her views in the matter evidently speaks from 
extensive experience, and she is vei*y pertinent 
in her suggestions. But there is one thing 
that cannot always be followed. That is, 
having one’s hired help live completely with 
the family. 
We believe that in many places farther 
west and in Now England respectable farmers’ 
sons oftou hire out, aud make, ns they natur¬ 
ally would, the best help possible. They are 
self-respecting and respectable, aud worthy 
of all courtesy. Then again, there are re¬ 
spectable foreigners, who hire out until they 
have means enough to take up farms for them¬ 
selves, As our correspondent says they may 
at first be awkward in their tabic manners, but 
it is simply want of ease, uot of appreciation; 
'they soon lose their gaucherie, aud show the 
sterling stuff of which they are made. 
But here in the East the men employed on 
farms consist largely of another class. The 
go-ahead foreigners who mean to rise in the 
world seek the West, while their least intelli¬ 
gent compatriots remain here. Of course, 
there are many honorable exceptions, but a 
large proportion of the hired men in this 
vicinity are foreigners, indescribably unclean¬ 
ly in person and really disgusting in their 
habits. We should have no objection to awk¬ 
wardness, but we draw the liue at dirt. Of 
course these men do the same work as mem¬ 
bers of the family, and should be treated with 
kindness and consideration. Their bedrooms 
should be clean and neat, and their meals 
served in an orderly manner. 
We are uot speaking as a city housekeeper 
who knows nothing of farm work. We have 
had to board hired men; some of them sat at 
our table and were treated in all respects as 
members of the family; others were relegated 
to the kit.cheu, uot because they were hired 
meu, but because hey were so unclean in per¬ 
son aud objectionable in habits that they 
were an offense against decency, aud what is 
worse, men of t'~ is class do not. even care to 
learn better. 
If we could only have respectable farmers’ 
sons and daughters to help us, instead of a 
horde of foreigners, we should be very ready 
to admit our men and maids to the privileges 
of the family. But such help is very scarce, 
and the question of equality depends entirely 
ou the character of whom we are able to hire. 
We can never make any fixed rule; in this, as 
iu everything else, circumstances alter cases. 
4 -- 
WHAT SHALL WE READ? 
What have you got good to read is a ques¬ 
tion with which wegreetand are greeted by our 
friends everyday. Dr. Johnson once said that 
on a sea-journey he would take an arithmetic; 
it contained so much in a small space. But 
this we fancy would not suit the average mind. 
A man who was once about to be imprisoned 
chose a dictionary, but even this wo do not re¬ 
commend for light, everyday reading, al¬ 
though we do not deuy its iustructiveness, 
and that in a way, too, it should be everyday 
reading. 
Horace Greeley liked the stylo of Dr. John¬ 
son for its heavy comprehensiveness, and that 
of the historian Gibbon for the sAine reason. 
Bacon's “Essays” were among the best worn 
books on Wendell Phillips’ desk. 
Sir John Lubbock, a man who has written 
much about science and civilization, aud who 
has a right to speak with authority, limits his 
choice to a hundred books, of which he places 
the Bible first. Marcus Aurelius’“Meditations” 
in translation he recommends for its nobility. 
Then he gives “Epictetus,” and the “Analects 
of Confucius,” which we should grudge a place 
in a limit of a hundred. Aristotle’s “Ethics,” 
and the “Koran,” are neither so instructive 
nor so edifying us the sermons of F. W. Rob¬ 
ertson, which deserve a place in a selection of 
even a less number of books. His choice of 
Thomas aKempis’“Imitation of Christ" can 
hardly be criticised. However excellent they 
may be for a student, the reader who wants to 
be amused as well asedified would hardly sub¬ 
scribe to the list of Sir John Lubbock. 
There are certain books, not to have read 
which argues a very limited intelligence or 
education. The “Arabian Nights,’’ “Gulli¬ 
ver’s Travels,” Robinson Crusoe," and if you 
have not read “Don Quixote,” be thankful 
that you iiave so great a treat i u store for 
you. It is one of the books that l re-read 
about once in two years. Among valuable 
histories for the reader whose time is limited, 
are Grote's “Greece,” Gibbon’s “Rome,” Car¬ 
lyle’s “French Revolution,” and “Frederick 
the Great,” Green’s “Short History of Eng¬ 
land,” one of the most valuable books ever 
written, and Prescott’s “Conquest of Mexico 
and Peru.” 
Cook’s “Voyages,” aud Humboldt’s “Trav¬ 
els,” will please those who are fond of the 
marvellously true. 
