Newspaper Page Text
»,' h: \i ,• •t' 1 1*1 |t v-f I I fl l! •tfi :||1 '4M 1 Y, ii i?5s»v Si IN SPITE OF Two of Mrs. Mortimer's excellent guests, gentlemen, were lolling in the imoking-room this lovely summer's tnorning, pulKug lazily at their cigars is they endeavored to while away the time between breakfast and dinner in conversation and smoke. One of them, who had just languidly Informed his companion that his very marked attention to Isabel Wliyte, his hostess's pretty but impecunious ttiece, was naught but "a little flirta tion," was a tall, handsome man of about thirty years of age, with that un mistakable air of distinction which travel and good breeding stamp indelibly upon the face of those whom fickle for tune favors with her smiles. Leonard Ashley was a thorough man of the world. The room in which the two men sat smoking opened through wide, French windows on to the lawn, but on account of the heat of the morning sun the tian blinds Avere in his 3L If Vene drawn and the view of the garden shut oil". "Well, well, old boy, amuse yourself, if you are not in any deeper than a bit of a flirtation," said Tom Mayne, after his friend's drawling reply to a little at tempted advice. "But I tell you, old fellow, it looks extremely like an old fashioned courtship to outsiders, and the aunt has got her eye on it, and ap pears well satisfied with the turn affairs are apparently taking. There will be quite a 'cut up' in that quarter when pou throw her over, and you had better take my advice and do it easy com mence now and cool off by stages, for you can't carry it much further without soming to some understanding. Oh, by the way, is the girl flirting too? Quite bright little thing, she. Pity there's not a penny in the family that's the only drawback to her making a man a very clever little wife but of course as it is, it's quite out of the question." "Quite," drawled Ashley, lighting a cresli cigar. "Let's go down to the river And have a paddle before dinner," and the subject of Isabel Wliyte was blown away smoke, as he lazily rose from chair and walked to the window leading to the lawn. As Ashley drew up the blinds and stepped out on to the terrace, a white muslin bustled round the corner of the building out of sight. "Will Mr. Ashley join us at tennis this afternoon?" It was Isabel who spoke, looking up brightly into the face of Leonard Ash ley, who sat next her at luncheon. Pretty little Isabel, whose penniless virtues as a rich man's wife had been weighed in the balance and found want ing, was gazing into the eyes of the man •who was playing with her heart, with lier innocent, trusting, captivated soul looking out through hers. "With all my heart, Miss Whyte, if I may play as your partner." She blushed her assent, with her blue eyes fixed on her plate. The game that afternoon must have proved remarkablv pleasant to Isabel, wliqse flushed and eager face beamed •with enjoyment and satisfaction as she accompanied Leonard across the lawn after having been ignominiouslv de feated in five games. Victory did not seem to be necessary to complete their happiness, however, for even Ashley showed an unusual earnestness as he walked by the side of Isabel with the racquets slung over his shoulder, and his tall form bent slightly, as ho talked in low tones to the girl. His languid expression had given way to one of pleasure, and his handsome eyes snapped in away that was in sharp -contrast with his usual languor. "Remember, Isabel," he whispered, as he parted with her at the house, "I am to have all the dances this evening!" "Yes, all." With a tell-tale blush she sped up the Btairs. Leonard walked thoughtfully off to his apartment, a mixture of strange feelings creating a turmoil in his heart. When he reached his room, before -changing his toilet for the evening, he threw oft his coat and hastily seating himself at writing table began hurried ly a letter. He never ceased until the task which was a long one, was com pleted, except now and then to pause for a moment to find some suitable ex pression, for the wording of the epistle appeared to need considerable care. He finished it at last, and carefully folding it placed it in an envelope,which he superscribed in his best hand: "Wilfred Ashton, Esq., the Pines, Devon." "There, uncle mine, this will be a little surprise for you at dinner to-mor-^ row." With these words he laid the letter upon the table and began with unusual care to arrange his evening dress. "Come, Isabel, out here the moon light is beautiful, and the air sweet with the June flowers. We have ample time to enjoy a walk among the shrubbery •oefore the next dance. The breeze will cool you your face is flushed and heat ed. Besides," he whispered, bending tenderly over her, "I have something to tell you which can be said better un der the stars and in the silvery moon light. Come." A strange gleam