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NOT COLD STORAGE, BUT COAL STORAGE. 
T behooves us to do all we can to make the house 
cheery and comfortable these winter days. The 
great essential, in accomplishing this, is good fires ; 
for warmth, in cold weather, is synonymous with com¬ 
fort. Perhaps the majority of people burn soft coal. 
A separate fire must therefore be kept in each room 
which is in constant use Soft coal is so bulky that it 
becomes a matter of some importance to know how to 
store a sufficient quantity to last from morning till 
evening. That is, to store it in such a way as to add 
to the cheeriness of the room, and so that it shall be 
accessible for immediate use. An open box for a coal 
receptacle is unsightly and out of the question. An 
ordinary coal bucket is certainly no ornament to a 
room, and is much too small. The fancy receptacles 
arc not capacious enough, and, besides, are expensive. 
Here is my way out of the difficulty : Put casters on a 
strong box 12 inches high; fasten a lid to the top with 
a pair of strong hinges; upholster the box with cre¬ 
tonne and the problem is solved. If a box with dimen¬ 
sions suitable for a comfortable seat be taken, it will 
serve two purposes. 
I have mine to the left of the grate and it forms a 
very convenient resting place, always close by the 
fire; it also serves as a casual footrest. Twelve inches 
is a good height for the box, because a half width of 
cretonne will then answer (used crosswise) for the 
curtain about the sides, (plaited in double box plaits). 
The other dimensions may be somewhat governed by 
the space con venient for it in the room; there is often 
a niche or angle which seems made to receive some 
peculiar or oddly shaped piece of furniture; your box 
may be shaped accordingly, a little larger or smaller. 
The cushioned lid is upholstered so that the covering 
forms an over drapery, somewhat like the Turkish cov¬ 
erings so fashionable now for couch draperies. The 
projecting cover serves to conceal effectually where 
the box and lid meet, and is so easily put on that it is 
preferable in my mind to any other style. A box, 
14 x 18 x 12 inches will hold two full buckets of coal. 
With a box at each grate, coal sufficient to last through 
the day can be brought in, in the morning. When 
papa is away, the boys at school all day, and no one 
but mamma and the wee ones is at home, it is no small 
satisfaction to know that one will not be obliged to 
“ lug ” in coal. 
In the pictures of authors’ libraries, where every¬ 
thing seems to be ideal as to comfort, there is always 
at least one easy chair near the fire. In the art jour¬ 
nals the latest sketches of ideal houses have two 
small, richly cushioned sofas, one on each side of the 
grate. We cannot have all the luxuries we read of, 
but we can have a companion to our coal box, on the 
opposite side of the grate, in which the slippers and 
shoes can be kept alternately. They would then be 
always warm, and at hand when wanted. I believe it 
is only in old-fashioned books that the husband’s 
slippers are set out by the fire, in anticipation of his 
return. This is an era of fancy slipper cases, llut 
when he puts on his slippers, what shall he do with his 
shoes? I have been amused several times, when 
making calls in the evening, to see the gentleman’s 
shoes, taking comfort and rest by the fire while he 
wore his slippers. There was a place for the slippers in 
the cosy library, but there was none for empty shoes— 
the one is as necessary as the other. mbs. w. A. k. 
IN THE TWILIGHT. 
T was a pleasant June evening. The sun had set 
and over all things hovered the indescribable 
charm which belongs only to twilight. Down a long 
lane where the air was sweet with the fragrance of 
roses, slowly walked two old men. As they drew near 
a little cottage, the sweet, soft tones of an organ 
gently touched, floated to their ears. With one accord 
they went through the little gate and stepped upon 
the vine-covered porch. A young woman, scarcely 
more than a girl, sat just inside the door, rocking 
softly to and fro with hei white-robed babe in her 
arms. 
“ Good evening, Mary,” said the older man. “ No ; 
don’t get up ; we will sit out here. Mammy went 
down to see poor Mis’ Lewis—they say she is failin’— 
and we came along to meet her. We thought we 
would stop and hear William sing.” 
The organ stood in another room, and William did 
not hear the visitors. There was no break in the 
music, and the manly voice rang out: 
Sweet hour of prayer 1 Sweet hour of prayer, 
That calls me from a world of care. 
