The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. XX, No. 983, October 29, 1898
    
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Title: The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. XX, No. 983, October 29, 1898

Author: Various

Release date: August 6, 2015 [eBook #49642]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Susan Skinner, Chris Curnow, Pamela Patten and
        the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
        http://www.pgdp.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GIRL'S OWN PAPER, VOL. XX, NO. 983, OCTOBER 29, 1898 ***




Produced by Susan Skinner, Chris Curnow, Pamela Patten and
the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net










[Illustration: THE GIRL'S OWN PAPER

VOL. XX.--NO. 983.]      OCTOBER 29, 1898.      [PRICE ONE PENNY.]




WHERE SWALLOWS BUILD.

BY SARAH DOUDNEY.


[Illustration: "'OH, YOU RICH MEN!' SHE INTERRUPTED WITH A WEARY SIGH."]

_All rights reserved._]


CHAPTER III.

The next day was Sunday. Cardigan, who had learnt from his young
hostess all that she could tell of her dressmaker, looked eagerly for
Alice's face in the village church. But he could not find her there.
She had gone away over the hills to a smaller church, to which the
Monteagles never went, and was not to be seen with the Bowers in the
seat allotted to the tenants of Swallow's Nest.

He was restless, and longed to secure a little time to himself in the
afternoon. Somehow, without being observed, he contrived to slip away,
out of the Hall, through the gardens, and then up to that high ground
from whence he had first looked down upon the old farm.

There it lay in the still sunshine, asleep in a Sunday peace. He waited
there, and watched until he saw the slender, upright figure of a young
woman come out of the porch. She went down the little garden-path,
opened the wicket, and then sauntered slowly across the grass to the
lane.

She was in a very thoughtful mood as she paced deliberately under the
shade of the old oaks. The sun, now getting low, burnished the brown
hair, wound so simply around her uncovered head. Once she paused to
reach a spray of late honeysuckle growing on the top of the hedge, and
then stood still to tuck it into the front of her dress. When she moved
again and lifted her eyes, she saw Cardigan standing before her under a
tree.

"Miss Harper," he said, rather awkwardly, "it is a great pleasure to
see you again. You have been hidden away so long!"

"I wanted to be hidden," she answered, as she gave him her hand. "Is it
not very natural that I should hide myself, Mr. Cardigan? My life was
darkened; it was best to live it all alone."

"I don't know if it was best," said he, reddening to the roots of his
hair with the endeavour to speak his thought. "There were those who
would have helped you to live it, if you would have let them."

"Ah, but I could not." Her face softly reflected the glow on his. "But,
by the way," she added more lightly, "you have come to spoil the life
I am leading here. I am told that you have bought Swallow's Nest, and
mean to pull the old house down. Have you, by chance, given just a
passing thought to those who are living under its roof?"

He flushed again.

"I confess I didn't," he said penitently. "But----"

"Oh, you rich men!" she interrupted, with a weary sigh. "With you to
see is to desire, to desire is to have, to have is to leave others
lacking. Shall I tell you what you were going to do?"

"Tell me anything you please," he answered eagerly.

"It is always much easier to pull down than to build up," she went on.
"The old home yonder has been years in making. More than a century
ago, when it was fresh and new, a young couple began there the serious
business of life. They were poor in money, but very rich in love and
faith. Their prayers are built into the walls; their angels have
hallowed every humble room with holy ministry; their souls passed
gently from that earthly dwelling to the Father's house on high.
Children and children's children have filled the places that they left
vacant, living just the same simple, God-fearing life. The old house is
still sound and strong; there are no cracks anywhere; it keeps out the
rough weather. But a rich man has decided that it is old-fashioned and
ugly, therefore it must be pulled down."

Cardigan had grown pale. Her words had gone down right to the deeps of
his heart, and moved him painfully.

"It shall not be pulled down!" he cried. "Miss Harper, I have been a
stupid, selfish man. But it is not too late to begin again?"

"No, it is not too late," she said, with a very bright face. "And you
will really let the house stand? Well, so much the better for us and
the swallows. Dear birds, they are just going away. I wonder what they
would have felt if they had come back to find their old nest in ruins.
Mr. Cardigan, I think it is a good thing that I met you to-day. Now I
must go back quickly and set some troubled hearts at rest."

"Do not go yet," he pleaded. "No one has ever given me such a straight
talking to before. My money was making a selfish brute of me very fast.
Hit me as hard as you can, Miss Harper. Every blow knocks some of the
evil out."

She gave a soft little laugh.

"Why, it seems that I have found a new vocation," said she.

"I wish you had found it sooner!" he cried. "Can you not leave the nest
to the swallows, and take me in hand? Is it too much to ask?"

There was a silence which only lasted for a moment, and yet seemed half
a lifetime. The bright look faded from her face; she was perplexed and
troubled.

"Mr. Cardigan," she said gravely, "you must take yourself in hand."

"That means that a man should not ask a woman to do for him what he
ought to do for himself," said he, in a saddened tone. "Well, you are
right. I have not given any proof of amendment."

"You have given a very plain proof of a kind heart," she said, with an
earnestness that made her eyes glisten. "I thank you for it. But I must
go now and carry the good news indoors."

He did not try to detain her again; but, just as she was turning away,
he made a last request.

"Miss Harper, will you let me see you once more before I go away? Will
you meet me here again, in this spot, next Sunday afternoon?"

"I will," she said quietly. And there was a very sweet look on her face
as she made the promise.

Robert Cardigan went back across the fields with a great hunger in his
heart.

He knew now that he loved her. He had begun to love her unconsciously
when she was a girl in Park Lane, looking at life with serious eyes,
and talking of the things that she would do some day.

How strange it was that wealth had been taken out of her hands, and put
into his. Life is full of riddles like this. Strong, tender spirits are
left to work hard for a pittance, suffering the heart-thrill of those
who have nothing to give but prayers and love. Lazy men and women have
their hands crammed with gold, and look round constantly for some new
pleasure to buy for themselves. And yet there is One who is mindful of
His own.

It was a very long week. Alice, busy with her work, was conscious of a
dull ache when she called up a vision of Cardigan's face. The Bowers
rejoiced with a great joy. They did not ask how it was that she knew
Mr. Cardigan, and they promised not to speak of the matter. But they
wondered silently why she, who had brought them gladness, should be sad
herself.

Quite alone, in the stillness of another golden Sunday, Alice slowly
took her way to the quiet lane. She knew that she should find him
waiting there; and she knew, too, the answer that she would give him.
Yet, in her innermost self, there was a deep regret that she could not
give a different answer. A man must work out his own salvation, she
thought. He must not put the tools into a woman's hand, and say, "Shape
and fashion my life according to your will."

"So you have come. It is kind of you," he said.

Her face was a little paler than it had been last Sunday, and her lips
slightly quivered.

"You have made us all so happy," she said, in a soft, hurried voice.
"The Bowers are good people, and the old place feels like a home to me."

"Do you want to stay there always?" he asked with an impatient sigh.

"I have not lived there long," she said evasively. "You cannot realise
what a rest it is. For two years I worked hard in London, learning my
business; and I used to pine for fresh air, and the sight of fields and
trees, as only working girls can. It was Miss de Vigny who found this
home for me."

"She would not tell me anything about you," said he. "Do you know what
I feel when I hear of all your sorrows and struggles? I feel mad to
think that I have got so much money. It seems as if Providence were
playing with us both. Don't look shocked. I have a bad habit of saying
odd things when I am wrought upon."

She stood still. Her face was beautiful, but very pale.

"But I didn't bring you here to listen to my ravings," he went on. "I
want to ask if you can give me any hope? Will there ever be a time when
we shall work together? Only tell me this!"

She turned her face away that he might not see the tears gathering in
her eyes.

"How can I answer?" asked she, sadly. "I do not know. We have seen so
little of each other. You are under the spell of strong feeling; but
feeling only changes a man for a little while. It alters the surface of
his nature, but leaves the inmost self untouched."

"Ah," he said bitterly, "you could not say that if you, too, were under
the spell!"

"That is the truth." She looked up at him with a face that seemed to
apologise for her words; it was so tender, as well as so true. "I am
free from the spell. Because I am free, I would leave you so also. You
think, just now, that you could do all the things and make all the
sacrifices which I feel right. But, if we were together always, that
mood of yours might not last."

"Does not love last?" he asked impatiently.

She shook her head, with a sad little smile.

"Miss Harper," he cried, "where did you learn this bitter wisdom? Why
has God given us these feelings which you seem to mistrust?"

"I mistrust them only till I see what they will lead to," she said
gently. "They are the beginnings of love, but not love itself. That
which you call love is not lasting; it is a blossom that the wind blows
away."

There was a silence so deep that they could hear the rustle of a
falling leaf. Cardigan broke the pause with a voice full of pain.

"Once more," he said, "I ask if you will give me a hope? To-morrow I am
going away. May I come back again?"

"Yes," she answered, with a sudden bright look. "Come back when the
swallows build. They owe it to your kindness that they will find the
old place just the same. Mr. Cardigan, I am not as hard-hearted as you
suppose. But a man must put himself to the test."

The fall of the year brought a quantity of work to the industrious
fingers at the farm. Miss Harper's fame was spreading far and wide.
Letty Monteagle's tea-gown was the forerunner of a great many orders
from her and her friends. The squire's young wife would have been more
sociable if Alice had not persisted in keeping her at a distance. More
than once, when Letty tried to begin a conversation she felt herself
very gently, but very firmly, checked. She had never found out that
Cardigan had seen Alice before he went away.

All through the short, sharp winter, and into the early spring, the
busy fingers toiled on. There was a pause when Alice paid a flying
visit to a famous drapery house in London. She went for patterns and
goods, but found time to see Mary de Vigny.

"Have you heard that Robert Cardigan is making himself useful?" the
little lady asked. "Really useful, I mean. He came to me for advice,
and I gave him some. It does not do to plunge into amateur philanthropy
unaided, you see. Well, my dear, the country seems to agree with you. I
never saw you looking so well, and yet you are as grave as a nun."

"Oh, that is the result of constant work," Alice replied.

In June a son and heir was born at the Hall. And then Miss Harper broke
through her usual reserve, and sent an exquisite cover for the baby's
cradle. The young mother wrote a cordial note, so full of genuine
feeling and happiness that Alice was gladdened herself, and went out
into the porch to watch the swallows. They darted round and round the
old house, and the sunlight shone upon the rapid wings.

"They are building," Milly said, a little later, when the sun was
pouring down upon the fields. "See, they are making their nest in the
old spot!"

On the evening of the same day the farmer came indoors with a grave
face. There had been an accident, he said. The squire's new groom had
gone to the station with the dog-cart to meet a gentleman. It was a
mistake to trust a young fellow with that flighty chestnut; in Bower's
opinion the groom was as bad a whip as he had ever seen. On the way
back the mare had bolted; both the men were flung out, but it was the
gentleman who was hurt--very badly hurt, it was feared. They had got
him to bed at the Hall, and the doctor would stay with him far into the
night.

A woman, pale and sorrowful, knelt alone in her room, with her face
uplifted to the stars. "If it had not been for me, he would not have
come back! Oh, God, spare his life," she prayed. "Spare him, and let
the way be made clear for my feet!"

Days came and went--brilliant days, full of summer sweetness and bloom,
but Cardigan lay crushed and helpless at the squire's house. He was a
lonely man. There was neither mother nor sister to share the nurse's
watch in the sick room; but when the news of the disaster came to Mary
de Vigny's ears, she wrote to the Monteagles and said that she was
coming. She arrived, quiet and self-possessed as ever; and with her
presence came a gleam of hope and light. The patient began to rally.
Very slowly, very feebly, he seemed to feel his way back into life.