came into Isabel's eyes which Leonard did not see, and the thin lips were set in a straight line but without a word she slipped her arm through his, and they moved out to gether into the glorious night. For some moments they walked on among the trees and plants of the excel lently kept park, without either speak ing. He seemed nervous and ill at ease, apparently seeking for words to express his thoughts. She was waiting. "Isabel," he said, finally, suddenly finding his voice as they reached a rus tic bench at a remote part of the gar den. "Isabel sit here a moment, the moon is bright here, and I want you to read a letter I have written this after noon. Will vou?" "Certainly. Mr. Ashley if you desire me to." She spoke as though she felt no inter est in this letter or its contents, and the1 tone was so different from her usual childish, affectionate style, that Leon ard looked quickly at her. She was not looking at him but straight ahead into the bushes at the other side of the path, and an oppression of mingled pain and triumph, alike unusnal to her, filled her oyes. He did not see this, and taking the envelope from his pocket, which he had directed to his uncle that afternoon and left unsealed, he took the letter from it aud handed it to her, "Read it." As he spoke all traces of his custom ary languid, careless manner left him, and his eyes sparkled with inward ex citement as he eagerly watched her un fold and read the letter. In an undertone, half aloud and half to herself, she read without changing her set expression: "DEAR UNCLE,—I have changed my plans somewhat since I last talked with you, when you desired and I acquisced, that I should pay my court to the daughter of your old friend. As I say, since then my plans are altered, and feeling that you are now my nearest liv ing relative, it is right you should know of my intentions. The amount of it all is I have given my heart into the keep ing of Miss Isabel Whyte, who has yielded to my love, and consented to be come the wife of your affectionate nephew, LEONARD. "P. S.—Let us hear from you." As Isabel finished Leonard dropped on ltis knee, aud taking her hands,cried, quickly,— "Isabel, darling! may I send it? Will you give me the right? Say you will, dear. See I am waiting. You love me, you do love me, I have seen it in your eyes and in your words. Speak, Isabel do not look so cold and calm!" She turned her eyes upon him, still with that strange expression, and, with a half smile, said,— "Would not that be carrying the joke a trifle too far, Mr. Ashley'?" "Joke?" gasped Ashley. "What do you mean, Isabel? You cannot think I am speaking in jest!" "I mean, Mr. Ashley, that the old gentleman, your uncle, would probably echo the sentiments of your friend, Mr. Mayne, and yourself, that I might make a man a very clever little wife, only there is not a penny in the family and, of course, as it is, it is quite out of the question, quite! And not having any personal ill-feeling against your uncle, I must decline to make him the subject of so practical a joke, aud possibly put him thoroughly out of humor with his excellent nephew, all on account of 'a little flirtation'!" As she finished speaking she rose to her feet, her lips set, and her eyes flash ing with indignation. Ashley said not a word. He felt the sting of his own words and was silent. The conversation which had occurred in the morning when he was yet strug gling with the love which this girl had planted in his heart even during what with him was but a flirtation, but with her a cruel reality until his cruel words had undeceived her, came quickly be fore him, and he knew that he had lost her and oh! how doubly precious she seemed now that all hope of winning her had fled! He could not unsay those careless words which had so hopelessly wounded her sensitive soul, though he scarcely believed in the truth of them at the time. He knew that even if she had loved him that love was dead, or her womanly pride would henceforth smother it within lier. He had no word to say, and bowed his head as she swept by him with a quiet nod. She did not re-enter the drawing room, but went at once to her apart ment, where as soon as she had closed and locked the door, she threw herself upon the bed, in the agony of her heart found a vent in tears. "Oh, how I loved him!" she sobbed aloud. "How I loved him!" and then with anew burst of tears she wailed: "And now, even now, I love him, but I cannot forgive those cruel words." "Really, Mr. Ashley, this is very sud den. Cannot your business be put off for a week or more? or better still, can not Mr. Mortimer, who goes up to town to-day, attend to it for you?" inquired the fair hostess, at the breakfast-table, when Leonard had made known his intention of leaving«that morning. "Thanks, Mrs. Mortimer, but unhap pily the nature of my business requires my personal attendance. I