitation of his wife !” inter
rupts Mrs. Tompkins. “ I dare say your mother
was no more of a paragon than any other woman., ’
“Madame,” cries Mr. Tompkins, in a rage,
“if you cannot speak of my mother more re-
spectfully, I do not wish you to speak-of her at
“This to me !” screamed his wife; “I wish I
had never seen you—you brute !”
“I can return the compliment,” he replies,
rushing out of the door, and banging it behind
him; then snatching his hat from the rack, he
hurries away from his Lares and Penates, think
ing it possible for a wife to be something differ- j
ent from asoother of one’s declining years.
Mrs. Tompkins bursts into hysterical sobs.
The blessed baby immediately adds its quota.
Miss Jerusha, who had been quite overpowered
for the nonce by this conjugal passage-at-arms,
now recovers her mental equilibrium, and for
once forgetting her youth beauty, betakes her
self to the unenviable task of quieting this vo
ciferous youngster — by a "vigilant search for
improperly inserted pins, and a position and
action of body which would have led the unin
itiated observer to suppose her to be playing a
solitaire game of “Old Dame Wiggins is dead.”
Vain are her effort; the more she jolts the louder
grow the screams of this representative of the
: house of Tompkins—until at last, when black
in the face, and on the verge of suffocation, mat
ters are adjusted by its mama, who, heroically
hushing her own sobs, prepares to still those of
the “dearest darling in the world:’’ which “dar
ling ” Miss Jerusha promptly and most joyfully
While Mrs. Tompkins meditates probable
freedom, a vinculo matrimonii, Miss Jerusha skip
ping over the floor in her grasshopper style of
locomotion, generally the result of her gay and
festive youth, but just now indicative of her
delight at being relieved of that debatable baby,
espies a letter on the floor. It is addressed to
Mr. Thompson, in a hand not at all like a copy-
plate, and was doubtless dropped by that gentle
man in his hasty exodus from the room. It has
not been opened
Miss Jerusha, with inward commendation of
her unimpeachable integrity in doing so, hands
the letter to Mrs. Tompkins, who, with true
Eve-ish instinct, opens it.
The letter proves to be from one causa'belli,
Aunt Jane, who begins by stating that she is a
woman of few words, and proves it by condens
ing her remarks into a half dozen lines, which
are to the effect, that if the youthful Tompkins
bears her name of Jane she will bestow .upon her
at her death all her goods and chattels—other
wise, nothing. Mrs. To mpkin refolds the letter
and reflects. The result of her reflections is ap
parent when her liege lord returns home for his
dinner, looking ( and feeling just a bit ashamed
of the morning’s outburst* but ready to recom
mence active hostilities if he sees any symptoms
of insubordination on the part of the soother of
his declining years. That lady meets him with the
prescribed smile, which is believed to be, by the
uninitiated, an antidote for these little “unpleas
antnesses,” leads him up to the crib, where
sweetly slumbers their infant joy.
“Is not little Jane sweet?” site asks, blandly.
He looks surprised and gratified.
( “Little Eliza Jane,” he amends, “is the sweet
est thing in the world, except her mother.”
There is no telling how different an opinion
he might have entertained but for the opportune
arrival of Aunt Jane’s letter.
[For The Sunny South.]
SHOES AND GLOVES.
A STORY TO SUIT THE TIMES.
BY *. E. C.
If what I have written did not have “a moral,” !
it would not have anything. I have been re- ;
minded bj' it of an old story of Revolutionary f
days—of a Nancy somebody, who had done good (
service for the cause, and whose husband was
complimented upon her patriotic ardor. His j
reply was, “that she might be a honey of a pa- !
triot, but she was the devil of a wife.” So I am j
afraid that whoever reads may think there may I
be “a moral,” but there is no story at all.
She was young and very pretty. She had been
one of a happy and prosperous family, but dur
ing the manifold changes succeeding the rebel
lion (would that I could write the word in suffi- |
cieutiy large characters to express the sound
with which it often rolls upon my ears), this ha l j
passed away. She had been received into the J
household of a distant relative: he had been
kind to her; had given her the same means of
education his own daughters had received; ha 1 J
secured for her a position as teacher in one of |
the public schools, and gently pushed her out (
into the world. lie had done his best for the
orphan daughter of his kinsman: he had his own j
to provide for—lie could do nothing more for
her. It was all right, but my heart ached for
the girl the first day that she came to the school.