One evening Mary de Vigny sent a note to Swallow's Nest. The squire
himself was the bearer. He drove to the gate in his wife's pony-cart,
and waited till Miss Harper was ready to go up to the Hall.

Cardigan, propped up on his pillows, motionless and pale, brightened
wonderfully when she entered the room.

"Ah, I knew you would come," he said. "I could not lie here any longer
without seeing you, and hearing your voice. Do you believe in me yet,
Alice? Is there any more hope for me now than there was last year?"

"Hush," she said gently. "You are not well enough to talk about these
things."

"I shall never get well till I have talked about them! Alice, I want to
tell you that I made my will after I saw you last. I left you Swallow's
Nest, and everything else besides. Perhaps I had better die, for you
will know what to do with the money. A man's life, after all, is a
little thing, and I never was good enough for you. If I die----"

"Hush," she said again. "If you die, I will never marry anyone else as
long as I live. But you mustn't die."

She burst into tears; and then his hand stole along the coverlet until
it found hers, and held it fast.

[THE END.]

[Illustration]




OUR PUZZLE POEM REPORT: A SHORT STORY IN VERSE.


SOLUTION.

A SHORT STORY IN VERSE.

        A short-sighted stork
        Was once taking a walk,
    When he met with a rusty old nail;
        And, being in the mood
        For a mouthful of food,
    He waggled the tip of his tail.

        Said he, "I opine
        "I can very well dine
    "Off this small but acceptable bone;"
        But when he had dined
        He more sagely opined,
    "I wish I had let it alone!"

       *       *       *       *       *


PRIZE WINNERS.


_Twelve Shillings and Sixpence Each._

 Rose S. Bracey, 92, Upper Tollington Park, N.
 Mrs. J. Cumming, 1, Elvan Terrace, Ibrox, Glasgow.
 Rose D. Davis, St. Georges, Roundhay, Leeds.
 Mrs. Grubbe, Mentmore Vicarage, Leighton Buzzard.
 J. Hunt, 42, Francis Road, Birmingham.
 Edith Morrison, 65, St. Peter's Road, Handsworth, Birmingham.
 Kate Robinson, 4, Queen Street, Horncastle.


_Five Shillings Each._

 Lily Belling, Wribbenhall, Bewdley, Worcestershire.
 Eva M. Benson, The Rectory, Ballymoney, Co. Antrim, Ireland.
 Ethel M. E. Lea, Northfield, Royston, Herts.
 Polemarchus, 24, Tay Street, Dundee.


_Very Highly Commended._

Eliza Acworth, Maud L. Ansell, Ethel C. Burlingham, M. J. Champneys,
Helen M. Coulthard, S. Dewhirst, Lily Dickin, Mabel Dickin, Edith E.
Grundy, Alice E. Johnson, Rev. V. Odom, Ada Rickards, Mrs. G. W. Smith,
Gertrude Smith, Isabel Snell, S. Southall, Ellen Thurtell, May Tutte.


_Highly Commended._

N. Campbell, M. Christie, Mabel E. Davis, Ethel Dobell, A. and F.
Fooks, E. F. Franks, Eva Florence Gammage, Nelly I. Hobday, Eva Hooley,
D. A. Leslie, Nellie Meikle, E. M. Rudge, Jas. J. Slade, Constance
Taylor, C. E. Thompson.


_Honourable Mention._

Maud Allen, Mrs. Astbury, Agnes Beale, Isabel Borrow, Leonard Duncan,
Annie K. Edwards, Dorothy Fulford, Peter Kelly, E. M. Le Mottée, Fred.
Lindley, Marian E. Messenger, J. D. Musgrave, E. Cunliffe Owen, Alfred
Scott, Miss Sharp, M. Short, Winifred Skelton, Ellen R. Smith, C. E.
Thurger, Ethel Tomlinson, Edward Tweed, E. Watherstow.


EXAMINERS' REPORT.

The title is _not_ "A Small Conservative in Verse." Apart from its
absurdity there is an objection against it which appears to have
escaped the notice of many competitors. Concerning the rest of the
puzzle, there is little to say, it is so simple. The chief value of
it lies in the instruction, afforded by the solution, on the use of
quotation marks in verse. These should be placed at the beginning of
the quotation, at the beginning of every line of quotation, and at the
end of the whole quotation.

The solutions of the 1st prize winners were perfect; those of the 2nd
prize winners only failed to give the form of the verse correctly. The
solutions very highly commended placed the quotation marks wrongly but
gave the form properly; those highly commended were incorrect in both
respects, while those in the last list contained trifling errors in
other ways.

"Wisely" and "rightly" often took the place of _sagely_ in line 11. The
picture represents a sage, and though sages are often wise there was
no necessity to go so deeply into the matter to obtain a good reading.
"Rightly" is altogether wrong.

To _Violet_ and others. The "O" in the solution of Fluctuations should
have been Oh.




GIRLS AS I HAVE KNOWN THEM.

BY ELSA D'ESTERRE KEELING, Author of "Old Maids and Young."


PART I.

THE SENTIMENTAL GIRL.

This is the girl who has "dear five hundred friends," to borrow a
phrase from Cowper, and whose friendship divided among so many yields
so small a part to each that Coleridge will not call it friendship, but
calls it "a feminine friendism."

This is the girl who kisses other girls with an indiscriminateness
which made a man say lately, "It makes men envious." To which--alack
and alas!--the answer made was, "It's meant to do that!"

This is the girl who uses words of the kind that Oliver Wendell Holmes
called "highly oxygenated," but which are, if the plain truth be said
of them, the weak expression of weak feeling.

This is the girl who, even when she is least impious, may forget that
only the Divinity should be adored; who is never without what a witty
woman writer has called "a gentle sorrow"; whose favourite words are
"so" and "oh"; and who writes at an early age a novel the heroine of
which--I quote from a manuscript beside me--has "hair of the colour of
Aventurine glass, of a lovely brownish-red tint with golden flashes in
it," which hair turns white with fright in a single night.

[Illustration: GOLDEN FLASHES]

This is the girl who sometimes lays herself open to the terrible charge
levelled by a writer on the emotions at Sterne and Byron and others of
the school of literature to which they belonged. Says Professor Bain,
"Some of the sentimental writers, such as Sterne and Byron, seem to
have had their capacities of tenderness excited only by ideal objects,
and to have been very hard-hearted towards real persons."

This is the girl who said dolefully the other day, "Oh, yes, one meets
heaps of men, but they don't propose!" Concerning which speech one can
only say that it might with advantage have been left unmade.

This, finally, is the girl whose letters show up the untenability of
Miss Bingley's rule, as set forth in Jane Austen's novel _Pride and
Prejudice_.

"It is a rule with me"--so said Miss Bingley--"that a person who can
write a long letter with ease cannot write ill."

The average sentimental girl can write a long letter with ease, and
can write ill. In a long letter by such a girl which has been placed
at my disposal, she constitutes herself petitioner for a poor family,
of which she writes, "They are getting into despair as to how to meet
their rent, much less food. It is a fearful idea of people in one's own
class wanting for food." The sentiment of that is rather narrow, and
the wording of it is execrable.

Tact is not always but is sometimes denied to the young sentimental
letter-writer. "I have been reading"--so wrote some little time ago
a girl to a novelist--"your last book, and have fallen in love with
you, and now the thought has come into my head, 'Could not I collect
together my feeble attempts at writing and publish them?'"

The writer who is informed that his work has suggested the collecting
together of feeble attempts and publishing them is made the recipient
of a dubious compliment.

Very often the inducement to do a thing as set forth by the
girl-sentimentalist is of a kind not calculated to weigh strongly with
persons less sentimental.

A lady of high accomplishments and keen relish of social intercourse
asserts that while on the staff of a London High School she suffered
for years from the invitations of young girls who, in imploring her to
accept their family's hospitality, never failed to emphasise the fact
that there would be "nobody else invited."

There is a very general idea that the girl-sentimentalist totally
ignores the practical side of life. That is not so.

"I have a short wait here," so writes a girl from the Welsh border.
"This letter is the last I shall write on English soil, and I want
it to be to you. In spite of good resolutions, I have cried without
ceasing since I left ---- Not even the evident amusement of a small
boy, my _vis-a-vie_" (spelling is not a strong point with this writer)
"could dry up those tears. Dignity doesn't help one to forget an aching
heart. I must fly now to see to my luggage."

The heart in a girl like that is balanced by the head, and the same
thing is true of the girl-writer of the next letter-extract:

"I look often at his picture upon my table, and wonder why it is
there. I am so exquisitely happy, and yet so keenly aware of my own
shortcomings. This great new thing that has come into my life makes me
feel my own unworthiness. Tell me of all my misspellings, please."

[Illustration: THIS GREAT NEW THING]

The misspellings of the average girl-sentimentalist are legion; in
fact, I have heard a schoolmistress say--the speech having been
addressed by her to a younger schoolmistress--"Put down sentimentality;
it leads to misspelling."

From this schoolmistress I have it that the girl who can spell
"parallel," "ridiculous," and "predilection," is rarely an incurable
sentimentalist.

My own experience has been that it is the sentimental girl who
writes--and says--"rearly" and "warfted," and the following curiosities
in spelling are culled from the--unpublished--works of girl-novelists:

"He had suffered the yolk of tyranny."

"She carried a little book, with guilt edges, a prayer-book."

[Illustration: THE YOLK OF TYRANNY]

The girl who describes a prayer-book as a book with "guilt" edges is
almost guilty of profanation. Tell her this, and so far is this sort
of girl from being a hardened sinner that the strong likelihood is
that she will never again commit this error. An appeal to her heart is
always better than an appeal to her head. This fact was realised by
the Israelite who said to a young maiden of this type who had written
"sinagog" for "synagogue," "You must not spell the name of our temple
like that. It is not only incorrect, but very unkind spelling."

"I will never spell so again," was the young maiden's answer.

Sometimes the defence of her spelling put forward by the girl
of sentimental rather than logical bias is very remarkable.
"'Court-material,'" said recently a young English damsel who had
written "court-material" for "court-martial," "makes quite as much
sense to me as 'court-martial.'"

The objection to this form is, of course, that it does not make quite
as much sense to other people.

It may be asked now, Does the non-sentimental girl experience no
difficulties in connection with spelling? Certainly she does. She was
heard the other day saying that the word assassination had been a
standing difficulty to her until another girl told her that it began
with "two asses" as thus, ass-ass-ination. The non-sentimental girl has
also been known to say, looking up from a book--

[Illustration: UNDER A BAD SPELL]

"Hullo, here's 'wobble' spelt not with an 'o' but with an
'a'--'wabble.' Now I wonder which is the right spelling."

This is perhaps the place in which to say that there is nothing more
difficult than to determine what forms the line of demarcation between
the sentimental and the non-sentimental girl. There are persons who
assert that a girl who uses the interjection Hullo! may be safely
termed non-sentimental, but that is so far from being true that among
the girl-readers of this paper there will be one with whom Hullo! is a
favourite expletive, and who said, this summer, as a full-blown rose
which she was presenting to a person greatly loved by her fell in a
shower of petals to the ground, "Even the roses fall at your feet."

That was surely the language of sentiment.

