Chapter II (3)

"You see, Cousin Nelly," continued Ned, getting up and pacing the long old-fashioned parlor with quick, nervous strides, "it's all sheer nonsense to talk about these doors in every human heart. It sounds very pretty and pathetic in a story, I'll admit; but so do a great many other things which reason and actual experience entirely repudiate. There are hearts--alas! that their name should be legion--where 'far away up' there is no door to be opened, and 'far away down' are no deeps to be fathomed. Now don't, Cousin Nelly, level another such rebuking glance at me from those brown eyes, for I have just thought of a case illustrative of my theory. Don't you remember Miss Stebbins, the old maid, who lived at the foot of the hill, and how I picked a rose for you one morning which had climbed over her fence into the road, and so, of course, became 'public property?' Faugh! I shall never forget the tones of the virago's voice, or the scowl on her forehead as she sallied out of the front door and shook her hand at me. A woman who could refuse a half withered flower to a little child, I wonder that roses could blossom on her soil! At the 'smiting of the rod,' no waters could flow out of such a granite heart. In the moral desert of such a character, no fertilizing stream can make its way."

I did not answer Cousin Ned's earnest, eloquent tones, for just then there was the low rap of visitors at the parlor door; but I have always thought there was a good angel in the room while he was speaking, and that it flew straight to Miss Stebbins, and looking down, down, very far down in her heart, he saw a fountain there, rank weeds grew all around it, the seal of years was on its lip, and the dust of time deep on the seal; but the angel smiled, as it floated upward and murmured, "I shall return and remove the seal, and the waters will flow."

* * * * *

Stern and grim sat Miss Stebbins at her work, one summer afternoon. The golden sunshine slept and danced in its play-place in the corner, and broke into a broad laugh along the ceiling, and a single beam, bolder than the rest, crept to the hem of Miss Stebbins's gown, and looked up with a timid, loving smile in her face, such as no human being ever wore when looking there.

Poor Miss Stebbins! those stern, harsh features only daguerreotyped too faithfully the desolate, arid heart beneath them; and that heart, with its dry fountain, was a true type of her life, with the one flower of human affection which had blossomed many years before along its bleak, barren highway.

She never seemed to love anybody, unless it was her brother William, who was a favorite with everybody; but he went to sea, and had never been heard of since. Sally had always been a stray sheep among the family; but dark hours, and at last _death_, came upon all the rest, and so the homestead fell into her hands. Such was the brief verbal history of Miss Stebbins's life, which I received from Aunt Mary, who closed it there, in rigid adherence to her favorite maxim, never to speak evil of her neighbors.

But, that summer afternoon, there came the patter of children's feet along the gravel-walk which led to Miss Stebbins's front door; and, at the same moment, the angel with golden-edged wings came down from its blue-sky home into Miss Stebbins's parlor.

She raised her head and saw them, two weary-looking little children, with golden hair and blue eyes, standing hand in hand under the little portico, and then that old termagant scowl darkened her forehead, and she asked, with a sharp, disagreeable note in her voice, like the raw breath in the north-east wind--

"Wa-all! I should like to know what you want standing there?"

"Please, ma'am," said the boy, in a timid, entreating voice, which ought to have found its way straight into any heart, "little sister and I feel very tired, for we have walked a long way. Will you let us sit down on the step and rest a little while?"

"No; I can't have children loafing round on my premises," said Miss Stebbins, with the same vinegar sharpness of tone which had characterized her preceding reply. Moreover, the sight of any of the miniature specimens of her race seemed always fated to arouse her belligerent propensities. "So just take yourselves off; and the quicker, the better 'twill be for you."

"Don't stay any longer, Willy. I am afraid," whispered the little girl, with a tremor rippling through her voice, as she pulled significantly at her brother's coat sleeve.

"Willy! Willy! That was your brother's name; don't you remember?" the angel bent down and whispered very softly in the harsh woman's ear; and all the time his hand was gliding down, down in her heart, searching for that hidden fountain. "You must have been just about that little girl's age when you and he used to go trudging down into the meadows together to find sweet flagroot. And you used to keep tight hold of his hand, just as she does. Oh, how tired you used to get! Don't you remember that old brown house, where nobody lived but starved rats and a swarm of wasps, who made their nest there in the summer-time? And you used to sit down on the old step, which the worms had eaten in so many places, and rest there. How he loved you! and how careful he was always to give you the best seat! and, then, he never spoke one cross word to you, if everybody else did. Now, if you should let those children sit down and rest, just as you and Willy did on the old brown step, you could keep a sharp eye on them, to see they didn't get into any mischief."

The angel must have said all this in a very little time, for the children had only reached the gravel-walk again, when Miss Stebbins called out to them; and, this time, that spiteful little note in her voice was not quite so prominent--

"Here, you may sit right down on that corner a little while; but, mind you, don't stir; for, if you do, you'll have to budge."

"Little sister," said the boy, in a low tone, after they were seated, "lay your head here, and try to go to sleep."

The little girl laid her head, with its shower of golden bright curls, on her brother's breast; but, the next moment, she raised it, saying--

"I can't sleep, brother, I'm so thirsty."

