for Women. 
CONDUCTED 13V MISS RAV CLARK. 
MOTHERS AND HOMES. 
Yhars ago a doctor wrote; “ Had not the 
God of Nature added instinct to reason in the 
human female breast, the lace would, long 
since, have become extinct. The pains, the 
penalties, the toils, the cares, the anxieties of 
a mother, are not repaid by anything like an 
adequate degree of gratitude on the part of 
the offspring ! Nothing, indeed, cau repay 
the female parent for what she undergoes on 
account of her children, and boasted reason 
would sink under the task, or shrink from 
the duty, had not the Omniscient Creator im¬ 
pressed into the mother’s heart the irresistible 
instinct of the lioness, which prompts the 
savage animal to die in defeneeof its progeny ! 
In the savage breast the instinctive feeling 
soon ceases, and reason being absent, all sym¬ 
pathy between parent and progeny ceases 
also. Not so with the human female parent. 
The primary instinct is never entirely ob¬ 
literated, but cherished through life by the 
nobler gifts of reason.” 
And years ago too, the poet made these now 
familiar thoughts the mothers woids to her 
child: 
• ‘ Ad< 1 say, wtieii suaunouM from the world and thee, 
I lay my head benesth the willow tree. 
Wilt thou, sweet mourner at my atone appear, 
And sooth my parted spirit ling'rlnp near? 
OU! wilt thou corue, at evening hour, to sited 
The tear of memory o’er my narrow bed; 
Breathe a deep sigh to winds that murmur low, 
And think of all my love and all my woe?" 
In thousands of instances those lines are 
true in thought no doubt to every line and 
word. But if the love for one another, of 
parent for child and child for parent be an 
inherent passion, if the love of the mother 
does cling to the child with an undying pas¬ 
sion and future hope, if when she is some¬ 
times treated with unkindness and is seldom 
rewarded for the affection she had and suffer¬ 
ing endured, is it instinct that causes her to 
labor so long and faithfully for her children’s 
good, and creates in her this longing desire to 
have them drop “ The tear of memory o’er 
her narrow bed"'” 
No, it is cultivated reason that prompts to 
many of these loving acts, and causes her often 
to perform more than is required, and very 
often to do that which should be left undone. 
It is cultivated reason, too, that causes the 
daughters to sometimes be willing that she 
should do the drudgery of the home, while 
they take their ease—to sometimes be willing 
that her form should be bent with eare, and 
that she should toil for them unceasingly—toil 
with her hands until they are rougb and hard 
as stone, toil with her heart, toil from early 
morn until late at night, toil in joy and toil 
in sorrow, although it is often her fault as 
well as others. And it is cultivated reason 
that brings back the thought that if her cares 
and anxieties are unappreciated in childhood 
and young womanhood, the time ever comes 
to all of them when they will be remembered. 
If at no other time, it will surely be when the 
child is placed in similar circumstances; for 
there are none, I think, however ignorant or de¬ 
graded, or however low they may be sunk in 
crime, who do not at times look baclrover the 
dusty road they may have traveled, and 
think of their earlier days, for to all of as 
who have passed the meridian of life, how 
vividly the recollections of home and mother 
come back, and we see in our own persons the 
labors spent for us, and then remember the 
cares and anxieties had, and which we are 
now willing to admit w r ere very often unap¬ 
preciated , and we see her once more work¬ 
ing, seemingly, for the boy’s advancement and 
the girl's adornment. At least, it often ap¬ 
pears as if that was the desirable end, and the 
great thing to be accomplished for the latter, 
wastobave them “settled in life,” And in 
this, how many sad mistakes are made; for 
if the settling in life means merely Ibe eco¬ 
nomical management of a house, it is but a 
small pare of the duties that go to make the 
home. In that house, and all around it, must 
her work be seen; for it is woman’s work that 
hangs the pictures and adorus the walls, and 
her influence that keeps the thistles cut, the 
weeds down, and the grass green. No man ever 
started poor in life and in time built a tasty 
bouse for his family, and surrounded it with 
trees and shrubs, lawn and flower-garden, 
who had a slovenly wife. And although her 
work and her influence cau riot always accom¬ 
plish theBe desirable ends, yet they do much 
tow ards making it and the surroundings at¬ 
tractive, and the great majority of them 
would do more if they only had some one to 
assist. 
But there are many men (and 1 wish they 
were fewer) who can see nothing delightful 
in nature, nothing beautiful in a flower, tree, 
or landscape, and can find nothing attractive 
unleiti it’s going to bring them the dollar. A 
tumble-down fence looks just as well, if it only 
keeps the cattle from the grain they wish to sell. 