I am a teacher in the same institution. It is
a saying that “every dog has his day,”and I cer
tainty have had mine—a day of bright, sun-
springing flowers and singing birds; they haye
passed away, but the remembrance is still more
sweet than bitter. The day is overcast, but the
storm and rain have passed away; the mist ob
scures, but does not hide the sun. I do not j
complain for myself, but I did grieve for this j
young girl. She was so fair, so winning, of such
rare and exquisite refinement —just such a!
daughter as would have made glad the heart of I
many a wealthy, childless man, or have been an i
“angel of light” in the chambers of many a pa
latial mansion. I grieved to think of her sweet
voice taking a hard, harsh, dictatorial tone —of
the mobile lines of her mouth falling into rigid, j
scornful ones—her soft, blue eyes, speaking only ;
sweet affections, looking out upon the world j
with a half-defiant, wholly discontented look. ;
Years will pass before the change comes fully i
over her, but unless she marries, it will come, j
She may marry; this desirable consummation
may be attained. She may marry and become a 1
household drudge, a many-childed mother, wear- ,
ing out her very life to sustain the feeble knees !
of the man who has no strength in himself; and
at last, sinking under the heat and burden of j
the day, leave the incapable husband either to j
fall and perish under the weight of cares—never !
before appreciated—or to suffer himself to be j
married by some woman whose desire is only I
that the stigma of “old maidenhood” may be re- j
moved; while the many children, neglected and ’
untaught, wander into those paths of sin which j
lead to destruction. Or she may marry a man j
who, seeing alone her beauty, when that is wan- i
ing, turns from her faded cheek to seek pleasure
with others. Or she may be herself in fault, and
marry not the man, but those things which he
has,—wealth and position. He maybe a very
good sort of man, with whom, if she only loved
him, she might pass a life of average happiness —
a life better than one of solitary, laborious em
ployment; but she does not love him, and unless
she can well dissimulate her feelings, he will
soon perceive her indifference and coldness, and j
inevitably conclude that she married him for his j
money. Now, if he is a man of unusual wisdom |
and forbearance and true strength of character, !
and recognizes the fact that although he has j
been deeply injured, yet this unloving woman I
is still his wife, and putting from him all con
siderations of mortified vanity and wounded feel- !
ing, by persistent kindness and manly tender
ness, never degenerating into that weak, wom
anly, garrulous, “ you-don’t-love-me ” kind of
manner, which, it seems to me, is, of all atti- |
tudes in which a man can place himself before
the woman whose affections he desires to win,
the most ineffectual, he may conquer a love
which will outlast their lives. But for this a
man must have the quickest perception, the for
giving sweetness of the sweetest woman, the .
strong endurance of the strongest man. Of such
as he the wise Solomon said, y One man have I
found among a thousand.” I have known one
such—one who turned a surface of granite to all
injuries and provocations from his wife, but one
of wax to a look of kindness or conciliating word.
He was rewarded by receiving a love almost idol
atrous, which, when, after years of happiness,
he left her young, pretty, and richly endowed,
made her turn from all other men as not worthy
to unloose the latchets of his shoes. But most
likely, coldness on her part, wounded feelings
on his, will beget heart-burnings, bickerings,
taunts, total alienation, each pursuing his own
path,—separation, divorce. Or perhaps some
idle, wicked fop crosses the woman's path, at
tracted by her beauty. She turns from her
lonely, loveless home; then shame, dishonor,
often insanity and murder succeed.
From all such marriages as these, good Lord
deliver my pretty Em. Better, a million times
better, to work on, grow hard and callous as
school-teacher, seamstress, washer-woman —any
thing. until the slow years have rounded on to
their three-score and ten, and then drop out of
the world alone and uncared for of men. But
because that I know woman's highest estate is
that of marriage, I desire that Em should marry a
young, righteous, strong-hearted, strong-handed
man, with force of character such as will com
mand her esteem and conquer her love with
gentleness and tendernesss which will not wound
her sensibilities—with qualities that will ensure
a competence —securing her from the necessity
of actual drudging.