Others assert that girls who wear men's collars with men's neckties may
safely be dubbed non-sentimental, but it was a girl in boy's attire to
the waist whom the writer of this paper heard say in reference to a
beautiful woman to whom she gave the whole homage of the girl's heart
that beat under the boyish garb that she favoured, "She is ordered by
her doctor to Buxton to drink the waters. Happy waters!"

That was surely the language of sentiment.

If there be aught in a name, it is to be regretted that Angelina is
no longer a name much given in baptism, and that no poet of this day
follows him who sang in praise of "the dear Amanda." Not that Angelina
or Amanda is the best possible name for a sentimental girl. No; such a
girl should be called Delia. Mr. Henley has given the reason why--

"Sentiment hallows the vowels in Delia."

To return to the sentimental girl as writer. Misspellings, it has been
stated, are legion with her. Of other marks by which you shall know her
a leading one is that she has a tendency to write all abstract nouns,
starting with "love," with capital initials; she writes impassioned
postcards, favours such obscure phrasing as "farewell, but not
good-bye," has been known to bring a letter to a close with the words,
"Ever yours always lovingly," and to send "much best love."

To sum up, however, the sentimental girl must not be too harshly
condemned. To one and other of us she has signed herself "Yours ever"
and has been ours for a day; this has made us feel bitter. To one and
other of us she has said, using words which are used by Shakespeare,
who, one feels quite certain, heard them from a girl-sentimentalist,
"I love thee best, oh, most best, believe it," and, having said that
to us, has been heard by us saying that to another; this has made us
feel jealous. In bitterness and in jealousy we are apt to misjudge the
girl-sentimentalist, thinking hard thoughts of her, saying harsh things
of her, instead of being right happy to be of those to whom she makes
her Shakespearian protestations. Shakespeare is very good in print, but
he is very much better from young lips.

Some people are greatly alarmed by the spectacle of a girl who appears
to be without sentiment. This girl's heart is wrapped in a cool outer
shell, like the world, but, like the world, it has, be sure, a hot
nucleus. One could not be a girl, worth the name of girl, and this
thing be different. To have a heart full of love in one's body is not
to be sentimental. To be sentimental is to have a heart full of loves
and likes, and to wear it on one's sleeve.

(_To be continued._)




"OUR HERO."

A TALE OF THE FRANCO-ENGLISH WAR NINETY YEARS AGO.

BY AGNES GIBERNE, Author of "Sun, Moon and Stars," "The Girl at the
Dower House," etc.


CHAPTER V.

A MILITARY NURSE.

Colonel Baron might not confess the fact in so many words, but before
he had been three days in Paris, he was sorely regretting his own
action in taking Roy across the Channel.

Had he admitted that it really was his wife's persistency, overbearing
his better judgment, which had settled the matter, he might have been
tempted to blame her. But even to himself he did not admit this. Rather
than confess that he had been managed by a woman, he preferred to look
upon the mistake as entirely his own. Moreover, he was too devoted a
husband to condemn openly any fault in his wife. She was, of course, a
woman, and as such he would have counted it _infra dig._ on his part to
have been controlled by her; but she was also in his eyes the fairest
and most charming woman that ever had lived; and the one thing on earth
before which the Colonel's courage failed was the sight of tears in his
Harriette's large grey eyes.

That they should return home, as at first proposed, by the end of
a fortnight, unless they were willing to leave the boy behind, was
impossible; and neither of them would for a moment contemplate that
idea. No matter how well Roy might get on, he would be a prisoner
beyond the fortnight. Small-pox is a disease which "gangs its ain
gait," and makes haste for no man's convenience. Even after actual
recovery, there would still be need for quarantine.

Had Roy remained at home, he would probably have sickened at the same
date, if, as was supposed, he had taken the infection from one of his
schoolfellows. But then he would have been safe in England, and his
parents could any day have returned to him. Now he seemed likely to
keep them abroad, at a time when war-clouds hovered unpleasantly near.

When Roy first fell ill, the doctor who was hastily called in at once
pronounced him to be sickening for that fell disease, which held the
world in a thraldom of terror. Not without good reason. It was reckoned
that in those days nearly half a million of people died in Europe every
year of small-pox; about forty-five millions being swept away in a
century; while tens of thousands were rendered hideous for life, and
large numbers were hopelessly blinded. We, who know small-pox mainly
in the very modified form which sometimes occurs in vaccinated people,
can scarcely even imagine what the ravages of the disease were in those
years of its fullest and most unchecked sway.

Mrs. Baron was a fond and tender mother; yet when first that dread word
left the doctor's lips, even she fled in horror from the sick room,
agonised, not only at the thought of losing her child, but of parting
also with her own attractive looks. From infancy she had been used to
admiration; and she knew only too well to what a mere mockery of the
human face many a lovelier countenance than hers was reduced. Though
a most winning woman, she was hardly of a strong nature; and even her
mother-love failed for the moment under that fearful test. The Colonel,
kind but helpless, was left alone by his boy's bedside.

Soon, ashamed of herself, Mrs. Baron rallied and would have returned;
but at the door she was met by the Colonel, who sternly prohibited
re-entrance. She bowed to his decision, trembling, as she did not
always bow when her wishes were crossed.

The people of the hotel, no whit less dismayed, insisted on Roy's
instant removal. The question was, where could he go?

Then it was that Denham Ivor came to the rescue. He had had small-pox;
he had nursed a friend through it; he was, therefore, not only safe but
also experienced. He would undertake the boy himself, allowing no other
to enter the room. Neither Mrs. Baron nor Colonel Baron might again
approach Roy, until all danger of infection was over. His steady manner
and cheerful face brought comfort to everybody.

He consulted with the hotel people, and heard of a certain Monsieur and
Madame de Bertrand, members of the lesser _noblesse_ of past days, who
lived in a street near, and who might be willing to take in him and
Roy. Three years earlier they had both been inoculated, and had had
the complaint. Their servant, too, was safe; and, since they had lost
heavily in Revolution times, and were badly off, they might be glad
thus to make a little money.

Colonel Baron hastened to the house, ready to offer anything, and he
was met kindly, matters being speedily arranged. Roy was then conveyed
thither, wrapped in blankets, already much too ill to care what might
be done with him. Colonel and Mrs. Baron remained at the hotel, to
endure a long agony of suspense. The Colonel was, indeed, almost
overcome with terror, not only for Roy, but also for his wife, lest she
should already have caught the infection.

As days passed this dread was proved to be groundless, and Roy was
found to have the complaint on the whole mildly, though thoroughly. It
was not a case of the awful "confluent" small-pox, of which fully half
the number attacked generally died, but of the simple "discrete" kind.
Though he had much of the eruption on his body, few pustules appeared
on his face. There was a good deal of fever, and at times he wandered,
calling for "Molly," and complaining that she was cross and would not
answer him. More often he was dull and stupefied, saying little.

No one who had seen Denham Ivor only on parade or in society, would
have singled him out as likely to be an especially good nurse; but
Roy soon learnt this side of the man. A modern hospital nurse would
doubtless have found a great deal to complain of in his methods, and
not a little to arouse her laughter. Many of his arrangements were
highly masculine. The room was seldom in anything like order; and
whatever he used he commonly plumped down afterwards in the most
unlikely places. But his patience and attention never failed; he
never forgot essentials; he never seemed to think of himself, or to
require rest. Day after day he remained in that upstairs room with the
invalid, only once in the twenty-four hours going out of the house for
half-an-hour's turn, that he might report Roy's condition to Colonel
Baron, meeting him and standing a few yards distant.

The usual nine days of full eruption, following upon forty-eight hours
of fever, were gone through, with, of course, abundance of discomfort
and restlessness. Despite the comparatively mild nature of his illness,
Roy fell away fast in flesh and strength, while Ivor managed with a
minimum of repose. If Roy were able to get a short sleep, Denham used
that opportunity to do the same himself, but in some mysterious way he
always contrived to be awake before Roy woke up. His handsome bronzed
face grew less bronzed with the confinement and lack of exercise.

So far as he knew how to guard against the spread of infection, he did
his best. No one beside himself and the doctor entered the sick room,
except a wizened old Frenchwoman, herself frightful from the effects
of the same dire disease, who was hired to come in each morning for
half-an-hour, while Ivor went out, that she might put the room into
something like order. For the rest, the gallant young Guardsman, sweet
Polly's lover, undertook the whole.

Then tokens of improvement began; and Colonel Baron sent a letter home
which cheered Molly's sore heart; and, just when all promised well for
a quick recovery, violent inflammation of one ear set in. For days and
nights the boy suffered tortures, and sleep was impossible for him,
therefore for his nurse. Roy, in his weakened state, sometimes broke
down and cried bitterly with the pain, imploring Ivor never to let
Molly know that he had cried.

"She'd think me so girlish," he said, while tears rolled down his thin
cheeks, marked by half-a-dozen red pits. "Please don't ever tell her!"

In the midst of this trouble a most unexpected blow fell upon Ivor,
in the shape of a stern official notice, desiring him to consider
himself a prisoner of war, and at once to render his parole. Ivor was
a calm-mannered man generally, with the composure which means only the
determined holding-down of a far from placid nature, but some fierce
and angry words broke from him that day. He was compelled to go out
to give his parole, infection or no infection, leaving the old woman
in charge for as brief a space as might be; and indignant utterances
were exchanged between himself and Colonel Baron, whom he chanced to
meet, bent on the same errand. Then he had to hasten back to the boy,
with a heavy weight at his heart. It meant to Ivor, not only indefinite
separation from Polly, but also a complete deadlock in his military
career. He was passionately in love with her; he was hardly less
passionately in love with his profession. Had imprisonment come in the
ordinary way, through reverse or capture in actual warfare, he would
have borne it more easily; but the sense of injustice rankled here.
Also at once he foresaw the complications likely to arise, and the
probability that an exchange of prisoners would be impossible. As he
patiently tended the boy, doing all that he could to bring relief, his
brain went round at the thought of his position, and that of Colonel
Baron.

(_To be continued._)




ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.

BY JESSIE MANSERGH (Mrs. G. de Horne Vaizey), Author of "A Girl in
Springtime," "Sisters Three," etc.


CHAPTER IV.

For four long days had Mariquita Saville dwelt beneath Mr. Asplin's
roof, and her companions still gazed upon her with fear and trembling,
as a mysterious and extraordinary creature, whom they altogether
failed to understand. She talked like a book, she behaved like a
well-conducted old lady of seventy, and she sat with folded hands
gazing around, with a curious, dancing light in her hazel eyes, which
seemed to imply that there was some tremendous joke on hand, the secret
of which was known only to herself. Esther and Mellicent had confided
their impressions to their mother, but in Mrs. Asplin's presence,
Peggy was just a quiet, modest girl, a trifle shy and retiring, as was
natural under the circumstances, but with no marked peculiarity of
any kind. She answered to the name of "Peggy," to which address she
was persistently deaf at other times, and sat with eyelids lowered,
and neat little feet crossed before her, the picture of a demure,
well-behaved, young schoolgirl. The sisters assured their mother that
Mariquita was a very different person in the schoolroom, but when she
inquired as to the nature of the difference, it was not so easy to
explain.

"She talked so grandly, and used such great, big words."

A good thing, too, Mrs. Asplin averred. She wished the rest would
follow her example, and not use so much foolish, meaningless
slang.----Her eyes looked so bright and mocking, as if she were
laughing at something all the time. Poor, dear child! could she not
talk as she liked? It was a great blessing she could be bright, poor
lamb, with such a parting before her!----She was so--so--grown-up, and
patronising, and superior! Tut! tut! Nonsense! Peggy had come from a
large boarding-school, and her ways were different from theirs--that
was all. They must not take stupid notions, but be kind and friendly
and make the poor girl feel at home.