"Don't you remember that day you and Willy went into the woods after blackberries, and how you lost your way groping in the twilight of the forest?" again whispered the angel, with his hand feeling all the time for the fountain. "You found an old lightning-blasted tree, and you sat down on it, and he put his arm round you just so, and said, 'Try and go to sleep, little sister.' But you couldn't, you were so thirsty; for you had walked full three miles. Who knows but what those children have, too?"

There was a little pause after the angel had said this, and then Miss Stebbins rose up and went into her pantry, where the shelves were all of immaculate whiteness, and she could see her face in the brightly scoured tin. She brought out a white pitcher, and, going into the garden, filled it at the spring. Returning, she poured some of the cool contents into a cup which stood on the table, and carried it to the children; and she really held it to the little girl's lips all the time she was drinking.

Farther and farther down in the heart of the woman crept the hand of the angel; nearer and nearer to the fountain it drew.

Miss Stebbins went back to her sewing, but, somehow, her fingers did not fly as nimbly as usual. The memories of bygone years were rising out of their mouldy sepulchres; but all freshly they came before her, with none of the grave's rust and dampness upon them.

"That little boy's eyes, when he thanked you for the water, looked just as Willy's used to," once more whispered the angel, bending down close to Miss Stebbins's ear. "And his hair looks like Willy's, too, as he sits there with that sunbeam brightening its gold, and his arm thrown so lovingly around his sister's waist. There! did you see how wistfully he looked up at the grapes, whose purple side are turned towards him as they hang over the portico? How Willy used to love grapes! And how sweet your bowls of bread and milk used to taste, after one of your rambles into the woods! If those children have walked as far as you did--and don't you see the little boy's coat and the little girl's faded dress are all covered with dust?--they must be very hungry, as well as tired and thirsty. Don't you remember that apple-pie you baked this morning? I never saw a pie done to a finer brown in my life. How sweet it would taste to those little tired things, if they could only eat a piece here in the parlor, where the flies and the sun wouldn't keep tormenting them all the time!"

A moment after, Miss Stebbins had stolen with noiseless step to her pantry, and, cutting out two generous slices from her apple-pie, she placed them in saucers, returned to the front door, and said to the children--

"You may come in here, and sit down on the stools by the fire-place and eat some pie; but you must mind and not drop any crumbs on the floor."

It was very strange, but that old harsh tone had almost left her voice. The large, tempting slices were placed in the little hands eagerly lifted up to receive them; and, at that moment, out from the lip of the fountain, out from the dust which lay heavy upon its seal, there came a single drop, and it fell down upon Miss Stebbins's heart. It was the first which had fallen there for years. Ah, the angel had found the fountain then!

The softened woman went back to her seat, and the angel did not bend down and whisper in her ear again; but all the time his hand was busy, very busy at its work.

"Where is your home, children?" inquired Miss Stebbins, after she had watched for a while, with a new, pleasant enjoyment, the children, as they dispatched with hungry avidity their pie.

"Mary and I haven't any home now. We had one once before papa died, a great way over the sea," answered the boy.

"And where are you going now? and what brought you and your little sister over the sea?" still farther queried the now interested woman.

"Why, you see, ma'am, just before papa died, he called old Tony to him--now, Tony was black, and always lived with us--'Tony,' said he, 'I am going to die, and you know I have lost everything, and the children will be all alone in the world. But, Tony, I had a sister once that I loved, and she loved me; and, though I haven't seen her for a great many years, still I know she loves me, if she's living, just as well as she did when she and I used to go hand in hand through the apple-orchard to school; and, Tony, when I'm dead and buried, I want you to sell the furniture, and take the money it brings you and carry the children back to New England. You'll find her name and the place she used to live in a paper--which anybody'll read for you--in the drawer there. And, Tony, when you find her, just take Willy and Mary to her, and tell her I was their father, and that I sent them to her on my death-bed, and asked her to be a mother to them for my sake. It'll be enough, Tony, to tell her that.' And Tony cried real loud, and he said, 'Massa, if I forget one word of what you've said, may God forget me.'

"Well, papa died, and, after he was buried, Tony brought little sister and me over the waters. But, before we got here, Tony was taken sick with the fever, and he died a little while after the ship reached the land and they had carried him on shore. But, just before he died, he called me to him and put a piece of paper in my hand. 'Don't lose it, Willy,' he said, 'for poor Tony's going, and you'll have to find the way to your aunt's all alone. The money's all spent, too, and they say it's a good hundred miles to the place where she lived. But keep up a good heart, and ask the folks the way, and for something to eat when you're hungry; and don't walk too many miles a day, 'cause little sister ain't strong. Perhaps somebody'll help you on with a ride, or let you sleep in their house nights. Now don't forget, Willy; and shake hands the last time with poor Tony.'

"After that, we stayed at the inn till the next day, when they buried Tony; and, when they asked us what we were going to do, we told them we were going to our aunt's, for papa had sent us to her, and then they let us go. When we asked folks the way they told us, though they always stared, and sometimes shook their heads. We got two rides, and always a good place to sleep. They said our aunt lived round here; but, we got so tired walking, we had to stop."

"And what was your father's name?" asked Miss Stebbins, and, somehow, there was a choking in her throat, and the hand of the angel was placed on the fountain as she spoke.

"William Stebbins; and our aunt's name was Sally Stebbins. Please, ma'am, do you know her?"