An old, rickety barn would be juBt as good, 
if it would protect their hay from the rain. 
Their homes would never receive any paint 
if they could have their way, and would never 
thir k of setting cut a tree or shrub in their 
yards, or cutting a thistle by their doors, if 
it were not for the wife. Good-natured men 
erougb, too, perhaps; but they seem to have 
nothing but an instinct to live. 
Go outside of the yards of such men, and 
they never mend the walks in Summer, or 
shovel any walks in Winter; and, if they 
should happen to have any brush or rubbish 
to move (which is very seldom), it is thrown 
iuto the* street; and all along in front of their 
premises the highway is covered w ith we< ds, 
to scatter tbeir seeds on their neater neighbor, 
and “ can’t, see w hy folks say so much about 
weeds.” But so it has ever been, and so it 
will probably ever be. 
People will never all be alike. Some will 
be rich, and some will be poor; seme will be 
! good, and some will be bad; some will be 
neat, and some will be slovenly; some will 
have homes, and some will not; some will be 
happy, and some will be miserable, and no 
amount of reasoning will make some change 
their ways. But we will all be thankful that 
as the world moves and ripens,men and women 
will grow wiser and better. Ulric. 
Martinsborgb, N. Y 
Domestic CcoHoni^ 
I _ CONDUCTED KV EMILY MABLE _ 
PITH. 
— 
A happy wedlock is a long falling in love. 
The thistle is the flower of the moment, used 
in decoration. 
For toothache, fill the cavity with a bit of 
cotton saturated with ammonia. 
Nothing is more fatal to friendship than 
prevarication end deceit. 
To beep lemon juice ; add 10 per cent, of 
alcohol to the fresh juice, and bottle. 
A few drops of paragoric mixed w ith a 
spoonful of glycerine, and then given in baif- 
teaspoonful doses, is a very soothing cough 
mixture. 
Modesty is the ground on which all of a 
woman’s charms appear to the best advantage. 
Children, as a rule, like to feel that they 
are helpful. Encourage this feeling rather 
than repress it. 
Tea ia thought by many medical men to 
produce almost as much injury to the female 
race, as alcohc 1 does to the male. 
It is well to remember that a fainting per¬ 
son should always te pieced in a recumbent 
positiou, with the head lower than the body. 
This restores the blood to the brain, for faint¬ 
ing is a result of the heait not acting with 
sufficient force to send the usual quantity of 
blood to the brain, and as a consequence, the 
person looses consciousness. 
HOUSEKEEPING EXPERIENCE OF A 
CITY GIRL WHO MARRIED 
A FARMER. 
ANNIE L JACK. 
The note received from my city friends 
who were to visit me and stay all night 
ran thus : — “ We are all coming out, Lulu 
and Tom Cushing, Marion and Dr. Lawes, 
and I am to be escorted by your old flame 
Nelson Browlow. The yourg men are to 
stay all night at Charles Gedding’s, who 
has often invited them, and we inti nd to try 
three in a bed in that wide bedstead that 
adorns your guest chamber.” I was almost 
bewildered with apprehension when that let¬ 
ter came, for the visitors were all my old 
friends, and some of them bad been loud iu 
their predictions when 1 married Richard. 
There is one thing that a young housekeeper 
has, that Bbedoes not appreciate fully at the 
time, and that is, new and bright furniture 
for table and rooms. It is only after a wear 
of years, when the teaspoons have become 
battered, the china cbijjfd cr broken in 
part, the parlor furniture frayed and worn, 
and the carpet thin in snots, that we realize 
how much we could have done w hen all these 
were new, if we bad only known how. 1 
wanted nothing that was necessary to make 
a table attractive but the cne mainspring— 
a knowledge of cooking and exrerience, or 
rather judgment as to results. Before mv 
friends arrived I bad ransacked my cook-book 
from beginning to end, and the mult was 
that at the early dinner, which was their flrst 
meal, we had chicken and potatoes, green 
corn, beets, and apple-pie. 
Now. I did not know that it mattered in 
the least as to the age of a fowl, and having 
sent Sophie to catch two, she, either satisfied 
with the first that was so unfortunate as to 
come to her hand, or imbued with a spirit 
of economy that was ill-timed, had caused to 
be slaughtered two of the oldest and toughest 
fowls it was ever my fate to see. If I hud only 
known and realized I might have made them 
eatable, for many a time since, by slightly 
parboiling and cooking very slowly in the 
oven afterward, I have made a very aged 
chicken almost tender. But I was ignorant 
of these things then, and the fowls were 
dressed and cooked on time, as if they had 
only seen one short and bountiful season. 