Fraulein on her side reported that her new pupil was docile and
obedient, and anxious to get on with her studies, though not so far
advanced as might have been expected. Esther was far ahead of her in
most subjects, and Mellicent learned with pained surprise that she
knew nothing whatever about decimal fractions.

"Circumstances, dear," she explained, "circumstances over which I had
no control, prevented an acquaintance, but no doubt I shall soon know
all about them, and then I shall be pleased to give you the promised
help," and Mellicent found herself saying, "Thank you," in a meek and
submissive manner, instead of indulging in a well-merited rebuke.

No amount of ignorance seemed to daunt Mariquita, or to shake her
belief in herself. When Maxwell came to grief in a Latin essay, she
looked up, and said, "Can I assist you?" And when Robert read out a
passage from Carlyle, she laid her head on one side and said, "Now, do
you know, I am not altogether sure that I am with him on that point!"
with an assurance which paralysed the hearers.

Esther and Mellicent discussed seriously together as to whether
they liked, or disliked, this extraordinary creature, and had great
difficulty in coming to a conclusion. She teased, puzzled, aggravated,
and provoked them; therefore, if they had any claim to be logical, they
should dislike her cordially, yet somehow or other they could not bring
themselves to say that they disliked Mariquita. There were moments
when they came perilously near loving the aggravating creature.
Already it gave them quite a shock to look back upon the time when
there was no Peggy Saville to occupy their thoughts, and life without
the interest of her presence would have seemed unspeakably flat and
uninteresting. She was a bundle of mystery. Even her looks seemed to
exercise an uncanny fascination. On the evening of her arrival the
unanimous opinion had been that she was decidedly plain, but there was
something about the pale little face which always seemed to invite a
second glance, and the more closely you gazed, the more complete was
the feeling of satisfaction.

"Her face is so neat," Mellicent said to herself, and the adjective was
not inappropriate, for Peggy's small features looked as though they had
been modelled by the hand of a fastidious artist, and the air of dainty
finish extended to her hands and feet, and slight graceful figure.

The subject came up for discussion on the third evening after Peggy's
arrival, when she had been called out of the room to speak to Mrs.
Asplin for a few minutes. Esther gazed after her as she walked across
the floor with her slow, dignified tread, and when the door was safely
closed, she said slowly--

"I don't think Mariquita is as plain now, as I did at first, do you,
Oswald?"

"N--no! I don't think I do. I should not call her exactly plain. She is
a funny, little thing, but there's something nice about her face."

"Very nice."

"Last night in the pink dress she looked almost pretty."

"Y--es!"

"Quite pretty!"

"Y--es! really quite pretty."

"We shall think her lovely in another week," said Mellicent tragically.
"Those awful Savilles! They are all alike--there is something Indian
about them. Indian people have a lot of secrets that we know nothing
about, they use spells, and poisons, and incantations that no English
person can understand, and they can charm snakes. I've read about it
in books. Arthur and Peggy were born in India, and it's my opinion
that they are bewitched. Perhaps the ayahs did it when they were in
their cradles. I don't say it is their own fault, but they are not
like other people, and they use their charms on us, as there are no
snakes in England. Look at Arthur! He was the naughtiest boy, always
hurting himself, and spilling things, and getting into trouble, and yet
everyone in the house bowed down before him and did what he wanted. Now
mark my word, Peggy will be the same!"

Mellicent's companions were not in the habit of "marking her words,"
but on this occasion they looked thoughtful, for there was no denying
that they were always more or less under the spell of the remorseless
stranger.

On the afternoon of the fourth day Miss Peggy came down to tea with
her pig-tail smoother and more glossy than ever, and the light of war
shining in her eyes. She drew her chair to the table and looked blandly
at each of her companions in turn.

"I have been thinking," she said sweetly, and the listeners quaked at
the thought of what was coming. "The thought has been weighing on my
mind that we neglect many valuable and precious opportunities. This
hour, which is given to us for our own use, might be turned to profit
and advantage, instead of being idly frittered away. 'In work, in
work, in work alway, let my young days be spent.' It was the estimable
Dr. Watts, I think, who wrote those immortal lines! I think it would
be a desirable thing to carry on all conversation at this table in
the French language for the future. Passez-moi le beurre, s'il vous
plait, Mellicent, ma très chère. J'aime beaucoup le beurre, quand il
est frais. Est-ce que vous aimez le beurre plus de la--I forget at the
moment how you translate jam. Il fait très beau, ce après-midi, n'est
pas?"

She was so absolutely, imperturbably, grave that no one dared to laugh.
Mellicent, who took everything in deadly earnest, summoned up courage
to give a mild little squeak of a reply. "Wee--mais hier soir, il
pleut;" and in the silence that followed, Robert was visited with a
mischievous inspiration. He had had French nursery governesses in his
childhood, and had, moreover, spent two years abroad, so that French
came as naturally to him as his own mother tongue. The temptation
to discompose Miss Peggy was too strong to be resisted. He raised
his dark, square-chinned face, looked straight into her eyes, and
rattled out a long, breathless sentence, to the effect that there was
nothing so necessary as conversation if one wished to master a foreign
language; that he had talked French in the nursery; and that the same
Marie who had nursed him as a baby, was still in his father's service,
and acted as maid to his only sister. She was getting old now, but was
a most faithful creature, devoted to the family, though she had never
overcome her prejudices against England, and English ways. He rattled
on until he was fairly out of breath, and Peggy leant her little
chin on her hand, and stared at him with an expression of absorbing
attention. Esther felt convinced that she did not understand a word of
what was being said, but the moment that Robert stopped, she threw back
her head, clasped her hands together, and exclaimed--

"Mais certainement, avec pleasure!" with such vivacity and Frenchiness
of manner, that she was forced into unwilling admiration.

"Has no one else a remark to make?" continued this terrible girl,
collapsing suddenly into English, and looking inquiringly round the
table. "Perhaps there is some other language which you would prefer to
French. It is all the same to me. I think we ought to strive to become
proficient in foreign tongues. At the school where I was at Brighton
there was a little girl in the fourth form who could speak and even
write Greek quite admirably. It impressed me very much, for I myself
knew so little of the language. And she was only six----"

"Six!" The boys straightened themselves at that, roused into eager
protest. "Six years old! And spoke Greek! And wrote Greek! Impossible!"

"I have heard her talking for half-an-hour at a time. I have known the
girls in the first form ask her to help them with their exercises. She
knew more than anyone in the school."

"Then she is a human prodigy. She ought to be exhibited. Six years old!
Oh, I say--that child ought to turn out something great when she grows
up. What did you say her name was, by the by?"

Peggy lowered her eyelids, and pursed up her lips. "Andromeda
Michaelides," she said slowly. "She was six last Christmas. Her father
is Greek consul in Manchester."

There was a pause of stunned surprise; and then, suddenly, an
extraordinary thing happened. Mariquita bounded from her seat, and
began flying wildly round and round the table. Her pigtail flew out
behind her; her arms waved like the sails of a windmill, and as she
raced along, she seized upon every loose article which she could reach,
and tossed it upon the floor. Cushions from chairs and sofa went flying
into the window; books were knocked off the table with one rapid sweep
of the hand; magazines went tossing up in the air, and were kicked
about like so many footballs. Round and round she went, faster and
faster, while the five beholders gasped and stared, with visions of
madhouses, strait-jackets, and padded rooms, rushing through their
bewildered brains. Her pale cheeks glowed with colour; her eyes shone;
she gave a wild shriek of laughter, and threw herself, panting and
gasping, into a chair by the fireside.

"Three cheers for Mariquita! Ho! Ho! Ho! Didn't I do it well? If you
could have _seen_ your faces!"

"P--P--P--eggy! Do you mean to say you have been pretending all this
time? What do you mean? Have you been putting on all those airs and
graces for a joke?" asked Esther, severely, and Peggy gave a feeble
splutter of laughter.

"W--wanted to see what you were like! Oh, my heart! Ho! Ho! Ho! wasn't
it lovely? Can't keep it up any longer! Good-bye, Mariquita! I'm Peggy
now, my dears. Some more tea!"

(_To be continued._)

[Illustration]




FROCKS FOR TO-MORROW.

BY "THE LADY DRESSMAKER."


If the French craze for plaids and tartans be followed in England,
it will be as well to remind everyone that there are certain people
to whom they are quite forbidden. I refer to the very stout and the
very thin. And it is to be hoped that these two classes may be wise
in season and avoid them. For the rest, the new plaids are, some of
them, pretty and in quiet hues, though I noticed, when in Paris, that
people liked them more vivid as to colouring, and one consequently saw
some very lively-looking ones in scarlet and bright red. These plaids
are more used as skirts than as entire dresses; in fact, the newest
departure in coats and skirts is to have the skirt of plaid and the
coat of a plain cloth which suits it in colour. For this purpose a
sacque coat is always used, and this is a fortunate thing, for they
suit all figures, thin and stout, equally well; but they, more than
any other description of jacket, require a good cut, as they are so
easily made to hitch up or to droop at the back by an inexperienced
cutter. And the oddest part of it is that no alteration seems to do
any good, for the trouble appears to lie deeper than that, in the very
foundation of the jacket.

[Illustration: JACKET WITH ROUNDED FRONTS. GOWN WITH TUNIC.]

The few notes that I have collected together on the subject of furs I
will use at the beginning of my article. Fur trimmings of all kinds
are very much worn, and so many of the winter gowns are decorated with
fur bands, that the fashion seems like a uniform. The peculiarity of
this form of trimming is that this season it must be accompanied by
bands of brightly-coloured velvet and generally with braid. Seal and
sable are constant favourites, and they will be used in combination
for the fitted-back jackets or sacque-backed ones, which are the two
shapes for fur jackets at present. Skunk and bear, which were last year
so popular, have fallen out of favour; but caracul is much used, and
has not been freshly named this year. So far as I can see, white satin
seems to be the popular lining for all fur jackets and capes, though I
have seen one or two lined with gold colour and pale blue. The capes of
fur follow the fashion of those in cloth and are flounced just as they
were last year, many of them; but this year the flounces are wider and
more visible to the eye. The collars of all fur garments are very high.
And, lastly, I must mention that long fur boas are expected to take the
place of the feather ones to which we have been so faithful.

As I look round trying to satisfy myself as to the fashionable colours
for the autumn, I find myself in a decided difficulty. There is a new
shade of lavender or hyacinth-blue, which is very pretty, but needs
to be toned down with white or black, and I am sure others will have
noticed that there is a perfect run on lavender-blue hats, which are
prepared for the winter in every shade of this hue. Then there is a
deep-hued tomato-red, which is very handsome in velvet, and a new blue
known as "old Japanese." Dark brown cloth, with reliefs of orange
velvet and satin; grey face cloth, with reliefs of turquoise blue; and
red with black cordings, are all fashionable winter mixtures. Pink,
ranging from a pale coral to a very deep du Barry rose hue, is quite as
much worn as ever, and from what I see, orange-colour is the same.

Both for day and night the hair is now dressed quite low on the nape of
the neck, in a coil of twists, and on the head and over the ears it is
waved in wide undulations, the front hair being cut short and curled
over the forehead. For the evening a rose fastened in by a diamond pin
behind the left ear is said to be the latest idea.