Off, at that moment, came the seal, and out leaped a fresh, blessed tide of human affection, and fell down upon the barren heart-soil that grew fertile in a moment.

"William! my brother William!" cried Miss Stebbins, as she sprang towards the children with outstretched arms and tears raining fast down her cheeks. "Oh, for your sake, I will be a mother to them!"

* * * * *

A year had passed away; college vacation had come again, and once more Cousin Ned was at our house. In the summer gloaming we went to walk, and our way lay past Miss Stebbins's cottage. As we drew near the wicket, the sound of merry child-laughter rippled gleefully to our ears, and a moment after, from behind that very rose-tree so disagreeably associated with its owner in Cousin Ned's mind, bounded two golden-haired children.

"Come, Willy! Mary! you have made wreaths of my roses until they are wellnigh gone. You must gather violets after this."

"_Mirabile dictu!_" ejaculated Cousin Ned. "Is _that_ the woman who gave me such a blessing a long time ago for plucking a half withered rose from that very tree?"

"The very same, Cousin Ned," I answered; and then I told him of the change which had come over the harsh woman, of her love, her gentleness, and patience for the orphan children of her brother; and that, after all, there was a fountain very far down in her heart, as there surely was in everybody's, if we could only find it.

"Well, Cousin Nelly," said Ned, "I'll agree to become a convert to your theory without further demurring, if you'll promise to tell me where to find a hidden fountain that lies very far down in a dear little somebody's heart, and whose precious waters are gushing only for me."

There was a glance, half arch, half loving, from those dark, handsome eyes, which made me think Cousin Ned knew he would not have to go very far to find it.

VEGETABLE PHYSIOLOGY.

BY HARLAND COULTAS.

THE PROCESS OF FERTILIZATION.--All organic beings, animals, and plants reproduce themselves by means of fecundated germs, which we call embryos. The embryos of plants form in a particular organ called an ovule, and the matter which fecundates them is termed pollen.

The character of an embryo in organic beings is that it contains, in a rudimentary state, all the organs of which the organic being is composed in its entire developments. Thus, in the animal, the uterine fœtus is composed of the head, the trunk, and the extremities; in other words, of all the parts of which the adult animal is composed. In like manner, the embryos of plants, like those of animals, contain all the parts which compose the fabric of the fully developed plant in a rudimentary condition. The embryo of a bean, for example, consists of a plumule or young stem, a pair of leaves or cotyledons, and a radicle or young root, or the entire plant in a rudimentary state; and, by the act of germination, analogous in its effects to the commencement of life in the extra-uterine fœtus, all the parts of the plant develop themselves into their wonted figure and hues, in accordance with those _peculiar_ organic laws to which the plant is subjected. But germination does not increase the number of these parts, which existed before its influence was exercised on them.

Now, plants have sexes, or sexual organs, as well as animals. The female sexual organs in plants are named carpels. The pistil, already described, consisting of stigma, style, and germen, is only a fully developed carpel. The male sexual organs are named stamens, the anthers of which contain the pollen or fecundating matter. The stamens and carpels are therefore the essential organs of reproduction in plants, since it is by the mutual action of these bodies that the embryo of the future plant is formed, and the same form of life continued in the earth. Fig. 1 is a representation of a petal, stamen, and the pistil of Berberis vulgaris, or the common barberry. In this plant, the anthers open by two valves to let out the pollen. These valves are seen in the figure, and the pistil is exhibited in section, to show the ovules in the cavity of the germen.

The reproductive organs only appear at the epoch when plants attain the full development of all their parts, or arrive at an adult state. The period when this occurs varies greatly in each species, and depends entirely on the peculiarities of its constitution. When this epoch arrives, a visible change takes place in the organic functions; the stem ceases to elongate, and its internodes no longer developing, the leaves remain crowded together in closely approximated whorls, and, after undergoing those peculiar modifications in form and coloring which we have already described, a flower is produced.

The process of fecundation appears to be as follows: As soon as the calyx and corolla are fully expanded, the stamens rapidly develop, their filaments elongate, and the anthers, at first moist and closed, become dry, and, rupturing, discharge the pollen on the stigma of the pistil, which at this time is bedewed with a clammy fluid, which serves to retain the grains of pollen that fall upon its surface. The grains of pollen, after remaining for some time on the humid stigma, absorb its moisture, and are seen to swell so that those which are elliptical assume a spherical form. The thin and highly extensible intine or inner covering of the pollen grain ultimately is pushed, in the form of a tube, through one of the pores or ostioles in the surface of the extine or outer covering, the mode of dehiscence of the pollen grain being always determined by the character of its surface. The pollen tube enters the lax tissue of the stigma, and, by gradual increments of growth, pushes its way down the style into the germen or ovary in which the ovules are found, up to this period, unfertilized. The tube enters one of the unimpregnated ovules through a small hole called the micropyle (from μικξος a little, πυλη gate), conveying the fecundating fluid matter contained in the cavity of the grain into the young ovule. This fluid matter is called fovilla, and its flow through the pollen tube is easily perceived by the movement of those microscopic corpuscles which it contains.

Fig. 2 is a section through the stigma, and part of the style of Antirrhinum majus, or the common snapdragon. The pollen grains are seen adhering to the surface of the stigma, and the tube is pushing its way down the pistil to the germen.