am extreme ly sorry to have to shorten my stay, which you have rendered so enjoyable that it is a pain to have to leave." "Well, at least you will lunch with us on the cliffs as proposed, and I will have you driven direct from there to the station in time for the afternoon train." "I shall lie only too happy to enjoy the few extra hours in your society," answered Leonard, politely bow ing to Mrs. Lorrimer, and casting a cov ert glance at Isabel, who still retained her place beside him, having no reason able excuse for changing it. As he left the table he paused behind her chair a moment, and then with a sud den movement as though having nerved himself to speak, he bent over lier. "Miss Whvte," he said, 'will you go "Not this morning," she answered coldly. "I have a headache! I may join them after lunch, when the sun is not so hot." She was avoiding him. He felt a sharp pain in his heart, but still persist ing, he continued: "In a week I shall be on the ocean, Miss Whyte will you not grant me one favor before I go. Eor the sake of my —friendship if nothing else?" She did not answer, but bowed her head assentinglv. "Go this morning to the cliffs." Once more she nodded without a word, and be was forced to leave her thus. She felt that, for all, he loved her now. and he was,going away for that love. She know she loved him— loved him with all her strong, womanly heart but her pride had been wounded, and through that very love, and now she could not own it. though she felt he was suffering deeply for the wound he had inflicted. What could he want? Was he going to renew his attentions at the cliff? She almost wished he would, for she felt her love could not hold out SJA*KKS: against his pleading. No, he felt his position too keenly for his pride to al low him to recur to the subject again. Pride was widening the breach between two hearts which a flirtation had com menced. The cliff was a picturesque spot, and no more charming place could bo select ed for a picnic or outdoor lunch. It overlooked the river about fifty feet above the level of the water, and shady trees grew almost on the verge. Isabel was looking thoughtfully over into the river, seated on a low flat stone, when Leonard joined her. "Miss Whyte!" She looked up quickly her face was pale and intensely sad, but she never started or changed color as her eves met his. She had been thinking of him he had been filling her thoughts. Why should his appearance startle lier? "Miss Whyte,"hecontinued, "I asked you to come here to-day that I might say a few words to you before I went away that I could not in justico to my self leave unsaid. I will not detain you long, n£r will I repeat anything which may pain you. First, for the words which you must have heard between myself and Mayne, I sincerely ask your pardon. I will not attempt to excuse them except to tell you that even love of you was unknowingly filling my heart. I know that since then vou intentionally led me on that you might all the more surely strike your blow. I have no word or fault to find, I bow to your indignation, but for all that is past, I love you now, deeply, devotedly, with all my heart. My own words are my own shame. I could not go away without telling you this. Now, farewell." He held out his hand as ho spoke his face was pale and set. She took his hand mechanically, with out meeting his eyes or speaking a word. He stood a moment, then, with a sigh, turned away and was gone. For some time Isabel did not move, but remained sitting wlieA she was, with her eyes looking unseeminglv out over the river then, with a little moan, she sank on the grass and buried her face in her lianbs. "Oh, Leonard! Leonard!"she.sobbed, "come back to me!" But Leonard Ashley was long since out of hearing, and once more her pride had ruled her heart. But he was not destined to leave her so. When Isabel had dried her eyes, and quieted lier beating heart sufficiently to meet the rest of her party again, Ash lev had driven away to the station behind Mrs. Mortimer's lovely pair of greys. The remainder of the afternoon passed like a dream to Isabel lier heart and brain were both numbed with a dull, aching pain, until as the merry party were driving homeward, when the sun was slowly disappearing amid crimson clouds in the west, a man on horseback, driving like a madman met them. Even the sight of this rider tear ing along towards them, which immedi ately interested the balance of the party did not arouse the girl from her lethar gy until he wheeled up alongside the carriage, and gasping for breath which he had ridden out, cried to Mrs. Morti mer: "An accident marm! The greys bolted—Mr. Ashley at the house dead!" At the mention of Leonard's name Is abel came out of her stupor, sat upright in the carriage, her pale face now actu ally livid then came a heartrending shriek, and she fainted. But bad news is