The reason of this change in the style of dressing the hair appears to
lie in the change in the style of the hats and bonnets of the season.
There is no doubt that, to the majority of Englishwomen, the hair
dressed in this manner is more becoming than in any other style.

In the way of new skirts we find several in which there are neither
pleats nor gathers at the back; but the most popular have two
box-pleats, on which there are placed (in some skirts at least) a row
or two of rather large buttons, from the waist to the hem. Dresses are,
I am sorry to say, being made very much longer in the skirt. They touch
the ground at the front and sides, and lie on it completely at the
back, while for evening use the long train is universally adopted. I
think the Princess-gown will be the favourite one for evening use, and
here sleeves seem to be banished entirely, a velvet ribbon or a flower
being considered a sufficient substitute for them. For walking-skirts
in thick materials, however, the sensible ones are to be left a choice,
so we shall probably see as many short skirts worn as long ones. After
all, the bicycle-skirt has to be considered, and many of us wear that
in the country nearly all day long.

Our first illustration shows two of the reigning winter and autumn
styles, namely, the three-quarter jacket, and the strapped cape, with
bands of cloth piped with scarlet silk. The figure on the left wears
a tailor-made and beautifully-fitting jacket of grey cloth, which is
braided with a darker grey braid over bands of paler grey cloth, the
lines running longitudinally from the top of the collar to the edge of
the jacket. The skirt is of plain cloth of the same tone of grey as the
jacket. The latter is lined with orange silk. The toque is of orange
velvet, with cream-coloured lace, and feathers and wings of orange and
black.

[Illustration: GOWN OF GREY CLOTH. CAPE WITH CLOTH BANDS.]

The second figure in the illustration wears a black cloth cape, lined
with scarlet silk, and piped with the same at each side of the wide
cloth bands, which make the decoration of the cape. These bands are
tapered gradually round the fronts and up the sides, where they are
crossed with ornamental straps which fasten the cape in front. The
collar is high, and is piped and lined with scarlet. The hat is of
straw, with scarlet and black velvet, and black feathers at one side,
and scarlet and black rosettes below the brim at the back and sides.

The next illustration consists of a single figure only, who wears one
of the new jackets of the winter, the material of which is dark green
cloth, braided in black, and edged with caracul fur. The new feature
in this jacket is the flounce of cloth of about eight inches in depth,
which is placed round the edge, and which is also trimmed with fur.
The hat is of white felt, with trimmings of green velvet, and green
feathers; and the dress worn is of green cashmere, with green velvet
trimmings.

The group of three figures fully displays one of the most stylish of
the season's confections, two views being given of it, a front and
a back one, on the figures which stand on the right and left. This
jacket is of cloth, tight-fitting, and of three-quarter length, with
the fronts rounded to the bands at the waist. It is trimmed with
bands of fur, and with cloth bands of a lighter colour, which taper
towards the waist in front, and on the bodice are arranged so as to
simulate an Eton jacket. The seated figure shows one of the new tunics.
The material is of dark blue cloth, and the tunic is cut to reach a
little below the knee. The bodice is open in front to show a vest of
apricot-coloured velvet which has white lace _motifs_ on it. The tunic
and the _revers_ of the bodice are edged with bands of astrachan, which
is laid on apricot velvet, edged and overlaid with fancy braiding in
black. There is a large collar high at the back, which is bordered in
the same manner, and lined with black velvet. The edge of the skirt
is trimmed with bands of astrachan, which are put on to match the
battlements of the tunic.

[Illustration: NEW WINTER JACKET.]

The very smart coats of the autumn are all made of a thick satin
_merveilleux_, which was used for the same purpose some years ago, and
seems to have returned to favour. Other coats are of black velvet, on
one of which a great deal of Irish crochet lace has been lavished as
decoration; but all of them are of the same three-quarter length, and
aspire to great perfection of cut and fit. One sees by these coats how
desirable it is to be slight in figure, for most of these fashions are
only suitable for the thin. Pipings are the predominant ornament; and,
indeed, this form of decoration is more popular than anything else.

Mittens are coming into use, and, for the evening, will perhaps
supersede gloves; the late tropical heat has rendered the most careful
people quite careless of their gloves, and it has been nothing
remarkable to meet well-dressed women in the street carrying their
gloves in their hands. The ribbon bands round the neck, which have been
so much used this year, are now being replaced by velvet ones, tied
in the same manner--in a bow at the back. It is rumoured that wide
strings of ribbon for bonnets are coming in again, but I do not think
it likely, as they add much to the look of age on the face.

Hats turned up in front were an introduction of the later summer
season; but they have taken immensely, and will be worn during the
winter, and it is well to remember, nevertheless, that they require
a plump face, for thin cheeks stand no chance at all, in their very
uncompromising lack of shadow.




_The following is sent by an anonymous reader in response to the
address on our Prospectus._--ED.




TO OUR EDITOR.

From his "Garden of Girls."


    Dear friend, you will find in your "garden of girls"
      That not "rosebuds" alone may be seen,
    There the blue-bell of Scotland her petals unfurls,
      And the shamrock her trefoil of green.

    And when through your garden in spirit you roam,
      While the sun in the West slowly pales,
    Soft music will steal on your ear from the home
      Of the murmuring wind-harp of Wales.

    And the song of the harp is the voice of the flowers
      In grateful devotion expressed,
    For a thousand weeks spent to provide them with hours
      With mirth, joy and happiness blest.




THE RULES OF SOCIETY.

BY LADY WILLIAM LENNOX.


PART I.

The following remarks upon the "Rules of Society" are made for the
benefit of those who from one cause or another feel a little uncertain
with respect to the small observances which, although not to be counted
among the weightier matters in life, yet hold no unimportant place
therein, if our daily comfort and well-being are to be considered;
but are, indeed, like oil on the wheels, not absolutely essential to
movement, but making all the difference as regards smoothness or the
reverse.

Life would go on certainly though we were all as rude and uncultivated
as could be--sitting on the ground and tearing our food with our hands
preparatory to gnawing the bones, and speaking the most terrible home
truths to each other without any veil whatever--but it would not be so
pleasant. And as civilisation has progressed, so by degrees a sort
of code of rules--unwritten in some particulars, but none the less
binding--has been evolved very much to the advantage of us all in the
way of preventing roughness in manner and making the great machine
called Society--which is but another name for an assemblage of human
beings--run easily and without friction.

More especially perhaps is an acquaintance with the "code" necessary
to women for their own happiness, sensitive and keen by nature
as they are and painfully aware of the slightest awkwardness;
for, akin to the feeling of discomfort--I may almost say general
disorganisation--produced by the consciousness of having on a
badly-fitting gown, a hideous hat, or a shoe whose beauties are things
of the past, just when there is urgent reason for wishing to look
well, is the sensation of nervous depression brought on by suddenly
awakening to the fact that one does not know quite "how to behave" or
"what to do" in the circumstances of the moment.

I ought, I think, to begin by offering an apology to the many readers
of THE GIRL'S OWN PAPER who have no need of any instruction or hints on
the matter for choosing a subject which always provokes a smile--either
good-natured or cynical--when mentioned, on account doubtless of its
being among those things which everybody is supposed to know. But there
is no occasion for the already enlightened to wade through this paper.
The heading will warn them off, and they can simply skip it all.

Leaving the majority therefore out of the question as in no way
concerned, I address myself to the comparatively few; and, on the
principle of taking the first step before attempting the second, I
begin at the beginning and will try to answer queries which present
themselves to my imagination as likely to be asked if people had the
opportunity of asking them.

We will consider at starting the very ordinary occurrence of a dinner
party about to be given; the invitations being sent out. These
may be formal cards--"Mr. and Mrs. A. request the honour"--or the
pleasure--"of Mr. and Mrs. B's company at dinner on Tuesday, the 8th of
June, at 8 o'clock"--or merely notes--"Dear Mrs. A., will you and Mr.
A. give us the pleasure of your company at dinner on," etc.

In either case the answer must be couched in the same terms as the
invitation, except when, as sometimes happens, the inviter is a near
relative or very intimate friend of the invited, in which event the
formality may be disregarded in favour of a note. "Dear Mrs. B."--or
the Christian name only--"we have great pleasure in accepting your kind
invitation," or "We shall have great pleasure in dining with you," etc.

And here please be careful to notice the difference in the wording, and
avoid a mistake constantly made in letters of this sort. People write,
"I shall have much pleasure in accepting," not considering that the
acceptance refers to the present, and consequently there is no "shall"
about it. But if the phrase runs, "I shall have much pleasure in dining
with you," it is correct because it refers to the dinner which is in
the future.

The date fixed for the party arrives, and you make your appearance
in your host's drawing-room, followed by your daughter--if she was
asked--and then your husband. Never, on any account, go in arm-in-arm.
It is a mistake very seldom made; but, as I have seen it happen
occasionally, it must be mentioned. The old-fashioned arm-in-arm is,
indeed, pretty nearly obsolete, except when actually going down to
dinner or supper, or just through the hall to a carriage. At no other
time, unless in some frightful crowd as a protection, is such a thing
ever witnessed now.

Dinner is announced and you take your seats. With regard to the mode of
eating, it may be roughly laid down that a knife is not to be used when
spoon and fork will do, and a spoon should not be employed if a fork
alone is sufficient. In the case of fish, silver knives are usually
provided, and when they are not it is advisable to use two forks if one
will not quite answer the purpose. Curry, properly cooked, requires no
knife, only spoon and fork. Quails and cutlets, of course, must have
a knife, but many _entrées_ can be perfectly well managed with a fork
alone.

It is hardly necessary, perhaps, to say that under no circumstances
whatever, whether when eating vegetables, cheese, or any other
thing, must a knife approach the mouth. Such an unbecoming as well
as dangerous habit would at once mark the person indulging in it as
standing in need of some little teaching.

On the other hand, we know that "fingers were made before knives and
forks," and custom ordains the exemplification of this adage on certain
occasions. Asparagus is eaten in the primitive manner, and requires
some dexterity in conveying the end of a rather limp stalk to the
mouth. Green artichokes are pulled to pieces leaf by leaf until the
"choke" is reached, when fork and spoon come into requisition, and
uncooked celery, after the thick end has been cut off, is taken up by
the fingers. The fragile pencil-like things called "cheese-straws"
must be eaten in the same manner, for they break if touched by any
implement, and I well remember watching the dire confusion of a woman
who vainly tried to catch some of the straws by pursuing them round
and round her plate with a fork, the only result being a collection of
unattainable splinters.

Some dishes are easy enough to help oneself to, but there are others
which demand cool determination to attack, and care lest a portion land
upon the tablecloth instead of in the plate. We are not all gifted with
the self-possession of Theodore Hook, who, when carving a tough goose
one day let it by chance slip bodily into the lap of his neighbour,
and, turning to the unlucky victim, said severely, "Madam, I will
trouble you for that goose!"

Fortunately for us, the days of carving at table are over, and we have
only to avoid catastrophes with extra hard _vol-au-vents_, infirm
jellies, and pyramids of strawberries.

A story is told of a man who, hopelessly in difficulties as to what
he ought to do, pulled some grapes off their stalks and tried to cut
each berry with a knife. It puts one's teeth on edge to think of the
pips on that occasion, and indeed the idea of steel blades and fruit in
juxtaposition is terrible, except in the case of oranges, when silver
knives create a feeling not far short of desperation.