The ovules having received the impregnating matter, the flower loses its beauty, and nothing remains but the germen, which swells into a fruit abounding with seeds, by which the species is continued. An attentive observer may watch these changes throughout the summer months in any plant that produces flowers and fruit, and may thus satisfy himself of the general correctness of these statements.

AUNT TABITHA'S FIRESIDE.

No. IX.--THE MISERY CAUSED BY USING THE WRONG PUDDING-DISH.

BY EDITH WOODLEY

"I believe, Lizzy, that I never told you my own experience about goin' out to sarvice. I didn't go out 'cause 'twas necessary that I should, for at my father's there was a house full of everything. We al'ays lived like the sweet cheeses, as the sayin' is.

"You've heern me tell of Aunt Keziah Higgins. She wasn't my aunt, on'y a cousin to my mother; but I al'ays called her aunt, out of respect, seein' she was so much older than I was. Well, she was one of the most partic'lar bodies that ever breathed the breath of life, except Uncle Higgins, and he went a hair furder'n she did in some things. She al'ays chose to do her own work, for there wa'n't a pairson on airth that could suit her; but one fall she took a dreadful bad cold, and was threatened with the rebellious fever. Everybody knew how awful nice she was, to say nothin' of Mr. Higgins, and they couldn't git a soul to come and stay with 'em for a single day.

"At last, Uncle Higgins come arter me; and, when I found how 'twas, I consented to go, for it seemed to me a sin and a shame--what I called right down heathenish--to let the woman suffer for want of bein' took keer on. I didn't expect that I should suit in everything; but I felt detarmined, in my own mind, to put the best foot for'ard, and exart every narve to the utmost to do the best I could, and that was all that could be expected of anybody.

"They were both so tickled to think I consented to come, that they neither of 'em uttered a single word of complaint for the two first days. All I said or did was jest right. I was young, and didn't understand a dreadful deal about cookin'; but Aunt Keziah wasn't as sick but what she could give off the orders, so I got along nicely. The third day she said to me, arter breakfast--

"'Tabitha, I guess I'll have a rice puddin' made for dinner to-day. A rice puddin', if 'tis made jest right, is Mr. Higgins's favorite.'

"So she told me how to proportionate all the 'gred'encies--how many eggs, how much rice, sugar, milk, and everything. I mustn't vary the vally of a thimbleful in an individwal thing, she said, 'cause, if I did, it wouldn't suit Mr. Higgins. The sass to eat on't, too, must be made jest so.

"Well, I told her I'd do my best; and I did. If the rice, sugar, and so on had been goold dust, I couldn't 'ave been an atom more partic'lar about measurin' 'em; and, arter I got the puddin' into the oven, I watched it as narrer as ever a cat watched a mouse, so as to be sure 'twas bakin' jest fast enough, and none too fast.

"When 'twas drawin' along towards dinner-time, I thought I'd hunt up a dish to turn the puddin' into, 'cause, you see, I baked it in a brown, airthen dish that wa'n't fit to set on the table. Well, I come across a deep, blue-edged one, jest like one we had at home, that my mother bought on purpose to put puddin' into. We were to have, besides the puddin', a grand good b'iled dish--pork and corned beef, and all sorts of garding-sass, sich as cabbage, turnips, bates, carriots, and so on. 'Twas no fool of a job to prepare so many kinds of sass; but I didn't vally the trouble, all I aimed at was to suit Uncle Higgins. When I'd got everything on the table, they looked so nice I felt quite proud. Accordin' to my mind, 'twas a dinner fit to set afore a king.

"Uncle Higgins was blest with an amazin' good appetite, and, I tell you, he did good justice to the b'iled dish. Arter a while, he begun to slack off a leetle mite, and I could see him eyein' the puddin' purty sharp. At last, says he--

"'What 'ave you got there, Tabitha?'

"'A rice puddin', sir,' says I.

"'A rice puddin'?' says he.

"'Yes, sir,' says I.

"'Well, then, I guess you never sarved much of a 'prenticeship at making rice puddin's,' says he.

"'If you'll jest taste of it, sir, I guess you'll like it,' says I.

"'I sha'n't taste of sich a lookin' thing as that,' says he, and up he jumps from the table, appearantly jest as mad as a March hare.

"I felt purty much riled myself, and should 'ave been glad if the tarnal puddin' had been right in the middle of the Red Sea. Arter I'd taken so much pains, worried myself e'en jest to death about it, as 'twere, I thought 'twas too bad for him to speak about it in sich a short, scornful way.

"I didn't tell Aunt Keziah anything about it, 'cause, as she was sick, I was afeared 'twould worry her; but, afore I'd finished doin' the work up arter dinner, Uncle Higgins got cooled down a leetle atom, and went into aunt's room to see how she was. She mistrusted by his looks that everything wasn't raly right, so she says to him--

"'How did the dinner suit you?'

"'Well enough,' says he.

"'Did Tabitha make the rice puddin' to yer likin'?' says she.

"'I didn't eat any rice puddin',' says he. 'There was a mushy-lookin' thing on the table that she _called_ a rice puddin'; but it didn't look like an eatable to me.'