always easily exag gerated, and when the pleasure party arrived home, they did not find Leonard Ashley dead, although he had a narrow escape, and lay bleeding and insensible in the drawing-room. The horses had become frightened and unmanageable at the sight of the railway, and running had thrown Markliam out against a post on the side of the road, and cutting an ugly gash in the back of his head, and rendering him with his black blood- mat ted hair and ghastly face, decidedly corpse-like in appearance but on the ar rival of the doctor they removed him to the apartment he had occupied, and made him as comfortable as human skill could, though he breathed heavily, and consciousness did not return. The doctor would say nothing de cisive when he had done everything in his power for the time, and was about to go, except shake his li^td gravely but poor, pale Isabel, who had recovered her consciousness before they had reached the house, and had been fore most among them all with a helping hand, was not satisfied, and followed him down stairs to the door, and lifting her pleading, tearful eyes to his, faintly asked for the verdict. "Well, little one," lie said, looking at her pityngly, "I won't say there is no hope, but only constant watching and the best of care will bring him through." Nothing more, but she thanked him for that. For three days and nights she never left his bed for a moment while he lay unconscious. She had forgotten her pride now. His life depended upon her watchfulness and care, for who else could give him that unceasing devotion The bitter words he had spoken were forgotten. When he returned to life, if he ever did, she would creep away un observed, and he would never know that her unceasing care had ever brought him back. On the fourth day he began to show signs of returning consciousness, and calling softly to the nurse who was sleeping in the next apartment, she looked at him for a moment, her eyes filled with soft love-light—for now in his helplessness could she not love him as she would if he were dead ?—and moved lightly from the room. From that moment he grew steadily better the crisis is passed. Isabel had saved his life. She did not again enter the room, but each day met the doctor outside the door, and heard his reassur ing report, At last, one morning, as she was waiting outside his door, the doctor come out smiling, bat did not close the door liehind him as u^uaL Espying Is abel he cricd, heartily: "Ha, there's the little nurse that brought my patient back to life. I've I teen telling Mr. Ashley atout you for the first time this morning, and he is anxious to thank you and seeing you saved his life, I think it is quite proper in him. Come, he is much better this 1 mypou yy^,mr morning, and it will do him good to Bee someone. "Oh, no, no!" cried Isabel, turning pale, and pushing the kind-hearted doctor away, who was trying to draw her into the room. "Come along, come along," he per sisted, misunderstanding her objection. "I tell you it will do him no harm, on my word," and lie laxiglied one of his hearty, ringing laughs, and, despite her struggling resistance, dragged her into the room. The chamber was darkened, and at first she could distinguish nothing, as th# doctor pushed her, with good natured force, into the middle of the room, and went out and shut the door but for Leonard who was leaning on his arm eagerly watching, the light was sufficient. "Isabel!" he cried to the girl, who stood still in the middle of the room, with her head bowed, where the doctor had left her, "Isabel, have you brought me back to life or death There was a piteous, pleading tone in his weak voice, and ho tried to hold his hands out to her. She slowly raised her eyes to his hers were full of tears—all tlio pride was gone. "Isabel, come!" With a little gasping cry she moved toward the bed and sank on her knees. "Forgive me!" she sobbed, "Itried to call vou back, but it was too late—too late!" He gently drew her towards him and tenderly kissed her forehead. "Let us both forgive," he said, pres ently, and then he put both his arms around her neck and rested her head on his breast. For along time they remained so, and then he said, softly putting his hand under his pillow: "Here, Isabel, is a letter I have kept because it tells of my love for you. You have read it before, Will vou post it for me?" It was only a little half-frightened whisper that answered: "Yes, dear!" But it was enough to cheer the heart of Leonard Ashley.