I have nothing left of my own to which to
cling, and so I have attached myself to this
pretty waif which has drifted up against me.
i We have rooms together, and we consult as to
the disposition of our little means. I am house
keeper and manager. I insist that to eat is me* 1
necessary for me —for her to dress; thus she can.
in the words of the admired Mrs. Poyser,
! “nourish her inside, wi’stickin’ ribbons on her
head;” that therefore I must spend more upon
the table, she—upon her wardrobe. And I in
fluence her, for she is gentle and affectionate,
never to stroll about the streets with noisy girls
or idle young men, nor to walk on Sunday
afternoons, except quietly with me after the
i church service. And on the rare occasions on
! which she goes out in the evening, I ask to be
! allowed to accompany her. Her friends do not
like this, but I seek persistently to be pleasant
j to the young people, carefully avoiding any as
sumption of authority, and so they put up with
it. But some day she will be falling in love, and
when that happens, of course, my influence is
gone. So I seek, after the fashion attributed to
“mmeuvering mamas,” to keep away the bad
and attract the good. Surely, there is nothing
unworthy in this, only let I and other rnaneu-
verers beware that we be not blinded by a glit
tering outside, or by the gilding which overlays,
but seek beneath for that true man of the heart—
that ch iracter which, being founded upon the
rock principle, shall be lasting as eternity itself.
Em an l I had completed our seven months of
service; the summer was upon us, hot and
: dusty; our means were small, but we could
board at the seaside for as little as in the city.
It was a secluded place, where there were few
visitors. The few young men were of the most
ordinary type, plain, dull, extremely common
place in appearance, manners, everything: but
there was one exception. A man young, hand- j
some,looking thoroughly the gentleman; dressed
with exquisite neatness, his well-brushed clothes
carefully fitting, his immaculate collar and cuffs,
his daintily-made shoes and gloves belonged to
the character. He not only looked the gentle- :
man, but he was so. After a rather intimate as- j
i soeiation of six weeks, I so pronounce him.
Out of his handsome eyes looked a brave, manly
■ spirit, modest and unassuming, but intelligent
and cultivated. He talked much and well upon
every subject but that of himself, abstaining :
from that one of all-engrossing and universal
interest with a reticence which filled me with j
admiration. He was not an idler, but was re- 1
siding —upon business to which he gave most
assiduous attention. I never knew him to do or
say but one thing which militated against
the high position to which I at once exalted
him —that of a real gentleman.
One afternoon Em and I went out for a walk.
When turning the comer of the street, we saw
advancing towards us the gentleman of whom I
have spoken. Now, gloves were not “de rigu-
ear” there—that is, for an afternoon walk. Every
body was poor, and everybody practiced econ
omy, and Em and I were glad to follow a custom
which would postpone that sad day when new
ones must be bought. As we came in sight of
his handsome figure, Em cast a look of dismay
upon her bare hands — soft, pretty, dimpled
things that they were. Hesitatingly, she drew
her gloves from her pocket, and drew them on.
They were shabby, that was painfully evident — '
rubbed, torn, defaced. She looked at me, and
the delicate flush of her cheek became a red-
rose as he approached. He bowed and smiled 1
with gentlemanly affability, but Em’s own con
sciousness made her quick to detect the sur
prised, slightly-contemptuous look with which
he glanced from his delicately-fitting and daint
ily fresh-looking kids to her own defaced and
spoiled ones. The girl’s face was unusually seri
ous as we walked on. I knew the cause, but I
also knew that no words of mine could remove
the sting that, look had left.
After tea, this gentleman, who was staying in
the same house, was sitting with us,' on the
piazza, fronting the sea. He spoke of a lady j
friend, who was also well known to me; of her
intelligence, cultivation, refinement; of her ap- ;
pearance, and finally of her exquisite toilettes;
with what perfection she was always “gantee at
chans see,” “ without which, you know,” he said,
“that no one can appear thoroughly the lady.”