“ Yes, Ira,” went on the speaker as they sat in the 
pretty rustic chairs at the end of the porch, “ I went 
down to the State F*ir, and, what’s more, while I was 
there, I went down to see my old sweetheart. You 
remember her ?” 
“ l>et me see,” said Ira, “she married Job Myers, 
didn't she ?” 
“ Yes, and they live on a nice farm. I shouldn’t 
have known her; she is real fleshy and her face is 
round and rosy. She used to be so slim and white 
looking.” 
“ And, .Job,” asked Ira, “ has he changed much ?” 
“ Well, no ; not so much, only he’s awful bald,” and 
the old man passed his hand caressingly over his own 
abundant, wavy gray hair. “ You remember she 
never liked bald heads.” 
“ What was it made the trouble between you ?” said 
Ira. 
“ My cousin. You see I was pretty poor, and I went 
off to work, and he talked to each of us behind the 
other’s back, and I never knew what he was up to till 
I got back home.” 
“ Hut you wasn’t married when you went back.” 
“ No ; but I was promised.” 
The young mother just inside the door kissed her 
sleeping boy, and the organ softly breathed the strains 
of “ Lily Dale.” 
“ You had a good woman, though,” said Ira, after 
a little pause. 
“ Yes,” answered the old man, “I did; I did. She 
lived not quite a year, and, when she was dying, she 
looked up to heaven and asked God to bless me ;” then 
slowly and reverently he added, “ I know He has.” 
“ Well,” went on Ira, “ when your father died, it 
was a good thing for his second wife that you was so 
you could come home and stay with her and help her 
keep her children together.” 
“ Yes,” assented the older man, “ it was. And, if I 
do say it, Ira, they have all done well. Poor Dick ! 
He died at Andersonville, but he was a good, brave 
boy. George lives on a farm out West. Why, he wrote 
me not long ago that he had cleared $1,000 on last 
year’s crop ! Alice is dress-making, and she does well. 
She comes home two or three times a year, and always 
brings me a nice present. Then the twins are in the 
store, and they have good custom. Mollie teaches 
music, and Charlie is preaching off in Indiana. Peter 
stays with us. 
” Hut we had hard times, Ira, 1 tell you. Peter was 
a baby and sickly. Father had only fairly got started 
on that place and there was a big family of little 
children. I used to be thankful, though, even then, 
that I did have to work, and manage and contrive this 
way and that. For, you know, Ira, in studying how 
to get enough to eat and wear for so many, I didn’t 
have time to think of her, and to be always wondering 
why it was God permitted it; why it was I couldn’t 
have her always with me when she was so much to 
me. Why, I have even had a kind o’ satisfied feeling 
in being so drove with work and worry; because it 
kept the great trouble of my life out of sight, and I 
have always believed that some time it’ll be made all 
right. 
“ Well, here comes mammy, and we must go.” 
With a gentle “ Good night” from Mary, they went 
out, down the moonlit walk ; and the young wife pon¬ 
dered on the old man’s hard philosophy for many a 
day. MRS. X/EVI H. NII.ES, 
ETIQUETTE IN FARM HOMES. 
OME, let us reason together. Why should the 
name “Farmer Hayseed” be a term of reproach ? 
Why should the word “countrified” call up anything 
but a pleasing picture ? Why should our city cousins 
rather dread a visit from us than otherwise ? Let us 
confess that the fault is more our own than anybody 
else’s, and make, and keep, some good resolutions ; and 
“ Farmer Hayseed” will come to be like “Uncle Sam,” 
which epithet once upon a time was bestowed rather 
in derision, but now belongs to a people quick, clever, 
prosperous and powerful. This is just as much as 
there ever is in a name—what we fit to it. 
It may come a little harder for us to adopt better 
manners than it is for city dwellers ; we have not the 
spur of constant companionship and competition ; but 
good manners are so comfortable “ to live with,” and 
are so much the same among all Caucasian races that 
they are our surest passport, and a legacy that our 
children will look upon as of greatest importance. Do 
you think of any city man, with the same amount of 
capital as the average farmer, who would rub the back 
of his hand or his shirt sleeve, across his mouth at 
meals instead of his table-napkin ? “ More work for 
me !” says the housewife. Not at all, Mrs. Hayseed. 
