PART II.

THE MIDDAY MEAL.

Englishmen fall into two classes as regards their diet; those that take a small lunch and their chief meal in the evening, and those who make the midday meal the chief and take a small supper before retiring.

Social position is the chief agent which determines to which class an individual belongs. The working classes usually dine in the middle of the day, and the professional and upper classes dine in the evening.

We will continue our remarks on the diet of the richer classes, not because it is better or more suitable than the plainer diet of the working classes, but because the rich naturally keep a more varied table, and so will give us more material to criticise.

Luncheon is a desultory sort of meal, and though most people eat something, many do so only because they think that it is the thing to do, and not because they are really hungry.

If you will accompany us, we will go to see the luncheon given by Lord X. at his Surrey home. But we cannot go as guests, for not only have we not been invited, but we are going to criticise many things about the table and the meal. We must, therefore, remain invisible and inaudible, for it is unpardonable to make remarks at the table, even if those remarks would save a whole company from indigestion and a sleepless night.

Before the meal is served, our eyes are offended by something on the sideboard which is sufficient to destroy the appetite of any extra delicately-minded person if she only knew its secrets.

The object is nothing less than a cold pheasant pie ornamented by the head or feathers of the bird whose flesh the pie is supposed to contain. We want you to examine that ornament, and we feel pretty certain that if you do, you will never again eat meat pies.

In order that the carcases of dead animals should not encumber the earth, it has been ordained that when an animal dies, its body rapidly decomposes and becomes dissolved into simple gases. The agents that bring about the dissolution of the body are various. The chief agents which cause the decomposition of organic matter are microbes. The majority of these do not produce diseases in man, but some of them do, and some of these you might find on that pheasant pie if you could see it through a microscope.

Similarly offensive, but to a less degree, is the practice of putting pigeons’ feet sticking outside a steak pie to suggest that the remainder of the birds is inside, and putting feathers into the tails of roast pheasants.

One of the chief values of cooking is to sterilise food, so why foul the food you have so carefully sterilised by sticking decaying matter into it?

The first item of the luncheon consists of oysters, and we notice that only three out of the company of twelve partake of them. As nearly everybody who can afford them likes oysters, there is probably some special reason why nine out of twelve persons refuse them. Doubtless it is the typhoid scare, and we are much pleased to see that some persons, at all events, do occasionally give a side thought to preventive medicine.

The question of the causation of typhoid fever by oysters is one of great importance, and one that should be clearly understood by everyone. That oysters are one of the means by which some recent epidemics of typhoid fever have been spread is undoubted, but the exact part that they have played is not so easy to understand, for the latest commission upon the question found that the typhoid bacillus is killed by immersion in sea-water, that it did not occur in any oysters that they opened, and when it was injected into the oyster, it was promptly killed.

This seems to say emphatically that oysters cannot harbour the typhoid bacillus, and therefore cannot produce typhoid fever. But medicine is not as easy as that. That the oysters they examined could not produce typhoid fever is certain, but their remarks do not by any means prove that typhoid is not spread by any oysters.

At one time there was very great excitement about this question, and a tremendous lot of nonsense was talked about it. Some persons maintained the typhoid bacillus only occurred in bad oysters. We suppose a bad oyster is eaten occasionally, but Lord X.’s guests are not likely to be troubled with bad oysters.

Oysters cannot cause typhoid fever unless they contain this bacillus, and they only obtain it from sewers opening into the sea. Therefore it is only those oysters which have come from places where sewers open into the sea that can cause typhoid fever.

Of course, as soon as the oyster scare was started, everybody who caught typhoid fever attributed it to oysters she had eaten the day, the week, month, or year before. But the incubation period of typhoid fever is from one to three weeks; that means that when the bacilli get into the body they do not produce the disease till from one to three weeks after infection. Therefore it is only oysters eaten from one to three weeks before the onset of the fever that could possibly have caused the disease. As a matter of fact, oysters are a real, but not very common, method by which typhoid is spread.

We notice that one of the three guests who have taken oysters discards one because it is green. He is quite right to do so, for though it may be quite wholesome, it may be coloured with copper. Doubtless it would do no harm, but he is quite right not to risk the possibility of sickness for an oyster!

Amongst the other items of the luncheon we notice cold beef and salad. These will furnish us with material for discussion, for there are several very important medical points in connection with both.

