Q78 
AMERICAN AGRICULTURIST, 
[September, 
out these stripes—dont undertake to tear them— 
and sew them on to the front edges and ends 
of the curtains. Take a narrow strip of wood—a 
lath will answer if it be long enough—and tack 
one end of the curtain to it, then nail this above 
the window frame. Now make some bands of 
the strips, with which to loop up the curtains, 
and you will produce a much prettier effect than 
by nailing to your windows a bright calico with 
a large flowery pattern which every fold distorts. 
A very pretty simple cornice may be made for 
lace or muslin curtains by pasting gilt paper on 
a lath, then nail the curtain on the back of the 
wood, and allow it to fall over the gilt. 
Plain net curtains—even white mosquito-net¬ 
ting would answer—with the edges hemmed over 
a strip of bright-colored lining muslin about three 
inches wide, look very tasty. A band of the col¬ 
ored muslin should be covered with netting to go 
across the top of the window, and to loop up the 
sides. Then those window-shades—those land¬ 
scapes with the brown woman under a burnt 
sienna parasol, coming out of a yellow ochre 
Summer-house o’ershadowed by Indian red fo¬ 
liage, to meet a raw-umber man in a vandyke- 
brown boat on a burnt-umber lake—need we 
have those ! May we not have neat, plain white 
or buff shades to refresh us 1 If they will do all 
this, I will tell them how to make a mosquito net 
that shall rid the room of flies ; having made one 
and tried it, I will answer for its entire efficacy. 
Take that old torn mosquito netting off the 
frame in the window', and around the outside of 
said frame drive some tacks about one inch 
apart; let the spaces between the nails be uni¬ 
form ; then get a spool of very coarse black 
thread, make the end fast to one of the corner 
tacks, cross the thread to the opposite nail, pass 
it over twm tacks, then back again and so on un¬ 
til you have taken it across both the short and 
long way of the frame, then cross it diagonally. 
Put this in your window at early morning and 
towards evening, and the flies will go out through 
it ; should one or two find their way in, they will 
go out again. But —there must be no light be¬ 
hind the frame—no window at the back, nor any 
white or light material; it must look black from 
the outside; that is the secret of its success. 
Do you like to have the flies making free with 
your features—particularly the nose—in the 
morning when you wmnt to sleep 1 I don’t mean 
when it is time to get up, of course, I mean an 
hour or two before that. I arranged my frame in 
rny bedroom window last night, and oh ! how 
gloriously I slept until the “ first bell ” did what 
otherwise the flies would have done. 
Brooklyn, N. Y. Aunt Sue. 
- --»•«--- «.-:— 
How a Quiet Woman Conquered. 
A friend who is noted for his naturally head- 
tlrong disposition, which impels him to “have 
his own way,” has a most quiet and amiable 
companion, who governs him absolutely, and with 
the least possible jarring or discord. Being on 
very intimate terms with him, we asked him how 
it happened that his wife held such complete 
control over him that she generally had her 
own way. “ Oil,” said he, “ that is the easiest 
tiling in the world ; when any difference of opin¬ 
ion arises, she expresses her sentiments calmly, 
and when, as usual, I insist that my way is right, 
she gives it up at once, simply saying—or look¬ 
ing when she does not say it— 1 Well have your 
own way and you will live the longer.’ Of course 
1 am not so mulish as to always lake my own 
way when it is so readily conceded, and so we 
get on very pleasantly. I think I choose her 
way most of the time.”—Apropos to this, we 
must tell a story that has been in the Agricultur¬ 
ist drawer for some time past. We give it in the 
narrator’s own words: 
“ I never undertook but once, said Tim, to set 
at naught the authority of my wife.—You know 
her way—cool, quiet, hut determined as ever 
grew. Just after we were married, and all was 
nice and cozy, she got me into the habit of doing 
all the churning. She finished breakfast before 
me one morning, and slipping away from the ta¬ 
ble, she filled the churn with cream, and set it 
down just where I couldn’t help seeing what was 
wanted. So I took hold readily enough, and 
churned till the butter came. She didn’t thank 
me, but looked so nice and sweet about it, that I 
felt well paid. 
Well, when the next churning day came along, 
she did the same thing, and I followed suit and 
fetched the butter. Again and again it was done 
just so, and I was regularly set at it every time. 
Not a word said, you know, of course. Well, 
by and by this began to be rather irksome. I 
wanted she should just ask me, but she never did, 
and I wouldn’t say anything about it to save my 
life. So on we went. At last I made a resolve 
that I would not churn another time until she 
asked me. Churning day came, and when my 
breakfast—she always got nice breakfasts—when 
that was swallowed, there stood the churn. I 
got up, and standing for a few minutes, just to 
give her a chance, I put on my hat and walked 
out of doors 1 I stopped in the yard to give her 
time to call me, but never a word said she, and 
so with a palpitating heart I moved on. I went 
down town, and my foot was as restless as was 
that of Noah’s dove. I felt as if I had done a 
wrong. I did not exactly feel how—but there 
was an indescribable sensation of guilt resting on 
me all the forenoon. 