There was a moment's silence, during which I
heard Em softly rise from her chair, and steal
away. I thought at once that this gentleman
meant to let Em and I know that we were not
sufficiently attentive to “these small matters,” i
and so, as I wished him, whom I respected and
admired, to recognize the fact that it was not ig
norance of these essentials, I said “that the
ladies of E , which was my early home, had ,
all given the most scrupulous care to these little ;
details;” but, giving the conversation rather a
forced tone, I admit; for the sake of conveying
the desired impression, I added: “but now that
is changed; gloves have become a luxury; few
are able to provide themselves with more than
two pairs during the season—one for general
wear, the other for special occasions.”
“Are they indeed so reduced as that,” he said
“ Yes,” I replied with eagerness; and deluded
by his apparent interest into speaking rather
freely, I continued: “And as to shoes, I said
this afternoon that if I was sure nobody was
looking, I would like to take mine off and carry
them in my hands, in order to save them, like ]
our old black maumers used to do.”
“Oh!” he said, throwing himself back into
his chair with a quiet, gentlemanly laugh. “I j
thought it would come. I have known you and j
Miss E— some time, .and have never heard either ;
of you ‘ hag ’ of your poverty, but I never
doubted that it would come. You Southern
woilien all do it. You all hag of your poverty, 1
and roll it under your tongues as a sweet morsel,
and never weary of drawing companion-pic
tures—‘What I have been, what I am.’”
To this I could only say that I had wished to
convey to him the knowledge that we, too, knew
what things were essential to a lady-like appear
ance, and that the knowledge was often “bitter
I confess that “ to shriek out our woes ” is in
the worst possible taste, only less offensive than
the pompous parade of wealth, but I would offer
this excuse: that it often arises from the desire
that those persons with whom we come in con
tact, for whom we feel both respect and admi
ration, should realize that the absence of those
refinements of the toilette and the drawing-room,
which are so desirable, is not due to careless or
ignorance, but an utter inability to procure
Mb. Feed Maxtox, near Cuyahoga, Ohio, as
cended some 6,500 feet in his ballooh, when sud
denly it burst; but fortunately after the escape of 1
the gas the wreck doubled up in such a manner !
as to form a parachute; his ballast being thrown
out, his fall was such as not to injure him.
BY MRS. A. P. HILL.
Egg-Plant.—I see plenty of them in market,
but they seem not to be much sought after.
When well prepared, they are a rich, delicious
vegetable. Several excellent receipts for cook-
’ ing them may be found in “ Mrs. Hill’s Cook
Book.” The most popular way of serving them
is to fry. Peel and cut them in round slices half
an inch thick; lay them in salt and water an
hour; take them out and parboil them, not long
enough to break; dip each slice in beaten egg,
then roll in Indian meal sifted fine, or in cracker
crumbs; fry until tender, taking care the lard is
not hot enough to scorch and blacken them.
They should be of a golden-brown color. They
are also nice baked with bread crumbs, or stuffed
with a rich force-meat. Season with salt and
Quaking Pudding.—One quart of sweet milk,
eight eggs, six table-spoont’uls of sifted flour;
beat the eggs separately; stir enough milk into
the flour to make a smooth batter; add the re
mainder; mix the eggs, then pour the milk upon
them; mix well; wring the bag out of boiling
water; rub the outside well with flour. Have
ready a pot of boiling water enough to cover the
pudding well; pour the batter in the bag and
boil briskly half an hour. This is a delicate and
beautiful pudding when well boiled. Mrs. M.
Sauce for the Pudding.—Boil a cup and a half
of fresh sweet milk; sweeten it with a cup of
white sugar; pour over the yolks of two eggs the
boiled milk; stir while pouring and return to
the fire long enough to scald the egg; stir to
prevent curdling; flavor with any essence pre
ferred. Mbs. H.
To Color Pickle Green. — Scald in salt and
water—two pounds of salt to one gallon of water.
Let this remain over the pickle three hours;
pour off and scald with hot vinegar—a clear vin
egar that has been used for pickles will answer
for the first scalding. Let this remain three
days; pour off and scald in fresh vinegar, in
which it is to. be kept; cover close. Cherries,
damsons and blackberries make nice sweet
Pine-Apple Ice (delicious).—One grated pine
apple, large size; pour over two quarts of water
after peeling and cutting it up in small pieces;
soak for several hours until the strength of the
pine-apple is extracted; strain, sweeten well and
freeze stiff. Wrap a hot towel around the mould
when ready to turn it. Mbs. R.