Cold meat is a very good food in its way, but like all meat it is a strong food, that is, it is readily digested and furnishes a very large amount of nourishment. If you make a meal entirely of beef, you will not suffer from indigestion, because beef is very digestible, but you will eat too much, you will throw too much nourishment into the blood, and you will give your organs, especially the liver and kidneys, great trouble to dispose of the superfluous nourishment.

Although a cold joint of beef seems so much less rich and strong than the same joint hot, it is really very much the same in the amount of nourishment that it contains. People very rarely serve hot meat without vegetables and surroundings, but it is the fashion to serve cold meat by itself, with nothing but bread, and most persons eat very little bread indeed with their meals.

Meat should never be served alone. Vegetables of some sort must be served with both hot and cold meat, and far more vegetable and less meat than is usually served should be your aim.

Salad is of course a vegetable or vegetables, and if properly prepared and selected, it is not at all a bad form of food.

We do not suppose many of you know much of the mysteries of agriculture, for if you did, such a thing as an unwashed salad would never appear upon your tables. Salads are not washed half enough, and an unwashed salad is a most dangerous article of food. All vegetables are best when rapidly grown, and to grow vegetables rapidly it is necessary to supply them with strong manures.

You must thoroughly wash and dry any vegetables that you eat raw, for, excluding such harmless creatures as slugs and caterpillars, they may contain germs of disease. Typhoid fever is frequently caused by eating unwashed salads, especially watercress. This is a far more common method of getting typhoid than is eating infected oysters. Another disease almost invariably due to eating infected vegetables is hydatid disease, a somewhat uncommon affection in England, but one of the most formidable plagues in Iceland and Australia.

There are few salads which are not difficult to digest. Corn salad, French lettuce, endive, beetroot, and watercresses, are the least indigestible, then come in order, Cos lettuce, chicory, mustard and cress, cucumber, and radishes. Spring onions usually agree with most persons, but some people cannot stand onions in any form. Onions always produce the peculiar and decidedly unpleasant odour of the breath, and not, as is usually supposed, only in those who cannot digest them. For the smell is due to the excretion of the volatile oil of onions by the breath.

Two excellent salads are potato salad and cold vegetable salad. This morning we read a recipe for the latter in one of the back numbers of this paper, and it struck us as being a particularly inviting and desirable addition to a dinner of cold meat.

The lunch is finished off with a savoury of herrings’ roes on toast. These were probably tinned roes, or we will presume they were, so as to introduce the discussion of the values and dangers of tinned meat.

The dangers of eating tinned meats have been grossly exaggerated, and if you pay a reasonable price for tinned provisions, it is extremely unlikely that they will do you any harm. Unfortunately, many thousands of “blown” tins of putrid provisions are still sold in London yearly in spite of the care and close scrutiny of the law. But if you pay a reasonable sum for your tinned provisions, you will not get these bad tins. Of course, if you pay fourpence a dozen for tins of milk or sardines, you cannot expect to get good stuff, and you should always avoid tins reduced in price, for it usually means that they are very stale.

There are two ways in which tinned things may become poisonous, either the contents may become contaminated with the metal of the cans, or the meats themselves may undergo alkaloidal degeneration. The former, the lesser evil, can only occur in tinned meats. The latter, by far the greater evil, may occur in any preserved provisions, and is perhaps more common in stores preserved in skins or glasses than in those in tins.

Nowadays meats do not often become poisoned by the tins in which they have been kept. It used to be not uncommon for the solder of the tin to be dissolved by acid juices in the contents. This was especially frequent with tinned Morella cherries and other acid tart-fruits. But now acid fruits are nearly always sold in bottles, and only fruits which are sweet and not acid are sold in tins.

The tinned fruits that we get from California are most excellent, and we have never heard of ill-effects of any kind following their use. The canning is carried on entirely by girls on the Californian ranches. The tins are rather dear, but they are much the best things of the kind that have come beneath our notice.

The second method by which tinned meats may become poisoned is a degeneration, or decomposition if you like, by which the wholesome albumen of the contents is changed into intensely poisonous animal alkaloids. Alkaloids are very powerful bodies, and the vegetable alkaloids, such as strychnine, quinine, and morphine, are much used in medicine.

But these animal alkaloids are far more powerful for harm than even the most deadly of the vegetable poisons. So powerful are they that a quantity of one of them found in canned fish, which killed two adults who had partaken of it, was insufficient to demonstrate by our most delicate chemical tests. If these drugs are so powerful for harm, is it not possible that they may be equally powerful for good, when their actions and doses are worked out?