As regards wine, persons who have come to years of discretion can
observe that discretion as seems good to them; but to those girls who
allow themselves wine, I would advise a small quantity of one kind.
It does not look well to have odds and ends of wine standing in the
various glasses by the side of a girl, neither is it attractive to see
her finish up with liqueur at the end of dinner.

In the matter of introductions there is but little of that now, though,
of course, unless previously acquainted, the man who takes you down to
dinner is first presented to you, and you may be introduced to some
one or other of the guests during the evening; but, especially if the
party be large, it is by no means certain that you will be. In the act
of introduction the name of the person highest in rank--or, if there
is no difference in that respect, then the elder of the two--should be
mentioned first, as "Lady A.--Mrs. B.," not _vice versâ_; and when a
man is presented to a woman there is generally the proviso, "Mrs. B.,
may I introduce Mr. C.?" A woman is not taken up to be introduced to
a man; always he to her, except in the case of royalty, and then the
royal personage has intimated his wish that she should be presented to
him.

A fault very common is not being sufficiently careful to pronounce
clearly the names of individuals when introducing them, and it is
a great oversight, as it prevents the landmarks--if I may so style
them--being visible, which are so necessary in this land, where
relationships run closely through every stratum of society, and it
is almost impossible to go anywhere without finding people either
nearly or distantly connected with each other. We cannot be a sort of
_Bradshaw's Guide_ through the network of lines of kinship, but the
more we understand about it the better, and to know exactly whom one
is speaking to is an undoubted help in that direction, enabling us to
avoid mistakes in conversation which may plant a sting unremovable by
any after-excuse or apology. The only safe course to follow in the
absence of such information is to say nothing but what is favourable
about people or even nations, lest you should wound the feelings of
your neighbour, and oblige him to say hurriedly, "she is my sister" or
"perhaps I had better mention my name," to show that he belongs to the
country about which you have been holding forth in not over-pleasant
terms.

One of the best indeed among the "rules of society" is that which
makes it incumbent on everybody not only to furnish his or her quantum
of wit, humour, general agreeability, or what not, for the amusement
and gratification of the company, but also, by a skilful word or
two, to try and turn the conversation away from any topic likely to
cause violent discussion or uncomfortable feeling; and nothing marks
ignorance of what ought to be done more distinctly than the tactless
introduction or continuation of a subject which, like a hedgehog, is
covered with prickles and sure to hurt somebody.

A word before concluding this paper to those who now and then give
dinners. Not the great banquets in big houses, which are part of the
routine of life, and being perfect in every detail go like clockwork;
but the modest entertainments in small abodes where the infrequency
of "parties" causes some excitement and extra work in the household.
The first thing to be remembered when such an event occurs is not to
attempt more than can be done properly as regards the number of guests
or dishes, and secondly, having settled the quantity and quality of
both, and arranged all things to the best of your ability, to leave
it alone. That is to say, do not let your mind worry and bother about
it, for of all fatal obstacles to the success of a dinner-party,
the irrelevant answers and wandering eye of the hostess, due to her
thoughts being fixed upon the delay in handing the vegetables, or
the non-appearance of a sauce, are the greatest, and moreover call
attention to shortcomings which otherwise might pass unobserved.
Therefore "assume the virtue" of coolness "if you have it not,"
and never allow your neighbour to see that while he is trying to
interest you and make himself agreeable your mind is elsewhere, and
that you have not heard a word of what was said. Remember also that
your business at the time is to be hostess, not cook, footman, or
parlour-maid, and that the more you attend to your own duties, and
do not, to use an expressive word, "fluster" the servants, the more
likely are they to get through their part creditably; and finally do
not forget that an important rule of society forbids the exhibition of
personal annoyances and domestic grievances to our acquaintances or
friends.

(_To be continued._)

[Illustration]




FROM LONDON TO DAMASCUS.


[Illustration: WATER SELLERS, PORT SAID.]

I suppose most girl-readers will understand the thrill of surprise
and delight with which I read the following sentences from a friend's
letter one February morning.

"My uncle thinks I need a change, and suggests my going abroad. Will
you go with me to Palestine for two or three months? We ought to get
off before the warm season begins there. Do you think we could leave
England at the end of this month?" Two or three times I read the words
in a dazed sort of way, and then astonished my hostess (a well-known
contributor to the G.O.P.) by quietly remarking--

"Would you be greatly surprised if I started for the Holy Land in a few
days? Elizabeth N. has asked me to go with her."

"The Holy Land!" echoed Mrs. B. "Do you really mean it?"

For answer, I handed her my letter, and greatly enjoyed the sensation
it created at the breakfast-table.

"How lovely," said kind Mrs. B., "to visit the sacred spots where our
Lord began and ended his ministry. How I wish I was strong enough to go
with you!"

"Shall we order the camels to come round to the front door?" exclaimed
a lively and irreverent member of the family. "I can already picture
you, dear E., riding over the trackless desert (composing poetry under
an umbrella), living in Bedouin tents, and finally being carried off
by a wild Arab chief, on a wild Arab steed, while we at home mourn and
frantically petition the Home Secretary or somebody to institute a
search for the missing English lady."

We all laughed at this ridiculous, unpunctuated speech, and then fell
to discussing the possibilities of eastern travel.

The next post carried my answer to Elizabeth's letter, and in a few
days we were in London making our final arrangements. We decided
from motives of economy to go by long sea, and selected the North
German Lloyd line of steamers because of their excellent second-class
accommodation. We booked our passage to Port Said in the _Prinz
Heinrich_, sailing from Southampton on February 28th.

Our remaining days were fully occupied with business, in the intervals
of which we packed our small portmanteaux (not omitting warm wraps),
got our passports _viséd_ at the Turkish Consulate, and attended to the
hundred and one trifles which seemed to crop up at the last moment.
It was not till we were safely on board the steamer and waving our
good-byes to the friends who had come to see us off, and who were now
returning to shore, that we felt our eastern travels were to become a
reality.

Fair indeed looked the green slopes of the Isle of Wight on that
glorious morning, and as we passed the Needles, many eyes filled with
tears, for the ship was bound for distant China and Japan, and few
of her passengers could hope to look upon Old England again for many
long years. As for us, our hearts were light, and we were eager to go
forward. Not even the unknown terrors of the Bay of Biscay appalled
us. Fortunately it proved most kind. We passed Gibraltar at midnight,
on March 3rd, the wonderful old rock looking awful and mysterious in
the moonlight. Genoa was reached on the 6th, but, alas! heavy rain and
cold winds set in, and the "superb" city did not look tempting enough
to draw us from our comfortable ship for the forty-eight hours we were
tied up in her harbour. There was a general murmur of satisfaction
when the last cargo had been shipped and we were on the move again. As
we entered the bewitching Bay of Naples the weather cleared, and the
sun shone warm and bright. Here we had to wait until the evening for
the mails, and everybody seized this opportunity of going on shore.
How well I remember my sensations of delight as we wandered about the
old streets, admiring the queer, tall, gaily-painted houses and the
quaint bits of picturesque Neapolitan life which we came upon in our
long climb to the top of the old ramparts which overlooked the busy
city. From this height we gazed our fill on the pretty picture. The
lemon trees with the golden fruit shining through the glistening leaves
threw a shade on the irregularly-built houses. Beyond glittered the
glorious bay, dotted with stately vessels and other smaller craft,
while above loomed the giant Vesuvius, his sullen frowns adding a touch
of melancholy to the scene. All too swiftly that dream-like day passed,
and once again we were sailing Eastward Ho!

Wickedly did the fair Mediterranean behave for the next four days,
and wildly did our good ship pitch and toss on those treacherous blue
waves! Those days were days of intense bitterness of spirit, when
to most of us past sorrows and future hopes were forgotten in the
agonising longing for immediate annihilation. But even sea-sickness
yields to time and smooth water, and we had begun to take a more
cheerful view of life when we dropped anchor in Port Said on Sunday
the 13th. Our curiosity was strongly excited, and though we were truly
sorry to say good-bye to our travelling-companions, whose lives had
touched ours for a brief space in pleasant intercourse, we were eager
to get our first glimpse of eastern life. We smiled in quite a superior
manner when an old gentleman, noticing our impatience, remarked
cynically--

"Well, young ladies, if you can find anything pleasing in that
hole"--indicating the town--"I should say your capacity for enjoyment
must be abnormal."

Summoning a boat, whose boatmen bore on their scarlet jerseys the
legend "New Continental Hotel," Elizabeth and I stepped into it and
waved adieu to the good ship _Prinz Heinrich_. We were quickly rowed
ashore, where the hotel guide took our passports, showed them, and
us, to the Turkish official, who courteously handed us over to the
customs-house officers. These gentlemen proved to be equally civil,
evidently seeing nothing suspicious either in us or our modest luggage.
Our formal introduction to Egypt being thus agreeably made, we walked
to the hotel, and were soon seated under the cool verandah, discussing
delicious tea and bread and butter. We ascertained that the steamer
going to Jaffa did not leave before Tuesday evening, so that we had
ample time to become acquainted with Port Said. What an un-Sabbath-like
appearance our novel surroundings presented! Noisy donkey-boys, with
bold inventiveness, were loudly urging the new arrivals to mount
Queen Victoria, Lord Salisbury, Prince Bismarck, Mrs. Langtry, Mrs.
Cornwallis West, etc., for these high-sounding names were tacked on
to the wretched little donkeys. Bare-legged shoe-blacks, with most
engaging smiles, seized your feet and began operations without even a
"By your leave." Importunate blind beggars, whose picturesque garments
were indescribably dirty, demanded _backsheesh_, and according to
the response, poured out a choice selection of blessings or curses
in Arabic, which would have astonished the most accomplished Irish
professor of the same craft. Shrewd, hook-nosed Jewish money-changers
sat in the highway, each before his glass box, which contained a wire
tray covered with a tempting store of bank-notes and coins. These had
doubtless been exchanged at an exorbitant rate of interest for Turkish
money. Black men, white men, brown men, yellow men in their native
dress, sat drinking coffee and playing backgammon and dominoes in the
open street, or walked leisurely along the road. It was a strange,
fascinating scene, unlike anything we had witnessed before, and the
ubiquitous bicycle as it flashed by with its British rider failed to
break the charm.

Towards evening we strolled into the town, where we discovered an
English "Sailors' Rest." We opened the door, and following the sound
of voices, boldly walked upstairs. In an upper room knelt twenty Jack
Tars, who had come in from one of her Majesty's ships lying in the
harbour. Very hearty and refreshing were the simple prayers uttered by
the men. Only too well they knew the dangers and temptations of a shore
life. We heard afterwards from the gentle lady who presided at this
gathering how that bright little room, with its books and pictures,
and, above all, the presence of kindly friends, had proved a haven of
peace to many of our British sailors, for whom the perils of the ports
are more terrible than the perils of the deep. On our return we found
letters from our friends in Jaffa, telling of unprecedented storms
visiting the coast, and reminding us, that unless the present wind
went down, we should find it impossible to land. In the event of this
happening, the only other alternative was to go on to Beyrout, and from
thence to Damascus by rail. This plan did not commend itself to us in
the least, for we particularly wished to begin our Palestine wanderings
from Jaffa, and also we desired to consult our friends there as to the
best routes, and other important items relating to our tour. It was no
use grumbling, however, and as we could not arrange the weather to our
liking, we wisely agreed to let it alone, hoped that all would be well,
and that we should yet enter Jaffa with a fair breeze and in smooth
water.

Two days served to satisfy our curiosity and exhaust for us the
delights of Port Said; therefore we were not sorry when Tuesday night
arrived, and we were once more on board a ship, which we trusted would
bring us in a few hours to our desired haven.