It seemed as if dinner would never come, and 
as for going home one minute before dinner, 1 
would as soon have cut my ears off. So I went 
fretting and moping around till dinner hour came. 
Home I went, feeling very much as a criminal 
must, when the jury is out, having in their hands 
his destiny—life or death. I couldn't make up 
my mind exactly how she would meet me—but 
some kind of a storm I expected. Will you be¬ 
lieve it—she even greeted me with a smile— 
never had a better dinner for me than on that 
day ; but there stood the churn just where I left 
it. Not a word was said ; I felt confoundedly 
cut, and every mouthful of that dinner seemed as 
if it would choke me. She didn’t pay any regard 
to it, however, but went on just exactly as if 
nothing had happened. Before dinner was over, 
I had again resolved, and shoving back my chair, 
I marched to the churn and went at it, just in the 
old way ! Splash, dip, rattle—I kept it up. As 
if in spite, the butter was never so long in com¬ 
ing ! I suppose the cream standing so long had 
got warm, and so I redoubled my efforts. 
Obstinate butter! the afternoon wore away 
while I was churning. I paused at last from real 
exhaustion, when she spoke for the first time. 
“Come, Tim, my dear, you have rattled that 
buttermilk long enough—is it for fun you are do¬ 
ing it 1” 
I knew how it was in a flash ! She had brought 
the butter in the forenoon, and left the butter¬ 
milk for me to exercise with 1 I never set up 
for myself in household matters after that.” 
To Fix Pencii. Drawings. —Sketches or man¬ 
uscript made with a lead pencil may he fixed, so 
as not to rub off, by coating the surface with a 
thin solution of gum arabic in water. A foreign 
journal recommends to maxe a weak solution o 
isinglass in a wide shallow vessel, say a baking 
tin, and then draw the sheet of paper through it 
quickly, so that every part of it shall be touched 
with the fluid. Drain off the fluid, and let the 
paper dry. If it wrinkles, place it between 
sheets of clean paper and run a warm flat-iron 
over it. Either the isinglass or the gum arabic 
will fix the pencil marks. 
-gTw »i » - — , 
What a time I had with the Bugs. 
To the Editor of the American Agriculturist . 
You say in the June No. of the Agriculturist, 
“ there is scarcely’a more provoking pest of the 
household than the moth.” What do you say of 
bed-bugs! I suppose it is not polite to introduce 
such a subject, and, three months ago, if anyone 
had mentioned the creatures in my house, I should 
have set him or her down for an ill-bred, neglect¬ 
ful slattern for knowing anything about them. 
“ Bugs, indeed ! no tidy housekeeper was ever 
troubled with the pest—they never darkened the 
sunshine of my house ”—such would have been 
my thoughts. Alas! pride must have a fall, and 
mine has experienced a severe one. 
I was as happy a housekeeper, as comfortable 
circumstances, a contented disposition, an indul¬ 
gent husband, good children, and a well kept 
house, could make me; but my time of trial came 
at length in this wise: 
“ See what a bargain I have brought you,” said 
my good man triumphantly, one day, as a cartman 
deposited at the door a handsomely finished bed¬ 
stead, just purchased at auction for five dollars. 
I had always been prejudiced against second-hand 
furniture, believing the first wear of a thing the 
best, but this was of so neat a pattern, and so 
very cheap, I could not but commend the pur¬ 
chase. It was forthwith placed in the children’s 
room, who rejoiced greatly in the change from 
the narrow bedstead they had outgrown, and they 
inaugurated the change with a high frolic when 
they first took possession of its ample accommo¬ 
dations. 1 had noticed some suspicious looking 
specks about the joints, but took the precaution 
of giving the pieces a thorough washing, and 
thought no more of the matter. About a week 
after this, I was one morning alarmed by a singu¬ 
lar eruption appearing upon the arms and necks 
of the children. I thought first of mosquito bites, 
hut it was too early in the season—it could not 
be fleas, nor measles, what could it be ! That 
evening the mystery was solved. Shortly after 
the children had retired to their room, I heard 
little Mary exclaim, “0 sister! see this dear, lit¬ 
tle, tiny turtle, running all round on my pillow, 
where did lie come from 1” I went in hastily, 
and looked. Ugh ! the bed was swarming with 
bugsl I removed the clothes, searched diligently 
through every hiding place, exterminated all I 
could find, put the children to bed, and then went 
to my own room, and had a good crying spell. 
The next morning I proposed to split the vile 
bedstead and its contents into kindling wood, hut 
husband objected. “I’ll get you some of Lyon’s 
powder,” said he, “ and you can soon rout them 
out.” Unwilling to lose the price of the bed¬ 
stead, I consented, and the infallible powder was 
speedily applied to every crack and crevice where 
a varmint could hide. There was no trouble that 
night, and I praised the powder that had brought 
relief. But the next day, as I sat sewing in the 
children’s bedroom, I felt something upon my 
neck, and almost screamed as I laid my finger 
upon one of the execrable insects. Upon exam¬ 
ination I found they had left the bed, apparently 
from dislike of the powder, and were secreted in 