What causes this curious decomposition of preserved provisions is not known. In tinned meats, at all events, it cannot be ordinary putrefaction, for this cannot occur without air, and the tins are air-tight. It is probably due to organisms, but this is uncertain.

This form of decomposition of meat cannot be told by the flavour of the provisions; and its deleterious effects cannot be destroyed by boiling. There is no way to prevent it save by buying preserved provisions which have not been kept for long.

AN AFTERNOON “BOOK PARTY.”

Though book parties are not very new, they are not, I think, so general but that the idea may be a new one to some readers of THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER, and if they have not yet been at one, they may be glad to have some suggestions on the subject. I think these book afternoons certainly give a good deal of amusement to the participants without trouble or appreciable expense to the giver. For the benefit of such as may feel inclined to entertain their friends in this way, here is the account of an afternoon party to which I was invited a few weeks back. These gatherings are, I might say, most suitable for young people; but though it is a long time since I could class myself amongst the young, I really enjoyed the merry afternoon we had. Our invitations were for afternoon tea at 4.30, but in the corner was written, “Book Party.” By this it was understood that every guest should symbolise some book, not necessarily by dress, but by wearing some emblem or motto that would give the name of the book selected.

The hostess provided as many cards and pencils as there were guests. These were plain correspondence cards which had been decorated with pretty or comic designs at the top by the daughter of the house. Each visitor had a card with pencil given to him or to her on arrival which was to have the titles and names of the other “books” present written on it. It need hardly be said that many mistakes are always made, while in some cases the emblems chosen are so remote that it is hardly possible to divine the meaning.

A few of the books represented, and the symbols used, will best explain this, and may also help any girls who are inclined to inaugurate an entertainment of this kind.

On the occasion of which I am writing the host and hostess said they, together, named a book, though they wore no badge or mark. Of course, nearly all guessed that they were Wilkie Collins’s _Man and Wife_. A young lady came in white to represent _The Woman in White_, while a lady in a silk dress and hat was meant for Black’s _In Silk Attire_. Then a gentleman wore the hostess’s visiting-card for _Our Mutual Friend_. A lady wore the sign “Gemini” in her hat for Sarah Grand’s _Heavenly Twins_. A lucky penny fastened on the shoulder showing the head with “I win” below it, and a second penny showing the reverse side, and under that “you lose,” stood for _Bound to Win_. Then 1 o 0 n 0 e 0, written on a card, and worn in a hat, was to be read _One in a Thousand_, while some coins on a string signified _Hard Cash_. A bow of orange and green ribbon gave Henty’s book _Orange and Green_. A neat-looking girl wore a cravat with a piece of the lace hanging from it for _Never too Late to Mend_, while another young girl had the word “stood” stuck in her hat for _Misunderstood_. Some large white wings in a hat gave Black’s novel of that name. A little sketch of a child with eyes shut and mouth wide open was for _Great Expectations_. A lad with N & S on the side of his jacket meant to represent _A Tale of Two Cities_. The word wedding, written in red ink, was for Jephson’s _Pink Wedding_, and the musical notation of a chime stood for _The Lay of the Bell_. The queen of hearts out of a pack of cards was worn by a gentleman to represent Wilkie Collins’s novel of that name, while “no credit,” stuck in a hat, was meant for James Payn’s _For Cash Only_. A girl wore her mother’s photograph for Grace Aguilar’s _Home Influence_. Heartsease, yellow aster, and other flowers that name books, also small pictures of “Pair of Blue Eyes,” “Windsor Castle,” “Old St. Paul’s,” and others. There were also some books of more serious character, such as the _Times Encyclopædia_; the twenty-five volumes were marked on a belt. Sir J. Lubbock’s _Ants, Bees, and Wasps_ also found a representative. It is easy to find an endless variety of book names that one can symbolise in one way or another, but works of fiction lend themselves the most easily.

On the particular afternoon of which I am writing we were all occupied with our cards while tea was being handed. When all seemed to have finished writing, the hostess took all the cards, and amidst much laughter the names of the books were read out from each card, and a prize awarded to the owner of the card with the most correct guesses on it, and a second prize was given to the one who was least successful—the “duffer’s prize” it was called. This was a wooden spoon, which, however, was received with great good humour, the recipient declaring he had never in his life guessed anything!

The first prize was a box of sweets, which the winner handed round to the unsuccessful competitors.

TO NIGHT.