Before the sun rose next morning we were straining our eyes towards
the dim coast-line. Presently the compact little town of Jaffa came
in sight, and before long our last fear about landing was set at
rest, for we saw the boats putting off from the surf-beaten shore
and racing one another towards our ship. In one of them sat our
missionary friends coming out to meet us, delightedly waving their
pocket-handkerchiefs. On board the steamer wild excitement prevailed.
Travellers were hunting for lost luggage, or rushing distractedly
hither and thither, while everybody seemed to be talking at once in
unknown tongues, making confusion worse confounded. In the midst of
it all our friends managed to find us, and gave us a warm welcome to
Palestine. They kindly undertook all the difficulties connected with
the customs and passports. A porter was secured, who seized our boxes
and wraps, and promptly disappeared. We wondered whether we should ever
see them again, but our friends said they would turn up all right. We
then joined the group of nervous passengers who were being encouraged
to jump into the boat below. I don't remember how we managed it, but
I think we blindly took the "leap" at the right moment. Anyway, we
discovered ourselves unhurt on the top of a big trunk, which swayed
perilously with our weight. Passengers and luggage were hopelessly
mixed up, but we were delighted to find all our party together. At
last we were off, and in a short time the dangerous reefs were passed
safely, but we were on the Jaffa beach, the dreaded landing having been
accomplished without any accident.

We were now marched through the Customs House into a narrow lane, muddy
from recent rains; here we had to wait until our baggage was examined.
An hour or more elapsed before we and our belongings came together
again. Occasionally we would see a portmanteau, which we knew to be
ours, rapidly vanishing in an opposite direction; then ensued a lively
dialogue in Arabic between the porter and one of our missionaries,
which ended by the disputed article being brought and placed near at
hand, to await the arrival of the remainder. I may mention that the
Jaffa porters are veritable Samsons. They carry with the greatest ease
a couple of boxes, one of which would break the back of an ordinary
London porter. We were told of one who carried a grand piano bodily on
his back from one house to another, a distance of several hundred yards.

[Illustration: LANDING AT JAFFA.]

We were greatly interested in our muddy lane. The scene was so truly
oriental that it is worth describing, though the vivid colouring and
the intensely blue sky must be left to the imagination. Turbaned
merchants, indifferent alike to puddles and slush, sat on little
straw-covered stools smoking the hookah, or hubble-bubble, in the
dignified leisurely manner of the East. Hawkers carrying huge
brass trays, filled with curious cakes and sweetmeats, cried their
wares. Water-sellers, with their uninviting-looking goat skins slung
across their shoulders, went to and from the well. Moslem ladies
thickly veiled, and covered from head to foot with a white sheet,
stopped to look at the new arrivals. Fellaheen women, their faces
uncovered, did their marketing, grave Syrian gentlemen, tall powerful
Abyssinians, Jews with lovelocks on each side of their faces, graceful
Levantines, stately Persians, fair-complexioned Armenians, long-haired,
black-bearded Greek priests, shaven Latin priests, pilgrims from many
lands on their way to the Holy City, stopped to exchange greetings, or
passed on with a brief salaam.

Strings of camels, laden with oranges, ambled by, their long necks
bobbing from side to side, their "melting" eyes looking such
unutterable things--we felt quite drawn to the creatures. Afterwards,
when we knew the camel better, we liked him less, and ended by
accepting Mr. Kipling's unflattering estimate of him, who--

          "When all is said and done,
    Is a devil, and an ostrich, and an orphan child in one."

Swift little donkeys, and gaily caparisoned Arab horses, ridden by
resplendent-looking Arabs, pushed their way unceremoniously through the
crowds. We noticed that nearly all the animals were decorated with blue
bead necklaces, or else one or two beads were tied to their tails or
forelocks. These are believed to act as a charm against the "evil eye."
Mothers fasten these charms to their children's hair, and it is neither
safe nor wise for a "Frangi"--as the European is called--to look
admiringly on either child or beast, for fair-haired, blue-eyed people
are credited with possessing special power of casting the evil eye.

During our week's stay in Jaffa, as guests of our missionary friends,
we had exceptional opportunities of seeing the country and the inner
life of its people. Most travellers leave the same day they arrive,
going up to Jerusalem by the afternoon train, and carrying away the
impression that Jaffa is a dirty, uninteresting town. We found
our days all too short, there was so much to see and hear. Several
afternoons were spent in the famous orange gardens, or _bayaras_, and
very grateful was the shade of the trees even in March. The scent of
the flowers and fruit fills the air; indeed, in certain winds, it is
wafted miles away out to sea. We often had boughs of this delicious
fruit presented to us. To eat it seemed almost a crime; the oranges
looked so beautiful hanging amid their shining leaves and silver
blossom. We were constantly reminded of the appropriateness of
Solomon's simile, as we listened to the courteous speech of our Arab
friends, accompanied by pleasant smiles. "A word fitly spoken is like
oranges[A] of gold in pictures of silver."

Within the last few years Jaffa has shown a desire for progress. The
thrift and prosperity of the German and Jewish colonies are teaching
the Arabs the value of commercial intercourse with other nations, as
well as the best methods of cultivating their land. The missionaries
are also doing much towards civilising the people, by teaching the
gospel, and opening schools for the children, where they learn
invaluable lessons to carry back to their homes.

The English hospital is also another proof of missionary zeal, and
brings the fellaheen from distant villages into touch with skilful
hands and loving service, unknown and undreamt of by these poor men
and women; for the Moslem is a fatalist; his religion makes him one.
If his favourite wife or child dies, he accepts it without emotion, as
being "God's will." If he is ill himself he takes little or no pains to
seek remedies; his illness is "from God." I heard of a man who went on
pilgrimage to Mecca last year. He was sincerely attached to his wife,
and allowed her to accompany him as a very special mark of his favour.
After five months' absence he returned, having exchanged his ordinary
turban for the sacred green one, and resumed his interrupted work. One
day he called at the house of a friend of ours. She inquired after his
wife's welfare, and received the unexpected answer, "The Prophet had
need of her, and I left her in the desert." It seems that the poor woman
fell ill on the long journey, but with an unusual display of affection
her husband cared for her until she recovered. She again became sick,
and this second attack convinced him "that the Prophet wanted her," and
allowing fatalism and superstition to stifle the feelings of humanity,
he left her in the desert to die, where, in a few hours, the vultures
were feeding on the poor dead body.

We visited the prison one morning, and saw the wretched prisoners
huddled together, in cells like cages, ranged round an open courtyard.
Eager hands were thrust through the bars, and cries of "_backsheesh_"
filled the air. One of the "cages" was called the blood prison, in
which several murderers were imprisoned; they clamoured with the rest
for money. We looked with pity upon the miserable creatures, for we
were told that it was quite possible most of them had not committed the
crimes of which they were accused, but that private spite and intrigue
had brought them there, where they would probably remain, unless large
bribes were paid for their release.

Another day, as we were riding across the plain of Sharon, we were much
amused at seeing a camel ploughing. He strode along, ostrich fashion,
with his most supercilious air, pulling behind him a ridiculous little
plough of primitive make. He looked so irresistibly funny that we burst
out laughing. In other parts of the country we saw camels and oxen
yoked together, but more generally the latter animals only. Ploughing
would seem to be but a pastime in Syria. The soil is so rich and
fertile that it only needs turning over slightly, when the seed dropped
into the furrows springs up in a marvellously short time and yields a
rich harvest.

We had many discussions with our friends about plans for further
travel. Eventually we decided to go to Jerusalem, and while there
engage an experienced dragoman to accompany us through Judea, Samaria
and Galilee. We made up our minds to go alone, and avoid tourist routes
and tourist parties. Though this decision was thought somewhat rash, we
had no occasion to regret it.

    S. E. B.

[Illustration]

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote A: Prov. XXV. II, "apples" in our translation being now
generally thought to mean "oranges." The former fruit is not cultivated
in Palestine.]




THE GIRL'S OWN QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS COMPETITION.


_Readers will find full particulars of this Competition--in which
everyone has a chance of winning either a prize or a certificate, and
the certainty of largely adding to her stock of information--by turning
back to page 14._


QUESTIONS 25-36.

25. Who was the monarch who once attended a rehearsal of his own
funeral?

       *       *       *       *       *

26. What is the largest palace in the world used as a residence?

       *       *       *       *       *

27. What is the exercise most conducive to physical beauty?

       *       *       *       *       *

28. What was the first street ever lit by gas?

       *       *       *       *       *

29. How fast can one read, when reading silently?

       *       *       *       *       *

30. What famous philanthropist was known as the "Nightingale of the
House of Commons"?

       *       *       *       *       *

31. How many hours a day should we give to sleep?

       *       *       *       *       *

32. What is the most famous signal ever made to the British navy?

       *       *       *       *       *

33. What useful discovery was made by lighting a fire on the sand
and using pieces of natron (sub-carbonate of soda) to support the
cooking-pot?

       *       *       *       *       *

34. What are the "Borrowed Days" and how do they come by their name?

       *       *       *       *       *

35. What is the simplest and least troublesome of all cookery processes?

       *       *       *       *       *

36. Are there any extinct volcanoes in Great Britain?

The answers to the above questions, Nos. 25-36, together with the
answers to questions 37-48, which are yet to appear, must be sent in on
or before January 27, 1899.

Address to THE EDITOR, THE GIRL'S OWN PAPER Office, 56, Paternoster
Row, London, E.C., and at the left-hand top corner of the envelope or
wrapper write the words "QUESTIONS COMPETITION."




OUR NEW PUZZLE POEM.


[Illustration]

⁂ PRIZES to the amount of six guineas (one of which will be reserved
for competitors living abroad) are offered for the best solutions of
the above Puzzle Poem. The following conditions must be observed.

1. Solutions to be written on one side of the paper only.

2. Each paper to be headed with the name and address of the competitor.

3. Attention must be paid to spelling, punctuation, and neatness.

4. Send by post to Editor, GIRL'S OWN PAPER, 56, Paternoster Row,
London. "Puzzle Poem" to be written on the top left-hand corner of the
envelope.

5. The last day for receiving solutions from Great Britain and Ireland
will be December 17, 1898; from Abroad, February 16, 1899.

       *       *       *       *       *

The competition is open to all without any restrictions as to sex or
age. No competitor will be awarded more than one First Prize during the
year (November 1898 to October 1899), but the winner of a Second Prize
may still compete for a first. Not more than one First and one Second
Prize will be sent to any one address during the year.

       *       *       *       *       *

A CONSOLATION PRIZE of one guinea will be awarded to the competitor,
not a prize-winner, who shall receive the highest number of marks
during the year for Mention. Very Highly Commended to count 10 marks;
Highly Commended to count 7 marks; Honourable Mention to count 5 marks.

This will be an encouragement to all who take an interest in the
puzzles and who cannot quite find their way into the front rank of
solvers.



ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.


STUDY AND STUDIO.

L. COX.--We cannot answer any queries through the post, although we
feel sympathy with you in your aims and desires. By all means carefully
plan out your spare time. We should advise you to attend classes at the
nearest Polytechnic or "Continuation School" for cookery, needlework,
and also for as many as possible of the other subjects you mention.
Read what you can as well; but you will find the influence of a
teacher's mind upon your own a great advantage and help. Conviction of
ignorance is the first step to improvement.

