Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page.

[For The 8unny 8outh.] THE MISER. 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. Chink—chink- chink! 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. Chink—chink—chink! 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 about. 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 front Wending his way to his counting-room, he so liloquized thus: “ 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 hers!” 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 them. 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 fox. 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 kiss. 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- tum,” etc. 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 Mrs. Tompkins. “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 dora ?” “ 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 much.” “That is too old-fashioned, also,” declares Mrs. Tompkins. “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 as that.” “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 topsy-turvy. ” “You know that is not so !” cries Mrs. Tomp kins, in her shrillest tones. “You ungrateful man!” “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 all.” “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 resigns. 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 with interest. “ 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 as wormwood.” 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 them. 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. HOUSEHOLD DEPARTMENT. BY MRS. A. P. HILL. Receipts. 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 pepper. 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 pickles. 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 the seed. 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 article. 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.