Come, solemn Night, and spread thy pall Wide o’er the slumbering shore and sea, And hang along thy vaulted hall The star-lights of eternity; Thy beacons, beautiful and bright— Isles in the ocean of the blest— That guide the parted spirit’s flight Unto the land of rest.

Come—for the evening glories fade, Quenched in the ocean’s depths profound; Come with thy solitude and shade, Thy silence and thy sound; Awake the deep and lonely lay From wood and stream, of saddening tone; The harmonies unheard by day, The music all thine own!

And with thy starry eyes that weep Their silent dews on flower and tree, My heart shall solemn vigils keep— My thoughts converse with thee; Upon whose glowing page expand The revelations of the sky; Which knowledge teach to every land, Of man’s high destiny.

For while the mighty orbs of fire (So “wildly bright” they seem to live) Feel not the beauty they inspire, Nor see the light they give; Even I, an atom of the earth— Itself an atom ’midst the frame Of nature—can inquire their birth, And ask them whence they came.

OUR LILY GARDEN.

PRACTICAL AIDS TO THE CULTURE OF LILIES.

BY CHARLES PETERS.

There are but few lilies left for us to describe, and these are of very little importance to the flower-grower.

_Lilium Concolor_ and _Lilium Davidii_ are usually considered under the Isolirion group, but they present such numerous deviations from that group of lilies that we have decided to make a group of them alone.

_Lilium Concolor_ is a pretty, little, very variable lily. It is more suitable for a button-hole decoration than for anything else, but it has a pleasing effect when grown in great masses. This species has a very small bulb with few, acute, oblong scales. The plant grows to about a foot high, and bears from one to three flowers about an inch and a half across, and of a deep crimson colour spotted with black. The flowers open very wide, and the filaments are shorter than in any other lily. Of the great number of varieties of this lily we will describe two. The first, named _Buschianum_, or _Sinicum_, grows taller, has larger leaves, and larger and more numerous blossoms, which are of a fine crimson.

The second variety, _Coridion_, is by far the handsomest of the group, bearing large flowers of a bright yellow spotted with brown. _Concolor_ is a native of Western Asia. Its culture is very simple, and it is perfectly hardy.

Of _Lilium Davidii_, we only know that it was discovered by David in Thibet; that it grows about two feet high, and bears bright yellow flowers spotted with brown. We also know that there is a plate of this species in Elwes’s Monograph. The plant is practically unknown to everybody.

The last group of lilies, Notholirion, contains two or, as we have it, three species which are not very well known, and it is a little doubtful whether they are lilies at all. Formerly they were considered to be fritillaries, and certainly they bear more superficial resemblance to those plants than they do to the lilies.

Most authors include _Lilium Oxypetalum_ among the Archelirions, because its flowers are widely expanded. But as in every other particular it differs completely from that group of lilies, we have separated it from _L. Auratum_ and _L. Speciosum_, and placed it among the Notholirions, to which it bears considerable resemblance.

This little-known lily was formerly called Fritillaria oxypetala, and bears more resemblance to the fritillaries than it does to the lilies. The bulb is oblong, with but few lance-shaped scales. The stem grows to the height of about fifteen inches, and bears about twenty or thirty leaves, resembling those of our native snake’s-head fritillary in every particular. One or two blossoms are borne on each stem. They are pale lilac, star-like blossoms, with numerous little hairs on the bases of the segments. The petals are acutely pointed. The anthers are scarlet.

This plant is a native of the Western Himalayas. It is very uncommon in gardens. We have never possessed it, and know nothing of its culture.

The two lilies _Lilium Roseum_ and _Lilium Hookeri_ are now included in this genus, but they have been referred first to the lilies, then to the fritillaries, then back again to the lilies, and so on. And it is very doubtful if they are even now in their last resting-place.

The bulbs of these lilies are invested in dense membranous tunics like those of the daffodil. _Lilium Roseum_ grows to about two feet high; _L. Hookeri_ rarely reaches half this height. The leaves are said to bear bulblets in their axils. Six to thirty little nodding bell-like blossoms of a deep lilac colour are produced by _L. Roseum_, but _L. Hookeri_ rarely produces more than eight blossoms. But little is known of these lilies. They are both natives of the Himalayas, and are said to be somewhat tender. They may be grown in a mixture of rubble, old bricks, sand, and leaf mould.

We have never grown them ourselves, as it is practically impossible to obtain bulbs. We have seen _L. Roseum_ in blossom, and were not particularly impressed by it.