ROSALIND.--1. You need not be in despair about your handwriting. If
you would make shorter tails to your _y_'s, etc., it would look far
better. The only way to improve is daily to copy some model you admire,
and take great pains, keeping a uniform space between your lines. Your
letters might be larger and bolder with advantage.--2. Your poems show
an attentive and observant eye for nature. "A Summer Evening" is the
better of the two poems. "Petals loosened from the rose of dawn," in
"The Golden Day," is a pretty fancy. We do not like "silver showers of
dewdrops," and "golden floods of music." Be on your guard against too
flowery a style.

EXCELSIOR.--We are afraid to encourage you to depend on any kind of
literary work for gaining a livelihood. Writing for the press is a
profession like other professions, and needs training and practice
before success can be hoped for. If you sent a specimen of your
original composition, we could advise you more definitely; but there
are vast numbers who wish to earn by their pen, and the competition is
consequently keen.

FLORA D.--1. Certainly your writing is "good enough for you to be a
clerk." It is legible and neat.--2. Why do you not send in the essays
you write on the stories? Very likely one might some day win a prize,
and it would at any rate be a pleasure to read such clearly-written
manuscript as yours.

HETTY SPIER.--There is the "Crystal Palace Choir," and the "Handel
Festival Choir." Address for particulars of either, the Secretary of
that choir, Crystal Palace, and you will hear all particulars. These
are nearer to you than any other. But if you write, enclosing a stamp,
to the Secretary of any choir you see advertised as performing at a
concert, you will be sure to have a reply. We can never promise an
answer as quickly as you desire to have yours.

O MIMOSA SAN.--1. We do not undertake to read character by photographs
or handwriting, though we can criticise the latter.--2. We will insert
your request.

JAM-TART.--We have read your poem with much interest. The thoughts you
describe are those that are wont to assail lonely hours of wakefulness
at night; but we are glad you can adopt a different strain at the
close. You have occasionally a felicitous turn of expression, as, for
instance--

    "Why bow before Life's tyrant, Care,
    And meekly take his sorry fare
      Unsweetened by a jest?"

We should certainly advise you to practise your pen when you feel the
impulse to do so.

LILY JONES.--The two verses you enclose express a feeling we can well
understand, but they are written in rather halting metre. Each line
should have the same cadence as this one--

    "How sweetly thou speakest to me";

but you will perceive that

    "Brings a sense of happy relief"

differs in rhythm.

INQUIRER.--The error we pointed out is exactly the same whether the
words come together or not. You make "thou" the nominative to "doth"
in the two lines you quote; and this is incorrect. You should study
grammar.

BANGALORE.--1. We are pleased to be able to say that the tune you send
us is a charming one. Certainly it is "worth teaching to Sunday School
children," and is quite good enough for publication.--2. The verses you
send us are touching and unusual, considering that they were written by
a child of six, seriously ill.

FRANCES M. VENABLES.--We have acknowledged your information elsewhere.
You will find your quotation--

    "Guard well thy thoughts, for thoughts are heard in heaven"--

in Young's _Night Thoughts_, Book ii., line 94.

LABORE OMNIA FLORENT.--1. Your handwriting is very good indeed. The
aspect of your letter would be improved if you would not leave a margin
at the end of your lines.--2. Your verses are very fairly good. There
is nothing original in "Love," or "Duty." "Lines to a friend" are the
best. We are a little reminded of Christina Rossetti's poem--

    "Does the road wind up-hill all the way?
        Yes, to the very end"--

though of course the subject is entirely different.


OUR OPEN LETTER BOX.

MISS ALMA TÀTRA LOMNICZ, Villa Rodakowski, Sygresse, Hungary, wants
to know if any reader will exchange a copy or large photograph of
Burne-Jones's picture, "Cherubs," for one by the popular Tyrolese
painter, Defregger.

MISS M. DIXON informs Black Luffy that "An Advent Serenade" is in
Harper's _Young People_ for 1885, and offers to send a copy of the poem
on application to her at The Woodlands, Cragg Vale, near Mytholmroyd.

We have three replies to ADELAIDE from HELEN A. MANNING, LABORE OMNIA
FLORENT, and FRANCES M. VENABLES. All enclose the poem by Mrs. Norton,
asked for, and MISS VENABLES suggests that the first line is:

    "Word was brought to the Irish king."

WINIFRED A. GRIFFITHS thanks the correspondents who so kindly came to
her aid about "The Voiceless Chimes."


INTERNATIONAL CORRESPONDENCE.

O MIMOSA SAN (Russia?) would like to exchange post-cards with views
with anyone who collects them.

JANE W. BARR, Fortune Villa, St. Andrews, would be much obliged if
MADEMOISELLE MARIE GUISE would send her correct address, as the letter
MISS BARR wrote was returned.

MISS D'ROZARIO, c/o The Postmaster, Bangalore, India, wishes FRIEND
STUDIO to have this address, and to know that MISS D'ROZARIO will be
very glad to write to her.

The COUNTESS BLANCHE DE FORESTIER, Austria, writes a kind letter to say
she has found two correspondents through our paper.

MABEL SWALLOW, Huthwaite House, Thurgoland, near Sheffield, would like
very much to correspond with a French girl of about her own age (14).

ALICE A. COWAN, 30, Gauden Road, Clapham, S.W., would like a German
correspondent about her own age (20) or a little younger.




OUR SUPPLEMENT STORY COMPETITIONS.

STORIES IN MINIATURE.


A SAILOR'S BRIDE.


FIRST PRIZE (£2 2s.).

Florence Makin, Sheffield.


SECOND PRIZE (£1 1s.).

Una, Worlingworth, Wickham Market.


THIRD PRIZE (10s. 6d.).

Margaret Moscrop, Saltburn-by-the-Sea.


HONOURABLE MENTION.

Conor, Bonchurch, Isle of Wight; Esperance, Bridge of Allan; E. C.
Harding, Dorking; Eleanor L. Harding, Dorking; Mary Lilla Harriss,
Hackney, N.E.; Edythe Hoare, Leamington, Spa; Janet B. Imrie, Castle
Douglas; Letitia E. May, Alton, Hants.; Mayfield, Llandaff; Annie S.
Murphy, Tullow; Cecile Rahier, Brest, France; Ruby Smiley, Ballyclare,
co. Antrim; Eva M. Waldren, Basingstoke; Wild-Thyme, Edinburgh; May
Adèle Venn, W. Kensington Park.


TO THE COMPETITORS.

MY DEAR GIRLS,--Let me thank you all very much for the many pleasant
pages I have read.

In reading your essays, I have fancied that there are some future
story-tellers among you, who will be ready to take up our pens when we
lay them aside.

In every phase of life we see that all cannot be successful at the same
time; but such competitions as these bring eventual success to the
strong ones, who have faith and courage to try again. I feel sure that
"miniature" _handwriting_ was not a feature of the competition! and
hope that in other efforts no young eyes will be so cruelly taxed as
some have been in this.

My warmest wishes for the future success of those not successful
to-day; and congratulations to the winners.

    Your cordial friend,
        MINNIE DOUGLAS.


THE BACK OF BEYOND.


FIRST PRIZE (£2 2s.).

Annie E. Mellor, Hereford.


SECOND PRIZE (£1 1s.).

Annie Ascough, Scarborough.


THIRD PRIZE (10s. 6d.).

Helen Rickards, Dixton Vicarage, Monmouth.


HONOURABLE MENTION.

"Hermia," Colchester; Janet M. Pugh, Towyn; Louisa A. M. Mathew,
Beckenham; Mary F. Howard, Oxford; Amy Miller, Brixton Hill; J. Ebdell,
Wakefield; Nellie Cobham, Folkestone; Kate Kelsey, Bristol; Minnie
Highton, Norwood; "Greta," Manchester; Lottie L. Creighton, Gorey; L.
Harper, Belfast; Ada Browning, Limehouse, E.; Effie Mackintosh, Instow;
Abigail Binns, Rochdale; Jessie Hickling, Sydenham; Mrs. Evelyn Upton,
West Brighton; C. Winifred Dyer, Wandsworth; "Shamrock," Hyde Park;
Annie F. Hepple, North Shields; Alice J. E. Mosley, Wentworth; Sophie
Gardner, Richmond Hill; J. B. C., Fauldhouse; Lilian A. G. Slade,
Crewkerne; H. Marjory Ingle, Ely; Eleanor Mary Ralls, Bridport; Maud
Wilson, Belfast; C. Winifred James, Crown Hill; Margaret Christina
Haynes, Bristol.


TO THE COMPETITORS.

MY DEAR GIRLS,--As summaries, your stories could hardly have been
better. It is clear that, in organising the Competition, the Editor
has been doing real educational work. You are acquiring a selective
faculty: you are learning to distinguish between the detail and the
design. Practice--this sounds arithmetical--is teaching you proportion.
This critical power will stand you in good stead--in life as well as in
letters.

But on some other points I cannot be quite so congratulatory. There
is a good deal of adventurous spelling, and there is much distracted
punctuation. Many of the miniatures are nearly large enough for family
portraits.

And, while the stories are admirable skeletons, they seem--as skeletons
are apt to prove in society--a little deficient in ease and grace,
jerky and unpersuasive. Some, I am almost afraid, are rather dry, and
even a little dull.

Girls, don't you think that, in dealing with a tale that was meant as
a concession to the holiday spirit--a little interlude between more
serious efforts--you might have accepted with less reserve the Editor's
invitation to be bright?

And I should like to see you aiming at some distinction of style. Some
of the stories reminded me of telegrams, some of strings of beads.
Still, a good many are crisp and neat, and a few have quite a pretty
touch.

The winner of the first prize, I must add, came very near to being
disqualified on account of her sugared and beguiling words. On full
reflection, however, her paper being much the best in point of
sprightliness and _verve_, I decided, after making a conscientiously
wry face, to absorb the saccharine matter. But, another time, she must
not put bouquets on the judge's table.

With congratulations to many, and hearty thanks to all,

    Ever most truly yours,
        FREDERICK LANGBRIDGE.


⁂ Unfortunately we have no space for printing the first prize essays
this month.--

.




SPECIAL NOTICE TO OUR READERS.


[Illustration: RUTH LAMB.]

We earnestly desire all our subscribers to read our new Supplement Story

    "FRIEND OR SELF"

issued simultaneously with this monthly part. As a guarantee of its
interest and value it is enough to state that the writer of it is the
girls' special favourite--Ruth Lamb, author of "In the Twilight Side
by Side." In order that the beautiful story shall be well read and
enjoyed, and the high teaching of it have its effect, we offer three
prizes of TWO GUINEAS, ONE GUINEA, and HALF-A-GUINEA for the three best
papers on it. The essays are to give a brief account of the plot and
action of the story in the Competitor's own words; in fact, each paper
should be a carefully-constructed _Story in Miniature_, telling the
reader in a few bright words what THE GIRL'S OWN STORY SUPPLEMENT for
the month is all about.

One page of foolscap only is to be written upon, and is to be signed
by the writer, followed by her full address, and posted to The Editor,
GIRL'S OWN PAPER, in an unsealed envelope, with the words "Stories in
Miniature" written on the left-hand top corner. Writers are cautioned
against too small handwriting.

The last day for receiving the papers is November 19th; and no papers
can in any case be returned.

_Examiners:_--The Author of the Story (Ruth Lamb), and the Editor of
THE GIRL'S OWN PAPER, who will send certificates signed by themselves
to all those obtaining Prizes and Honourable Mention.








*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GIRL'S OWN PAPER, VOL. XX, NO. 983, OCTOBER 29, 1898 ***


    

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