Orange ice is made the same way. Remove
Salsify Fritters. —Scrape the roots clean, boil
and then grate them. Season with salt and pep
per. Make a common fritter batter, not too
thick. Stir in the salsify and fry.
To take ink spots out of mahogany, touch with
a feather dipped in a tea-spoonful of water to
which has been added ten drops of spirits of
nitre; rub quickly with a wet cloth: Ink stains
may be removed from books by wetting the spots
with a solution of oxalic acid; one ounce of the
acid to a pint of water.
To each pint bowl of starch, before boiling
(but wet up), add a tea-spoonful of epsom salt.
Articles prepared with this will be stiffer, and
in a measure fire-proof.
Half fill bowls, smooth on the sides, with mo
lasses and water. When roaches get in they
can’t get out.
A Christmas Bouquet.—Choose such flowers
as you wish to preserve—such as are latest in
blooming and ready to open; cut them off with
a stem at least three inches long; cover the
stem immediately with sealing-wax. When the
buds are a little shrunk and wrinkled, wrap
each of them separately in a clean, dry piece of
paper and put in a box as nearly air-tight as pos
sible. When you wish the flowers to bloom,
take the buds at night, cut off the ends of the
stems sealed with wax, put the buds in water,
in which a little nitre of salt has been dissolved.
The next day, they will expand into full-blown
blossoms, with all their fragrance.
Sorrow Treads on the Heels of Joy.—Did
you ever notice that immediately after the “mar
riage” head, the “obituary” followed? Typical
of the wedded happiness and grief in this life.
The chants and songs and glee of merry ones
to-day will be broken by wails to-morrow, for
the sods will be piled on the breast of some we
thought not so near the grave. We read who are
married and wish them joy; a line below is the
record of deaths, and we say mournfully, peace
to their ashes. Sorrow treads on the heels of
joy; songs are hushed by the footfalls of death;
laughs are broken rudely; voices, no matter how
musical, are stilled in a moment.
E at Those Things Which are in Season. -The
appetite naturally nourishes what nature sup
plies, and as she supplies them. Leave off meat
in summer except the most delicate, and then
use it in small quantities. In summer, we do
not need carbonaceous articles in the stomach,
but rather those which are cooling. Nature
gives, month after month, the very things which
a sound stomach craves, and which are best for
us. Fruit, vegetable and other things denote
when it is proper they should be eaten.
Bath Bricks.—These celebrated bricks, known
over the world, as well in China and India as
England, are manufactured from the deposits of
the river Parrett, Bridgewater, England. The
manufacture of these bricks gives employment
to a large number of operatives of both sexes.
The deposit is not found anywhere in the world
besides. Bridgewater furnishes the world with
The Dahlia is named for Dr. Dahl, a pupil of
Linmeus. It is a native of Mexico, where it
grows in sandy meadows at an elevation of five
thousand feet above the sea. It was first intro
duced into England in 1789. It has been greatly
improved by cultivation. It likes a deep, rich
soil. Blooms wfill in September.
He who has once believed that life has an aim
and a meaning, and who has givon up that belief
for the conviction that life is simply a misfortune
without aim or meaning, has made but a sorry
exchange, even though he may have the gratifica
tion of boasting that he is at one with the great
thinkers of his age.
If possible, buy an oil-cloth which has been
made for several years, as the longer it has lain
unwashed the harder the paint becomes. Never
scrub it. Sweep with a soft hair-brush and wash
with a soft cloth dipped in milk and water.
Don't use soap. Rub dry with soft rags.
Egotism.—There is an old Italian proverb,—
“I dead, the world is dead.” The saying, in
this particular form may be extinct, so far as
common usage goes; but I am not unfrequently
reminded that the spirit, of it survives.
The demon of dullness which is allowed to
reign at home has more to do with driving young
men into vicious company than the attractions
of vice itself.
Linen can be glazed by adding a tea-spoonful
of salt and one of finely-scraped white soap to
a pound of starch.