Had we been describing roses, chrysanthemums, hyacinths, or any other flowers which are highly cultivated, we would have dismissed the natural species with a very brief description, and turned our chief attention to the artificial varieties and hybrids.

But with lilies it is different. As we have seen, there are very many natural species. Indeed, the species almost outnumber the varieties, and these latter are rarely very different from the parent species. As regards double-flowered varieties, we have seen that only four lilies bear them, whereas nine-tenths of the cultivated varieties of roses and chrysanthemums are double.

And when we pass on to consider the hybrid lilies, we are likewise astonished at their paucity. Why are hybrid lilies so uncommon? Let us see if we can fathom the mystery.

One reason is that the majority of lilies never bear seed in England. Many, even in their native climes, bear seed but rarely, the natural method of increase being by bulblets. Another reason with us is the exceeding difficulty of raising lily-seed. They take so long to germinate that most seeds are destroyed before they show any sign of life.

Still, we believe that there is a great future for the hybridisation on lilies. Perhaps you would like to try it yourself. Then proceed as follows.

Let us cross _Lilium Auratum_ with _Lilium Speciosum_. Choose well-grown specimens of each lily. Let the buds develop till they begin to change colour. Then remove every bud except one—the best—from each plant. The remaining bud of the _L. Auratum_ must then be slipped open, and the anthers removed. It may then be allowed to open naturally, but it must be carefully protected from insects of any kind, lest one of these should bring to it a pollen grain from another blossom of its own species. When the _L. Speciosum_ has matured its pollen, cut off the anthers, and rub the pollen upon the style of the _L. Auratum_.

Three things may now happen. The first, the most likely, is that the flower will die, and will not produce seed. The second is that the plant will produce seed, but these, when they have been grown into flowering bulbs, will reproduce unaltered _L. Auratum_. The third—last and least likely possibility—is that the plant will produce seed which, when grown and flowered, will produce blossoms which partake of the characters of its two parents. In other words, these last are genuine hybrids.

It is extremely unlikely that more than one per cent. of the seeds will produce a blossom which bears the marks of both parents. The majority will either die, or else be simple _L. Auratum_, without anything to show that they are hybrids.

Even with those rare plants which definitely show their hybrid origin, a great diversity of colouring may be observed. But the colour of the parents is very variable, and after a few years the hybrid lily looses the characteristics of the _L. Speciosum_ and becomes merely a reddish variety of _L. Auratum_.

But there are two hybrid lilies which are quite constant, and as they are two of the finest of the whole group, they are well worth growing.

_Lilium Alexandræ_, the Japanese “Uki Ure” or “Hill Lily,” is in all probability a hybrid between _Lilium Auratum_ and _Lilium Longiflorum_. We say “in all probability,” for we are not quite certain that it is not a true species.

There are some persons who think that one white lily is much like another. But put side by side _L. Alexandræ_, _L. Longiflorum_, and _L. Candidum_. Are they alike? Could anyone mistake one for another? Surely not! They differ in every detail—even in colour. The long trumpet of _L. Longiflorum_ is delicate greenish-white. The Madonna lily is like porcelain; and the hill lily possesses a rich milky hue, somewhat resembling the colour of _L. Brownii_, which we so much admired.

And in shape how different they are. One is a long and regular trumpet, another is a shallow cup, and the lily we are specially considering is widely opened with its segments slightly curved, the whole blossom resembling a gigantic white star.

_Lilium Alexandræ_ is not a big lily. It grows about two feet high and bears from one to four blossoms. These blossoms are very large, of a rich milky white, resembling in shape those of _L. Auratum_. The pollen is chocolate colour. The fragrance of this lily is very great. On the evening of a hot day in the middle of August last year we could detect the scent of a bed of these lilies, then in full bloom, at the distance of over one hundred yards. Its scent is rich and full, something between that of jasmine and vanilla.

The culture of this hybrid is not difficult. It is best grown in pots, for it is very sensitive to rain at its flowering period. In rigorous districts this lily should be grown in a cool greenhouse, but in the south of England it will grow to perfection out of doors. The soil should consist of equal parts of peat, very finely broken, leaf-mould, and sharp sand. It wants a very large quantity of water.

Few lilies have given us greater pleasure than _L. Alexandræ_. It is one of those plants which are so striking that it is impossible to forget them when you have once seen them. It is so very delicate, so pure and so fragrant.