—Home Circle. Fuss in the Elevator. Dogs not only learn what the ears are for, but which train will take them where they want to go, The instance here given from the New York Tribune proves that cats may have equally in telligent ideas of passive travelling, and equal appreciation of their own comfort, in adopting the improved methods. A recent number of the paper tells what a visitor found out about the Tribune cat: The Tribune elevator car had started on its upward trip last avening, and the elevator boy was gazing upward into his furthest corner, vide nth- lost in reverie. Presently there was a distinct call in the shape of a plaintive "miaouw!" The elevator boy checked his cai forthwith on a level with the floor whence the sound came. There was nc one to be seen, and the smallest boy would have been visible. "Going up?" asked the elevatoi boy. "Miaouw miaouw!" was repeated. The elevator boy slid open the door and a gray cat walked demurely in, sprang upon the seat and began licking her paws until two floors had been passed when she uttered another cry and sprang down before the doorway. The car stopped, the door opened, and tabby passed out. "Is she a regular passenger?" was asked. "Is she?" said the elevator boy. "Of course she is. She lives in the building, she does. She never walks up or down stairs 'cept on Sunday, when the elevator aint a-running in front. If it's evening, she uses the back elevator. "Where is she going now?" "She's jest dropping in to see a frieno of hers. He's a lawyer, and he oftec stays late to write, and she goes in and sits on the table and watches him, and he gives her a bit of some ting to eat. In 'bout an hour, befort my time's up, she'll come back to go tc the top floor. Mebbe she'll stop a little in the editorial rooms then she goes up to the restaurant. She always gets there about twelve o'clock, when the printers get their lunch. They all know her. "Sometimes," he added, "she sits down in the car and keeps me company for while. She aint any bother. She knows how to behave herself a great deal better then some of them lawyers and sharp cliapa who are always asking a feller whether he's going to get married. She goes all around town by herself, she does. The other morning, one of the fellows saw her down in Fulton Market. She knew him, and came up and rubbed against his legs. Top floor here, sir, if you want to get out." A Child Charmed bj a Rattlesnake From the San Francisco Evening Po»t. A lady writing from Graniteville, Nevada county, relates an incident of a little child having been charmed by a rattlesnake, as follows: "I was working in my kitchen when I was startled by a loud scream from my little boy, four years old. On asking the cause he said 'Oh, mamma, a big snake!' I rushed to the door and, imagine my feelings when almost paralyzed with horror, I could only gaze on the awful sight that met my eyes, Ten feet from me, and on the doorstep of the woodshed, stood my baby boy, twenty-two months old, gazing, as if fascinated, upon a large rattlesnake, which was coiled in front of him alwnt two feet away, and was gently moving its head back and forth, looking at the child with eyes like flafne. My screams frightened it, and my daughter, twelve years of age, ran past me and caught her little brother out ol the way, when the reptile glided swiftly away. The child appeared for a long time dazed and unatural." The snbjcct of cremation came np in DM hon»e of commons on the second reading of tin cremation liilL Mr. Lalxmchere supported the measure, but Sir William Harcoart, on be half of the government, opposed it, among othoi reasons, because it might sometimes prevent the detection of murder. 5 1 FARM AND HOUSE. Agricultural Xtema. Many advise not to plant sweet com until the soil is warm, etc. The advice may be good, because it is safe but one year with another Ave find that those of our neighbors who plant the earliest get the earliest ears to market. Wliile it is true that young hens lay more eggs per year than old ones, they do not make so good sitters nor so care ful mothers. There is a great differenco in the character of fowls in this respect, and a little watchfulness will soon teach the careful attendent which ones will be best to set. Colts, pigs and calves, not being re quired for use, either for work or the butcher, should be fed but little corn, as fat in excess is not necessary with them. The treatment prescribed by French doctors for liorsos and donkeys afflicted with typhoid fever is brandy in small doses, tonics, quinine, and geutian and hay tea baths. A writer in the Prairie Farmer re lates that a drain put down in 1858, of common fence-boards, is still in good condition, aud that if he had to make short, deep drains, with plenty of fall and thorough compact or yellow clay, he should certainly use a six-inch fence board, believing it would answer every purpose of a three or four-inch drain tile. The foul odor of a filthy stable must necessarily permeate not only the ani mal's hide, but it has been proven that the meat of stall-fed steers fattened un der those circumstances is unwhole some morever, the milk, even during the period of milking, is liable to ab sorb the filthy emanations from such stables, and to