When the girls had taken off their hats and 
smoothed their curls (for smoothness was 
cultivated in those days as w’ell as curls) we 
made our way to the dining-room where 
Richard awaited us. I had from the first 
insisted that my husband should take off his 
rough boots and put on a dark coat for din¬ 
ner, for I had never been accustomed to the 
roughness that ignores these little tidy way’s, 
and had yet to learu that for these things my 
neighbors would call me ‘proud,’ ‘eccentric,’ 
and ‘high-minded.’ Ob, bliss of ignorance I 
for if I hod. known, my burden would have 
been the greater. 
With my new ebina and spotless table- 
linen, a few’ fltwers, and plenty of shining 
glass, I saw that my friends were impressed. 
We were talking for a few' moments of old 
times, when I noticed Richard’s look of deter¬ 
mination as he tore apart the fowds, and 
passed each plate to Sophie to serve the veg¬ 
etables. Then I observed that potatoes and 
gravy were demolished, but the chicken did 
not diminish. 1 forgot that Tom Cushing was 
an inveterate punster, and asked anxiously, 
“ You are not eating your fowl ?” “No,” he 
answered, solemnly and deliberately, “ It 
must have assisted when Lot’s wife looked 
back.” The girls saw my confusion, and in¬ 
stantly covered it with good-humored ban- 1 
dinage; but the flower was gone from my 
day, and wondering what he meant, I began 
to eat my dinner only to find that in addition 
to the toughness I had put twice too much 
salt in the dressing, thereby calling forth al- ( 
lusion to “Lot’s wife.” It w r as worse than 
salt to me—it was the bitterness of disap¬ 
pointment. 
The tea was a success; we had plenty of 
fruit. I had learned to bake breud and two 
kinds of cake, and the evening passed pleas¬ 
antly, in varied amusements; but I cannot 
to this day recall tough chicken without feel¬ 
ing again the horror that filled my soul at the 
first mouthful. At last the young men de¬ 
parted, aud the girls were safely up stairs ; 
Richard locked the doors and sat down, ex¬ 
pecting me to precede him in retiring, which 
was our rule. But 1 only proceeded to draw’ 
out the dining-room table and lay the cloth, 
then unlocked the door into the kitchen, and 
armed with “Marion Harlaud,” I commenced 
to prepare breakfast. Sophie was in bed, 
hours before; and as it was long after mid¬ 
night, I tried to persuade Richard to leave 
me. This he would not do, but asked, “ Did 
it really need people to sit up all night to pre¬ 
pare breakfast ?” I said, “Hush !” aud then 
explained, iu a whisper, that they were going 
away after breakfast; that my dinner had 
been a failure, and I would not be outdone. 
So I made doughnuts, baked biscuits, cooked 
potatoes, and stuffed some young pigeons that 
one of the farm-hands bad brought in the pre¬ 
vious Bfternoon. “Are you sure they are 
tender !" I asked; and he assured me of the 
fact, so with a cheerful heart 1 had prepared 
them. The book said, “ as you would chick- 
enp,” and I placed them close together into a 
deep pan, covering with a plate till partly 
done, and then browning nicely. By this 
time I had learned that one must be careful 
in seasoning—too much or too little will spoil j 
the very best food—and I think the lesion that 
I learned that day has been of great service to 
me. I made puff paste, and filled tartlets 
with preserves, aud a plate of toast, besides 
frying ham. 1 can laugh at it now, and have 
often done so with Richard, who once asked 
me for whose breakfast 1 could be tempted to 
lose a night’s sleep, aud 1 answered, “ Not for 
the Governor’s I” 
1 shall never forget that soft, still night,bow 
I tiptoed round, setting the table by degrees, 
while Richard, resigned yet helpful, never 
murmured but let his wilful woman have her 
way. 
When morning came and with it the young 
men I had invited to breakfast, I took care to 
be fmbly dressed and give no sign of my 
weariness. “Why,” said practical Marion, 
“ anybody would think you hud been up all 
night; everything is as fresh as ‘if just baked; 1 
aud dreamy Lulu added, “ 1 thought I imelt 
fried cakes all night, and d < anted I was in a 
confectioner’s.” The young men praised my 
breakfast without stint, but I saw them off 
with a sigh of relief, mentally praying that. 
I bey might not miss the train, and although 
Toni Cushing is now a rising New York mer¬ 
chant, I never meet him or sit at his well-ap¬ 
pointed table but “Lot’s w ife’s chickens” come 
to my mind,though the subject has never, since 
that dinner, been broached between us, and is 
doubtless by him long since forgotten. When 
they come to tee me now, those friends of my 
girlhood, I give them the tame old welcome 
but a share of the same fare as is our daily 
food. Plenty of fruit, as a center dish for 
breakfast; go. d porridge or “mush” of what¬ 
ever grain we may be using, with an egg or 
bit of meat, and pancakes or warm biscuit. 