"'What appeared to be the matter with it?' says Aunt Keziah.

"'Why, one thing that ailed it was, there wa'n't a drop of whey in it; 'twas dry as a contribution-box, and you know I never eat sich puddin's.'

"'I guess you put a leetle too much rice in your puddin' accordin' to the other gred'ences,' says Aunt Keziah, the first time I went into the room arter Uncle Higgins was gone.

"'I put in jest as much as you said I must,' says I.

"'Well,' says she, 'Mr. Higgins told me 'twas too dry--that there wa'n't any whey in it.'

"'If that's all,' says I, 'I'll try my luck ag'in to-morrow, and make jest the same, on'y scant the rice the least mite that ever was.'

"'So do,' says Aunt Keziah. 'I rather guess you were a leetle too heavy-handed when you measured the rice.'

"Well, I do declare that I didn't think of anything but that tarnal rice puddin' all the arternoon; and, the minute I fell asleep at night, rice puddin's were settin' round in every direction, jest as thick as a swarm of bees. Once I thought I went to draw a pail of water, when up came a bucket full of rice puddin'. Then, ag'in, I thought I was starchin' some of Aunt Keziah's best caps, and found I'd been dippin' 'em in a mess of rice puddin', instead of starch. That was the way I was tormented all night long. My sleep didn't do me an atom of good; but, arter breakfast, I brightened up a little, and felt detarmined in my own mind, if there was any sich thing as makin' a rice puddin' that would suit Uncle Higgins, I would do it. So I went to work, and, the land o' massy! if I should live to be as old as Methuselah, and forty years on to the eend of that, I shall never forgit how I fussed and worried over that 'ere puddin'. If I measured the rice once, I raly b'l'eve that I measured it half a dozen times, so that, at last, I got to be so addle-pated that I could 'ave hardly told B from a broomstick.

"Aunt Keziah said there sartainly couldn't be any danger of its bein' too dry; and, if it erred a leetle bit on t'other hand, I could dip out two or three spoonfuls of the whey.

"I don't know how the President feels to be at the head of government; but, if the affairs of the nation weigh as heavy on his shoulders as that puddin' did on mine all the time 'twas bakin', he'd soon give up beat.

"There was never anything that looked a mite nicer than it did when I took it out of the oven. 'Twas enough to make a pairson's mouth water to look at it; but, the moment I put the tarnal thing into the deep, blue-edged dish, it looked 'xact as t'other did, on'y, if anything, a leetle more mushy, as Uncle Higgins called it. If there'd been time, I'd 'ave gone off by myself and had a good cryin' spell. It was my fairm belief that the puddin' was bewitched. What to do I didn't know. One minute I thought I'd put it on the table, and Uncle Higgins might eat some of it or not, jest as he was a mind to. The next minute, I made up my mind to hide it away, and not let him know that I'd made one. I was right in the midst of my quandary, when, the first thing I knew, Uncle Higgins walked into the kitchen, and marched right up to the table, where sot the puddin'.

"'What do you call that?' says he.

"'A rice puddin',' says I; and, judgin' by my feelin's, I turned all manner of colors.

"'Well, don't put sich a lookin' thing as that on to the table,' says he. 'It don't look fit to be sot afore anybody but a heathen. I've no notion of havin' what leetle appetite I've got sp'ilt by havin' that dispisable-lookin' thing afore my eyes.'

"So I goes and pokes it away in a sly corner, for it had tried my feelin's so I parfectly hated the sight on't. I wa'n't much afeared that Uncle Higgins would starve, if he didn't have the puddin' to top off with. He was a dreadful great eater--eat as much as two Christian men ought to; but I guess he didn't take a terrible sight of comfort eatin' his dinner, for he had on an awful long face the whole time. I s'pose that tarnal old puddin' was runnin' in his head. If 'twa'n't in his, it was in mine.

"Well, Aunt Keziah was mighty airnest to know what luck I had with it. I meant to ave told her afore dinner, and should, if Uncle Higgins hadn't come in so, all of a sudding, while I was tryin' to settle in my mind what I should do about puttin' it on to the table for dinner. When she asked me about it, I had tough work to keep from bu'stin' right out a cryin'; for I felt sorry, and I felt 'shamed, and, to tell the plain truth, a leetle mite put out.

"'Well, it does seem curious,' says she, arter I'd finished tellin' her about it. 'Run, Tabitha, and bring the puddin' here, and let me have a squint at it. If I ever made one puddin' by that resait, I'm free to say I've made a hundred, and al'ays had first rate luck. The very witches have got into the puddin', I b'l'eve.'

"So off I goes and gits the puddin', and carries it in for Aunt Keziah to look at.

"'La, child,' says she, the minute she clapped her eye on it, 'I've found out the marvellous mystery. You've put it into the wrong pudding'-dish.'

"'What odds can it make,' says I, 'whether it's in this or any other?'

"'Why, don't you see, child, that the dish, by bein' so deep and so small over, don't give the whey a chance to settle off round the edges, but makes it all mix in with the rice? I al'ays puts it into that shaller, Chany dish, with a gilt edge, that you'll find on the lower shelf of the cupboard. Now, if you'll jest shift the puddin' into that 'ere dish, you'll see 'twill look as different as light and darkness.'