become absolutely poi sonous. It would seem, therefore, rea sonable that owners and dealers in cattle and milk should appreciate the impor tance of cleanliness and its relation to health, even as a source of profit. How to ffet Early Celery. From the catalogue of Jos. Harris we take the follow ng. He is telling "Secrets for the boys aud girls:"' "Last Spring, about the middle of March,. I put some sifted moas and sand in a box and watered it with warm water. Then we put some celery seed on top, thick enough to cover the surface, and dusted on a little dry moss and sand abont as thick as the cover of this catalogue. We kept the box in a warm room, and occasionally watered it. Iu about three weeks the seed was nicely started, and then, as soon as the frost was out of the "ground, we made a row in the garden and sowed the seed—moss and all, and covered it about a quarter of an inch deep. From this sprouted seed, we got our earliest and best plants. You can do the same thing, but you need not tell everyone. I told one man about it, and he said, 'Oh, yes, it is a good plan I have done the same thing.' I supposed it was something new. At any rate it was new to me. No one ever told me. and I do not think it is generally known. I propose to try how the plan wall work this Spring on onion, asparagus, pars ley, and beet seed. I know it will Avork in the case of as laragus and beets, for I have tried it." Fattening Youny Cattle. The editor of the London Agricultur al Gazette takes the ground that to prolong the fattening pr. cess in the case of beef cattle is not only a Avaste to the stock-feeder, but impose needless pain upon the animals themselves. In reference to the first point he says: "Figures perfectly trustworthy, haA*e been accumulated Avitliin the last five or six years at Islington Hall, and in America, too, Avliich demonstrate that cheap beef is young beef—i. e., the flesh of young animals which have nev er knoAvn disturbance or suffering. A young animal home reared, will before it reaches two years of age put on cheaper beef than any older one will gather, though it be well-bred aud reared under the very best conditions for groAvtli. The rapidity of growth during the fattening process diminishes with age. During six successive years it was 2.58,3, 2.05, 196, 1.57, 1.37, and .88 lbs., successively per diem—a fact entirely correberative of our argument." Setting1 Out Strawberry Plants. Frank Murphy of Donnellson, O., in a letter to the New York World says: I will set out 13,000 strawberry plants in the spring, and I will give my plan for setting them out. In the first place I will have the ground nice and clean and well ploughed and harrowed. Now, I will plough out straight furrows, three feet apart. After I get the land laid off in this way I will take a straddle—buck, such as farmers use to cover corn, and go in these same furroAvs and make a small ridge. Then, when I set the plants I will divide the roots, having half on eacli side of the ridge, and then cover them with fine earth with my hands, pressing it doAvn firmly. The reason why I think this will be a good plan if there is no danger,of getting the roots tangled up, and as neAv .• ""'•i^gf *!~%!™**!^''.I?' .'^R*V'T^'I''?:': R^''^.^ •V!'T berry is as soon as you can get the frost out of the ground in spring. If plant ed in September and October, more than one-lialf of the young plants are thrown out and destroyed by frost, and if planted in May and Juno, the hot, dry weather coining on before they have got a permanent hold of the soil shrivels more than half of them up but Avlien planted before the sun lias much power, and while thpre is plenty ol moisture in the ground, and generally a liberal allowance of showers, they commence "with the season and never go back.—Tick's Illustrated Magazine. Shelter for Stock. Professor E. M. Sheldon, of the Kan sas Agricultural College, reports some experiments of the Avinter, affording added proof of the truism that you can not burn food as fuel for the body ol an animal and at the same time "have your cake" in the form of muscle, fat or milk: "The ten experimental steers made an average gain for the ten. days ending December 29 of 31 1-10 pounds per head. This period Avas Avitli the cream roots form about the old crown earth must be lie thrown np to them, and as these plants, by setting them out as above de scribed, will be beloAV the level of the ground, and by throAving earth up to tliem if will not be long until the ground will be level instead of ridges. I am certain that tlio plants will stand more freezing aud thawing weather in this way than any other. However, I may be mistaken if so, I want some one to say so. I will have furrows three feet wide, and set the plants one foot apart in a roAv. Strawberries. Some people recommend planting strawberries in May and June, and others in Septemlier and