Save on the ironing of the pillow-slips, towels, sheets, 
etc., as long as the washing provides them clean and 
healthful. It is not going to affect your deportment 
one iota to place your head on a billowy, but sweet¬ 
smelling pillow-case. When you get where people 
have more help than you, you can just as gracefully 
slide your wearied limbs between a pair of smoothly- 
ironed sheets as if your sheets were not stowed away 
in your linen-closet with the scent of heaven's breezes 
still clinging to them, but they had been first bacter- 
ially dampened, and next bacterially revived with the 
unhealthful flat-iron. 
Watch for that habit where the mouth seems to be 
only the saucer and not the cup. The tea and 
coffee are so hot? Wait a few minutes for them to cool; 
you will soon find it has been more a habit than other¬ 
wise, and that you can take those beverages a great 
deal warmer than you thought. Some people seem to 
stumble at a fork as much as they would at a pair of 
chop-sticks. It must be long practice which allows 
the human countenance of those devotees of the 
weapon, the knife, to remain unmutilated. Take 
courage, dear sinner ; they say a little practice makes 
chop-sticks among the handiest of tableware, but first 
begin with the fork. A child should be kept to a spoon 
until a fork can be easily managed. If given a knife 
and fork too soon, human depravity is sure to find the 
bad way the easiest. 
I qm afraid my hospitable bump will be looked upon 
as wanting, if I say it would be a great deal easier for 
the kitchen stove and its attendant slave, the house¬ 
wife, if the city way of coming to meals only when in¬ 
vited, were more general ; also the practice of having 
a specified afternoon of each week for callers, is 
worthy of imitation. In fact, some urban dames give 
up only one or two afternoons a month to their gen¬ 
eral friends. Say it’s the first Wednesday, or the 
second and fourth Fridays. Too much style ? Not at 
all. I say again that the same people have not half the 
means that you have to keep up this “ style,” which 
is not style at all, but a vast convenience, and econo¬ 
mizing of time, and has come to stay. Some of you 
will say “ pooh, pooh ! ” at the idea that you are going 
to spend your time over these social canons; but I 
am not writing for “ narrow-minded people who can 
view the truth only in segments,” (see Tennyson) but 
for those who have read or traveled enough, to have 
concluded that the “ well-bred ” is as important as the 
“ bread and cheese ” side of life. g. a. Holland. 
A PRACTICAL WAY OF USING DENIM. 
ESTERDA Y I read the description of a blue denim 
table cover with its accessories of plush, wash 
silk embroideries, etc. Oh ! me : we never thought it 
was an “art material,” though we were very “ hard 
up” when we made kitchen aprons of it. Ever see 
one ? Huin-m ! then you don’t know how nice it is. 
One will last ever and ever so long. You can boil the 
dirt out ; ’twon’t fade and look dingy like calico. 
’Twon’t wet through if you happen to splash water 
on it. 
Rut what 1 intended to say was that blue denim 
makes good cloaks for little girls—and big ones too. 
Neat, cool, serviceable, what more could be asked ? 
There is one hanging behind the door now which was 
worn to school through dewy grass as well as when 
it stormed. It was not a tight-fitting, braid-adorned, 
fancy thing, but loose, because it then shed water 
better, and also because the wearer wanted the free 
use of limbs and lungs ; untrimmed, because even the 
best of braids lose their beauty when dragged through 
wet brush for an indefinite distance. There were 
huge pockets of the same—large enough to carry his¬ 
tory and lunch, and, with a Nellie Hly cap of the same, 
the wearer could start out with a hop and skip, arms 
free and protected from damp-Dear girl—her cloak 
hangs there looking as though she might bound in 
and put it on for a ramble ; but she has been sleeping 
beneath the dewy grass for over a year, belle farmer. 
Scott’s Emulsion of cod-liver oil is an 
easy food—it is more than food, if you 
please ; but it is a food—to bring back 
plumpness to those who have lost it. 
Do you know what it is to be plump ? 
Thinness is poverty, living from hand 
to mouth. To be plump is to have a little 
more than enough, a reserve. 
Do you want a reserve of health ? Let 
us send you a book on careful living 
free. 
Scott & Bowne, Chemists, 132 South 5th Avenue, New Tork. 
Your druggist keeps Scott's Emulsion of cod-liver oil—all druggists 
everywhere do. $1. 