"Well, off I went and put it into the dish she told me about, when, lo and behold! the whey settled off jest as calm and purty as a summer's mornin', and made a streak round the outside of the puddin' clear and bright as crystchal. I could hardly b'l'eve my own eyes, and I s'pose I was as tickled and proud a critter as ever walked on the face of the airth. I carried it right along to let Aunt Keziah see it.

"'There,' says she, 'that looks right; that'll suit Mr. Higgins. Say not a word about it, Tabitha; but jest set it into the kittle to-morrow and heat it over with the steam, and 'twill do for dinner; for, if you should try forty thousand times, you wouldn't hit it righter than you have this time.'

"'Well,' says I, 'if you or any other pairson had told me that I should undergone so much misery on account of usin' the wrong puddin'-dish, I wouldn't 'ave b'l'eved 'em.'

"The next day, I steamed the puddin', put it into the Chany dish, and sot it on the table for dinner.

"'There, now, that looks somethin' like,' says Uncle Higgins. 'I'll tell you what, Tabitha, it isn't best for young, inexperienced gals, like you, to be too wilful--too fond of havin' their own way. You thought you'd tire me out, and git me to eat one of your mushy puddin's at last; but I must be nigh on to famishin' afore I could eat sich a puddin' as you made yesterday.'

"'I'm glad it suits you, sir,' says I, lookin' meek and innocent as old Aunt Peggy's cosset lamb, when it turns its basin of milk over.

"You've no idee how I wanted to tell him 'twas the identical puddin' he run down so to the very lowest notch the day afore; but, you see, I daresn't, so all the pay I could git was the privilege of laughin' in my sleeve as he sot there eatin' the puddin', and praisin' it every other mouthful."

A PLEASANT LETTER.

CAMPBELL CO., _Va._

MR. L. A. GODEY--DEAR SIR: I owe you for my subscription to the "Lady's Book" for 1852 and 1853. I send you five dollars inclosed. Give me such credit as you may think proper to extend to an old subscriber of fifteen years' standing, who sometimes pays in advance, and sometimes don't, yet never clubs, and never fails to pay without charge to you. I call that a pretty strong appeal.

Having a moment of leisure on my hands while addressing you on business, I am tempted to put in a word to you extra--to you, who have been talking to me steadily for fifteen years, while I have never had a chance for a syllable in reply. Indeed, I am not positively assured that editors, however fond they may be of holding forth before their readers, do manifest any remarkable solicitude to have them "answer back again." I should take it they were rather of that class, Irishman-like, who prefer to have "all the reciprocity on one side." I believe it may be justly said of them, that they do not admire any sort of correspondence that don't pay well. It, however, seems that an old subscriber will, once in a while, presume on long acquaintance, and treat you as a familiar friend, with whom he has the right to make free. I, at this present moment, feel an impulse of this kind; but apprehend my position may appear to you rather gawky, and even peradventure unwarrantable. But old men, you know, and especially conceited ones, are garrulous.

By the way, Mr. Godey, are you phrenologist enough to tell me why it is that, when all the other faculties are growing smaller, the organ of self-esteem is increasing in size? We hear a great deal said about "the aggressive" and "the progressive." Well, it appears to me that this same organ of self-esteem deserves to bear off all the first class premiums at the next "World's Fair" of Active Principles, whether "aggressive" or "progressive." I beg your pardon, my dear sir, I had no idea of being at all personal. But you politely intimate that "brevity is the soul of wit." Thank you! I remark this, with editors, is quite a favorite prescription (you see, I naturally fall into professional figures). Nevertheless, it is one they are not overly fond of calling into requisition themselves. Albeit, Mr. Godey, you and I shall not fall out here. For, as we possess none of the corporeal parts, neither of us has much use for "the soul." Don't frown; I'll praise you presently.

I can remember, in time past, when concluding the perusal of a number of the "Lady's Book," I have found myself soliloquizing thus: "Well, I have read it through, and what is in it? Absolutely nothing that I can remember, or, what is worse, nothing that is worth remembering. I will discontinue. I wish Godey was more of a utilitarian, and would give us a little less of his whipped syllabub, and a little more of solid food." But another year would come in and go out, and I still remained a subscriber to the "Lady's Book;" and, all this time, its strides "progressive" were very humble and moderate, indeed. But times have changed, and the "Lady's Book" has changed with them. I am glad to say there has been a great improvement--a very great improvement in your magazine. Thanks to your industrious, judicious, and sensible editress, the ratio of the useful and valuable is fast gaining on the trashy, "flat, and unprofitable." Go on.

I, some time back, said to my daughter--only, and motherless--

"Well, child, I believe I must discontinue 'Godey.'"

"Why, pa?"

"It is not suited to my taste, and you are always at school."

"But, pa, I always read the numbers through when I come home. I like it very much. It is very interesting. I prefer it to any of the magazines."

"There is 'Harper's'--more solid matter."

"I don't like 'Harper's.' I can't read it. I greatly prefer 'Godey.' I do not know what I should do without it. Do, pa, continue to take it for me."

I saw at once you had a strong hold on her regard, and I dropped the subject. Since then, I observe she has got out the old numbers for many years back (we keep them carefully filed away), and has been very busy with them; and, when she is done with them, she sorts them all over nicely and puts them away again. The upshot of the matter is this letter and the inclosure. Trusting that none other than benign influences will ever be derived from the pages of your popular magazine, I subscribe myself,

Your ob't s'v't, W. S. G.