Octoler each practice has its adherents, and while they are settling which is best we will prepare our ground by deep trenching and a liberal dressing from the compost heap, and then we will tell them that the best time for planting the straw of prevail ing warm, sunny weather. During the folioAving ten days of unremitting cold these same steers gained only 6 1-10 per head, although they ate food almost identical in amount Avitli shed Avhich COAV that we that consumed, during the preceding Avarm weather. They Avere fed in an unbattened board did little more than protect them from the violence of the wind. A liaA'o milked during the Avinter, which is kept in a bleak 'Kan sas barn' invariably, after tAventy-four hours of severe weather, diminishes her yield of milk one-fourth to one half." For the Cook.. A steamer for- cooking food will pay for its cost in t%o seasons. If it does not add to the bulk of food it renders it more easily digested and more nourish ing. CHEESE BISCUITS.—Have a little puff or shortened crust paste made, and sprinkle over it a little cayenne and as much grated cheese as the dough Avill take double up the paste,, roll it out rather thin, and. cut it Avith paste cutter, glaze a round Avith egg, arrange on a buttered tin, and bake in a. sharp oven till of alight color. GRANDMOTHER'S MINUTE PUDDING.:— Let some sweet milk como to a boil, then stir in flour which you have salted this must be done very briskly or it will be lumpy. Stir every moment until the pudding is about like mush. Serve Avliile hot, sugar and cream flavor Avitli nutmeg or vanilla.. DOUGHNUTS.—Three eggs, one cup of sugar, one pint of neAv milk, salt, nut meg and flour enough to permit the spoon to stand upright in the mixture: add tAvo teaspoonfuls baking powder and beat until very light. Drop by the dessertspoonful into boiling lard. These Avill not absorb a bit of fat and. are the least pernicious, of the dough nut family. RECIPE iron SAUSAGE.—Take all' T]^ spare meat and tenderloins from yonr pork, and grind it in a sausage grader or chop it. Season it highly Avith salt, pepper and poAvdered sage. Boil one or tAvo pounds of red pepper and pour the tea over it and if not seasoned enough add Avhat it Avants. in stone jars, or stiff skins that have narroAv muslin sacks, and hang up in the air in a cool place. Choice Cookery. TAVO coffee cups of graham flour, one coffee cup of sour or buttermilk, a little salt and mol&sses, and one and one-half even teaspoonfuls of soda. This makes one loaf. If more is needed, it is better to stir twice, as the dough is so stiff it cannot be so Avell mixed in large quan tities. CHARLOTTE RUSSE.—A simple but de licious charlotte russe is made as fol IOAVS One pint of sAveet cream, sweet en and flavor to taste one and one-hall ounces of Cox's gelatine, whites of three eggs dissolve the gelatine in a little milk and add it to the cream, let it stand until quite cold, then add the Avhites of the eggs beaten very stiff. Line your moulds with long strips ol sponge cake or lady fingers and fill with the above mixture. To make succotash that will taste nearly, if not quite, as fresh as that made in summer, soak one pint of dried corn in sweet milk all night. Soak an equal quantity, or less if you prefer it, of dried Lima beans for three hours in luke-Avarm Avater. Then let them sim mer for nearly an hour, add salt, butter, pepper and a very little sugar. BREAKFAST VEAL.—Butter a small ova] dish very thoroughly, and fill with bit* of cold stewed veal seasoned with pep per, salt and a little nutmeg put in al ternately with layers of cracker crumbs, moisten with gravy, put bits of butter over the top, and bake. When it is brown turn out of the dish on a hot platter, and garnish with parsley. II it is not too moist it will keep its form when it is turned out. Home Made Baking ftwdir. Permit me to state that my wife has used all the baking powders advertised (I believe) also the supertartrate ol potash (cream-of-tartar).and bicarbonate (not "carbonate," or sol-soda, washing soda,) of soda, and she has found that a 16 ounce package of corn-starch, eight ounces of bicarbonate of soda (not car bonate) and five ounces of tartaric acid intimately mixed, and A-ell a Pack away incorporated, and passed through a sifter, form not only the most efficient, but the cheapest baking powder she has ever used. Siie uses from one-quarter to one-third less than she used to of the Horsford or Royal. You say, usually cream-of-tar tar is used to supply the acid, this salt lieing a bitartrate of potash and soda, healthful, cooling, slightly laxative salt, known as liochelle Salts. Roohelle Salts is a tartrate of potash and soda ujon tasting each you will find that the sn]ertartrate is acid while the tartrate of potash and soda lias a cooling taste, more of a neutral salt,—Kural New Yorker, *?gol SIM ,1! W*'