Doubtless most of our readers are acquainted with the old Nankeen lily. This is a very old favourite, and is usually thought to be a true species, but for all that it is almost for certain a hybrid between _L. Candidum_ and _L. Chalcedoniam_. This plant rejoices in a goodly number of names, of which _L. Testaceum_, _L. Isabellinum_, and _L. Excelsum_ are the commonest.

This lily is unknown in the wild state, and its origin is very obscure. It is an English garden hybrid, but who first raised it or possessed it is unknown.

Yet it is a very striking lily, growing to the height of four or five feet and producing a great cluster of buff-coloured blossoms. In general features it resembles its parent _L. Candidum_, but the flower shows a distinct connection with the Martagons. Its colour certainly is not derived from either of its parents. A mixture of scarlet and pure white should give pink; but _L. Testaceum_ is of a yellowish-buff colour. The lily which it most nearly resembles is _L. Monodelphum_; but though very fine, it is nothing like so splendid as that queen of the Martagons.

This lily is distinctly a cottage-garden flower. Except in that situation it is never seen. Yet it is common enough in old cottage-gardens, and a more befitting flower can scarcely be imagined. It looks old—in keeping with the place which it enhances by its presence.

The cultivation of this lily is the same as that of _L. Candidum_. It does not do well until it is well established, and it has a particular objection to growing in modern gardens.

_Lilium Parkmanni_ is the hybrid between _L. Auratum_ and _L. Speciosum_. Genuine specimens bear blossoms somewhat intermediate between the parent species.

There is also a hybrid between _L. Hansoni_ and _L. Martagon Dalmaticum_, called _Lilium Dalhansoni_.

These four hybrids are the only ones which deserve to be mentioned, and of these only the first two are worth a place in the flower-garden.

(_To be concluded._)

CHOCOLATE DATES.

Have you ever tasted chocolate dates? If so, these directions will be almost needless to you, for I fancy that you will not have stopped at a taste, but will have tried and found out a way to manufacture them for yourself. But so far as I know, these dates are, as yet, quite a home-made sweet, and they are so delicious and so wholesome that they ought to be more widely known. Here then is the recipe. Any sort of dates and any sort of chocolate may be used, but the best results are got from the best materials in confectionary even more than in other work. Take then a pound of Tunis dates, either bought in the familiar oblong boxes or by the pound. Leave out any which are not perfectly ripe; the soapy taste of one of these paler, firmer dates is enough to disgust anyone with dates for ever. Wipe the others very gently with a damp cloth (dates are not gathered by the Dutch!), slit them lengthwise with a silver knife, but only so far as to enable you to extract the kernel without bruising the fruit. Then prepare the chocolate. Grate a quarter of a pound of best French chocolate, add an equal weight of fresh icing sugar, two tablespoonfuls of boiling water, and mix in a small brass or earthenware saucepan over the fire until quite smooth, only it must _not_ boil; last of all add a few drops of vanilla.

Then put your small saucepan inside a larger one half filled with boiling water, just to keep the chocolate fluid until all the dates are filled. Take up a little of the mixture in a teaspoon, press open the date, and pour it neatly in. There must be no smears or threads of chocolate if your confectionary is to look dainty. When about a dozen are filled, gently press the sides together, and the chocolate should just show a shiny brown ridge in the middle of the date. Place on a board in a cool place to harden; they may be packed up next day.

Almost as nice as chocolate dates are nougat dates. The foundation for the nougat is the same as for American candies: the white of one egg and an equal quantity of cold water to half a pound of sifted icing sugar, all mixed perfectly smoothly together. Then chop equal quantities of blanched walnuts, almonds, Brazils, and hazel nuts together, mix with the sugar in the proportion of two thirds of nut to one of the sugar mixture, and leave until next day in the cellar. By that time the nougat will be firm enough to form into kernels by gently rolling between the hands; if it sticks, your hands are too warm. It is best to do this part of the work in the cellar. Having stoned and first wiped your dates, put in the nougat kernels, gently pressing the sides together; they will harden in a short time, and very pretty they look packed alternately with the chocolate dates in fancy boxes. Tunis dates do not keep good much longer than two months, the grocer tells me; we have never been able to keep them half that time to try! Of course, you can use the commoner dates, which are very good to eat, but hardly so nice to look at as the others, because on account of their more sugary consistency it is impossible to fill them so neatly as the moister Tunis dates. Tafilat dates are somehow too dry and solid to combine well either with nuts or chocolate.

HOW WE MANAGED WITHOUT SERVANTS.

BY MRS. FRANK W. W. TOPHAM, Author of “The Alibi,” “The Fateful Number,” etc.