And I find that nine people out of ten prefer 
the fruit and grains, and find them sufficient. 
In all my housekeeping experience I have 
made a stand from that, time not to “puton”or 
sham anything, not even a pillow cover. If 
guests arrive we are always ready to give 
them a hearty welcome, but we will not upset 
our household by undue preparation nor cause 
our visitors to feel that they are an added care. 
And if they really wish to see ns and have 
turned aside for that purpose, they will be 
content with our “ dinner of herbs,” for can 
they not get t.be " stalled ox” at the big hotel. 
I remember some time afterward another dear 
friend came to see me, and after she left a let¬ 
ter came in which she stated her enjoyment 
of the visit. One little sentence may be use¬ 
ful to other housekeepers: she said, “The 
perfect freedom that makes a guest happy w a6 
accorded me. ” It wan a hint I never forgot, 
and I am convinced that a bome-like feeling, 
with a knowledge that one does not give extra 
trouble, is the only thing to make a guest con¬ 
tented. I had passed through the ordeal 
of these, to me eventful visits, and will now 
proceed to tell of the next visit paid by 
Richard’s mother and its very important con¬ 
sequences. 
’■ 1 ♦ ♦ »■ 
CONCERNING THE SY8TFMIZATION 
OP HOUSC-WORK. 
MARY WAGER FISHER 
Roles have their limit in house-work as in 
farm work, aud must yield in many instances 
to the exigencies of circumstances. But they 
are very necessary and helpful in defining 
each day’s duties and in keeping the work out 
of the tangle of confusion that irregularity 
invariably produces. If a woman does her 
own house-work, fixed regulations are of less 
importance than when the work is delegated 
to domestics, for the mistress of the house 
who sees the “end from the beginning” in her 
foresight and good management can allow 
herself a license that it would not be prudent 
to grant to a servant, and I use the word 
servant in its good aud true sense, “one who 
serves” or does service, and we all do that in 
one way or another from the lowest to the 
highest. 
My own system serves the demands of my 
household well, and as I have not been able 
to improve upon it, its laws have come to 
possess some of the inflexibility of those of 
the Medes and Persians. Monday and Tues¬ 
day are for washing and ironing. On Wednes¬ 
day and Saturday bread iB baked, and pud. 
ding and cakes are made. Wednesday is 
also the day for cleaning the lamps, for finish¬ 
ing any remnant of ironing that may be left 
over, and for such “odd jobs” as are always 
arising. On Thursday the entire upstairs of 
the house is swept, dusted and properly 
cleaned. On Friday the entire down stairs, 
except the kitchen, undergoes a similar pro¬ 
cess of cleaning. Stoves are rBked down, 
ashes removed, stoves brushed and brasses 
polished, this before the sweeping is done 
On Saturday aside from the bread bakiug ( 
extra cooking is done for Sunday' and the 
kitchen, piazzas and porches are cleaned. Of 
coarse, the work varies in kind and quantity 
with the seasons, and when the weather in¬ 
terferes with the prompt discharge of the 
work of Monday and Tuesday’, the interim is 
improved in having special work done, silver 
polished, the tin-ware scoured, or closets 
cleaned. This is the general outline of work. 
The first breakfast bell is rung at half-past 
six o’clock and the breakfast is served at seven. 
The cook is provided with an alarm clock and 
always knows when to get up in the morning. 
The order for breakfast is given at night, 
along with all necessary directions for pre 
paring it. I make it a point Co interest my 
kitchen maid in cook books, aud to call her 
attention to directions for the best way of 
doing things, and I fancy that the average 
servant prefers instruction gained in that 
way to having it direet from Iter mistress. 
When I find a thing left undone, that I have 
given explicit directions about, I call my 
maid to attend to it instead of doing it myself* 
which would lie less trouble; t ut my experi¬ 
ence is probably that of most other persons, 
that it is a bad plun to c’o work that belongs 
to the province of tomebody else. If you do 
it once you will probably have it to do next 
time. My aim always is, to make the persons 
in my employ responsible for their duties, and 
assured that they cannot expect me to attend 
to what is theirs to do and to look after. 
As to the detailsof the work—beds are strip¬ 
ped for airing and bed-room windows opened 
immediately after the breakfast. Then the 
duties of housemaid are attended to. such as 
putting the living-room into order, filling 
lamps, aud sweeping the piazzas. The glass¬ 
es, silver and coffee cups are washed and 