* * * * *

(_Underscored._) P. S.--A word about underscoring. I would thank my excellent friend, Mrs. Hale, to give her lady contributors a gentle hint--a very gentle one. Lady authors are much given to underscoring; that the practice is considered, by some of the readers of the "Lady's Book," not to be in good taste, and far "more honored in the breach than in the observance." It generally is declaratory of about this: "Reader, here is the point, which I fear you have not penetration to perceive;" or, "How funny that is!" or, "What a nice thought is here!" or, "How smart and striking this!" or the like. Now, I would respectfully suggest that the better way is to write nothing that does not deserve to be underscored, as might be exemplified, if my modesty did not forbid, in the preceding delectable epistle. If a writer deems a composition to be superlatively fine, as authors not unfrequently do, just recommend that the word "underscored" be written at the top, as I have done at the top of this postscript, with the assurance that the editor will put that in type, too, and then the thing will be fixed. For really some readers do not think it polite in authors to be everlastingly reminding them that "Here is a beautiful idea, which I fear you are too obtuse to discover." We poor readers would be gratified by finding we had a little credit for common sense. Any way, for one, I prefer to emphasize for myself. Now, I have not the same prejudice or objection, whichever you choose to call it, to capitals. They may be often used with fine effect. As, for instance, in the preface to D'Aubigne's "History of the Reformation," where the author states his principle to be that there is a "GOD IN HISTORY." I am pleased to see that some of your best contributors have no use at all for the underscore.

W. S. G.

INSTRUCTIONS FOR MAKING ORNAMENTS IN RICE SHELL-WORK.

In our January number we described the whole process of preparing the shells, and making all those separate portions necessary to form a wreath; the same instructions apply equally to the present branch of our subject; but then we only spoke of the "simple" form of this work, or that composed merely of shells and silver wire. It is doubtless the most chaste, from its extreme purity; but it is also the most perishable, for we all know how quickly silver tarnishes; it likewise is not so convenient for wear, especially in the hair, for, be as careful as ever we will, we cannot entirely avoid roughness and projecting points.

The "composite form," which we are now about to describe, admits of the ornaments being made to match, or contrast with, or set off, any hue of dress or complexion. In the making of composite rice shell-wreaths, &c., various materials are brought into use, as floss-silk; fine wire-chenil; Roman-pearl beads, and beads of a similar kind of coral color, turquoise, pink, green, or yellow; flower-seeds; velvet or satin, or silver leaves; and silver bullion.

To make a wreath, and a set of sprays for a bridal-dress, we should use white floss-silk, white chenil, and silver bullion. The shells are to be "wired," as directed in our former article; but, in making them up into leaves and flowers, instead of using the fine wire, we use the floss-silk to wind or bind them; and thus, instead of the wires being all exposed, they are hidden, and the stems present a smooth silken surface.

For making a simple, or single flower, we use the five shells as before, but we cut half an inch of silver bullion, thread it on one of the cut lengths of wire (of which we directed there should always be a supply), fold it into a loop, twist the wire to keep the bullion firmly in form and place, and put this in the centre of the flower, arranging the five shells round it, and binding the stem with the silk.

In making the "double flower," we use twenty instead of the seventeen shells before directed; viz. five for the flower, and fifteen for the five leaflets of three shells each; in the centre of the five shells we put the loop of bullion just described, and between the flower and the leaflets we arrange five loops of fine wire-chenil at equal distances, as in this cut, allowing each loop to project nearly half an inch, and binding them on with the fine wire; the leaflets are then arranged round the stem so that the centre shell of each one appears between, and just beyond each two loops; the whole is bound together with silk, and the stem covered to its extremity. The "bud" may either have a loop of chenil standing up on each side of the shells of which it is composed, or it may be formed solely of two or three loops of chenil bound on to a stem of wire with floss-silk. When the flowers are colored, by adding chenil and beads, or seeds to them, green leaves and green buds have a very pretty effect.

The leaves for the bridal ornaments we were speaking of, may either be composed of shells and wound with white silk or silver, or white satin or velvet, or crêpe leaves may be used. We need scarcely add that silk must be used to bind all the parts together.

Let us imagine, now, that a _brunette_ desires to dress her hair, and decorate her snowy ball-dress with wreaths, and sprays, &c., of scarlet or coral color.

The shells must be prepared, and wired in the ordinary way, and half a dozen reels of floss-silk, and a knot of chenil of the desired hue, and four strings of small coral-colored beads, and two of beads about the average size of peas, got. These beads must each be threaded separately like the shells, but on rather shorter lengths of wire, and the wire folded and twisted to make it hold its beads firmly. One of the larger beads should be put in the centre of every double flower, and three of the small ones in the centre of every single flower. The flowers may be made simply with the five shells and five loops of chenil, omitting the leaflets. If the leaves are to be made of shells, the stems must be bound with this colored silk; but velvet, or satin, or tinsel leaves of the same hue may be substituted for or intermixed with the shell leaves with good effect.

Ornaments for blue, pink, green, or maize _toilettes_ may in like manner be formed _en suite_ by substituting beads, silk, and chenil, of the chosen shade, for the color we have given. Mourning-wreaths, &c., may likewise be made by using black silk, chenil, and beads; or gray silk and chenil with pearl beads, and gray or white satin leaves.

When once our readers have begun to carry our directions into practice, they will perceive how possible it is to create an infinite variety of tasteful articles, all differing in style, form, and hue. Coronets, wreaths, and headdresses of every conceivable pattern may be made; sprays for the dress of any size, length, or shape; bouquets for the waist or bosom; trimmings for the _corsage_; tiny wreaths to put between quilled ribbon or _blonde_ for the purpose of ornamenting gloves, or sleeves, or the top of the dress; flowers for caps; studs or buttons for the front of a dress; in short, more things than we have time or space to name. And all these may be made very economically, for less than one-third of the ordinary cost of such decorations.

We have given, at the commencement of this article, a cut of a spray, or rather of a portion of one, for want of space compelled us to shorten it; it has green velvet leaves; the flowers are surrounded by chenil loops, and have in their centres flower-seeds; it is wound with silk.

This cut represents a small bouquet to be worn brooch-fashion in the bosom of the dress; it is composed of shells and turquoise beads, and wound with light blue silk. The leaves are of shells, and gradually increase in size towards the end of it.

The advantage of using silk instead of the fine silver wire for binding the stems, &c., is, that not only are all points and inequalities thus smoothed over, but, with ordinary care, the articles wear much longer--for even if the small portions of silver wire left exposed do tarnish, they cannot mar the beauty of the whole, forming then so very trifling a portion of it, instead of the leading feature, as they do in "simple rice shell-work."

We said just now that studs or buttons could be formed with shells; we will now explain how this may be done.

Cut out a set of circular pieces of white cartridge-paper, or very thin card-board of the size it is wished the buttons should be; from the diameter of a dollar to that of a twenty-five cent piece is the ordinary scale. Have ready wired some middle-sized and small shells, and a pearl or colored bead the size of a pea for each button.

With a good-sized pin perforate a circle of holes, about a third of an inch in, all the way round, and pass the wire of a middle-sized shell through each, bending the shells down, so that they lie evenly round with their backs upwards, and their points projecting just beyond the edge of the card-board. Without disturbing the wires on the wrong side, now make another circle of perforated holes, and put in another round of shells, bending them so as just to overlap the outer ones. Still leave the ends of wire, and pierce a third circle of holes, and into these put small shells, and bend them in like manner, to fit on the former rounds. Three circles will generally be sufficient for a good-sized button. Pierce a hole in the centre, and put in the wired bead, which will fill up and complete the surface. Now carefully flatten down the wires at the back, and cover the back with silk, arranging any shell which may have become misplaced afterwards.

The floss-silk may be obtained at any large Berlin wool shop; it is sold on small reels, of which from two to six or eight will be required, according to the quantity of work which has to be wound.

The chenil is procurable at the same place; one knot goes a great way. It is the small wired chenil we use, not the fine embroidery chenil.

The beads are sold at most fancy repositories. It is not the crystal glass, or the seed bead which we use, but those French colored glass beads that have lately been so much worn. It is not absolutely necessary they be only round; for there is a long, or rather an oblong variety, which is very effective.

The leaves and flower-seeds may be bought at any artificial florist's; but the best way is to obtain them from the makers, then they can be ordered of any color or pattern.

A circular wreath of simple daisy-flowers, like the third flower cut given in our last article, has very chaste and graceful appearance; or these flowers may be combined with the wheat-ears with good effect.

But we have said enough to open the path to our readers; and once entered therein, they will find the work infinitely suggestive, and offering scope for every graceful and tasteful vagary. So we will only add a little word of advice--aim at lightness, not only of appearance, but of actual weight, and never crowd or load any ornament with too much work. The leading principle of artistic excellence in every department of art is simplicity; and this may be attained by close and severe attention. The eye is most pleased when it can retain at a glance the chief points of attraction.

In our third article, we shall give instructions for making baskets, &c.

VALENTINE'S DAY.

In the western counties, the children, decked with the wreaths and true-lover's knots presented to them, gayly adorn one of their number as their chief, and march from house to house, singing--

"Good-morrow to you, Valentine!
Curl your locks as I do mine,
Two before and three behind;
Good-morrow to you, Valentine!"

They commence in many places as early as six o'clock in the morning, and intermingle the cry, "To-morrow is come!" Afterwards they make merry with their collections. At Islip, Oxfordshire, England, I have heard the children sing the following, when collecting pence on this day--

"Good-morrow, Valentine!
I be thine and thou be'st mine,
So please give me a Valentine."

And likewise the following--

"Good-morrow, Valentine!
God bless you ever!
If you'll be true to me,
I'll be the like to thee;
Old England for ever!"

Schoolboys have a very uncomplimentary way of presenting each other with these poetical memorials--

"Peep, fool, peep,
What do you think to see?
Every one has a Valentine,
And here's one for thee!"

Far different from these is a stanza which is a great favorite with young girls on this day, offered indiscriminately, and, of course, quite innocently, to most of their acquaintances--

"The rose is red,
The violet's blue;
Pinks are sweet,
And so are you!"