Of novels, if you will read Scott, Thackeray, 
George Eliot aud Dickens, you will be hard to 
please among modern novelists. You will 
want Eugene Sue’s “Mysteries of Paris,” Lyt 
ton’s “Last days of Pompeii,” and Sand’s 
“Consuelo.” For beauty of style read Haw¬ 
thorne and Irving. Edgar Fawcett writes 
very good sketches of New York “aristoc¬ 
racy.” if I may use the word, but after Thack¬ 
eray they are insipid, for although Thackeray 
wrote of the same class in England, among 
modern character studies wo do not find a 
redeeming Col. Newcomb on the one hand nor 
a Becky Sharp on the other, but only a sort of 
dead, insipid level. You can scarcely fail to 
be interested in “Ben II ur, a tale of the 
Christ,” by Lew Wallace, and you will shed 
tears of genuine distress over Mark Twain’s 
“Prince and Pauper," by far the best thing 
that the noted humorist has written. It is 
a strange fact that many of our “funny” 
writers please best when they do not try to be 
funny. 
These books, however, nmy not suit all 
tastes; it is only a list of what pleases one 
READER. 
GOLDEN GRAINS. 
There remaineth therefore a rest to the peo¬ 
ple of God. Now blessed be Paul for thatone 
word, rest. It makes one feel like a child iu 
the evening of a summer’s day, aud it makes 
one’s death bed as soft, to think of as going to 
sleep. 
He who thinks too much of himself will be 
in danger of being forgotten by the rest of the 
world. .... 
TnE very core of healthy and happy dis- 
eipleship is the willingness to deny self and to 
let the Master have his way. This principle 
runs through all the deepest, richest experi¬ 
ences of the blood-bought and consecrated be¬ 
liever ... .. 
We ought always to make choice of persons 
of such worth aud honor for our friends that 
if they should cease to be so they will not 
abuse our confidence, nor give us cause to fear 
them as enemies. ... 
How noiselessly the snow comes down! You 
may see it, feel it, but never hear it. Such is 
true charity. 
’Tis an ill thing to be ashamed of one’s pov¬ 
erty, but much worse uot to make use of law¬ 
ful measures to avoid it.. . 
The best prayer at the beginning of a day is 
that we may lose no moments, and the best 
grace before meal the consciousness that we 
justly earned our dinner. 
Domestic (Scoitoimj 
CONDUCTED BY SIRS. AGNES E. M. CARMAN. 
Learn to find happiness. Few people can 
afford to wait for the f ulfillment of all their 
hopes before consenting to be happy. Most 
men and women must find a way to be happy 
under unfavorable circumstances, or miss it 
altogether. 
RURAL PITHS. 
Girls have some aim in life other than that 
of waiting for the proverbial ‘ 'John.” 
Allusions to wealthy people as "big bugs", 
“quality,” “upper crust,” etc., are offensive to 
any well-bred person. Real social superiority 
must be founded upon morality or education, 
or both, 
A cBrtaiu class of girls now^i-days seem to 
think it the correct thiug to affect the man¬ 
ners of young men. We would that they re¬ 
alized how much more “takiug” they were as 
plain girls without the tuanish element. 
Don’t bo ou the lookout constantly for 
slights and insults. 
We think it a grave mistake for a young 
lady to open her doors to every “Tom, Dick 
aud Harry” who chooses to call. 
THE CUISINE OF A CALIFORNIA 
RANCH. 
I had been in San Francisco about a month 
when I received a letter from a very dear 
friend, who with her husband had preceded me 
to the Golden Gate by several years. That she 
was the same madcap as of old, her letter told 
me. .She wrote, “You did not know, I think, 
that Fred and I are r anching in-County. 
Wc have taken up a homestead, and as we do 
not ‘make haste to be rich’ we are leading an 
Arcadian sort of life. We are twenty miles 
from the nearest village, a projected railroad 
passes through our land, and in the near future 
therein to be a station, but at present the itin¬ 
erant butcher, and such like adjuncts of civil¬ 
ization arc unknown. 1 saw your arrival at 
the-House, in a Han Francisco paper, 
aud we want you to pay us a visit. As 
an experience it will be worth your 
while, but you must make up your mind to 
a farmer’s diet. Salt pork, or at best an anti¬ 
quated hen that has outlived her usefulness in 
any other respect, is the greatest delicacy of 
which our table can boast, and that you may 
know r the very worst, the cook is your friend, 
Bessie Brown.' 1 
The last clause did uot promise much, unless 
my friend had greatly advanced iu the culin¬ 
ary liue, but not being addicted to the pleas¬ 
ures of the table there were no terrors for me, 
and I answered the letter iu person. 
It is not my purpose to describe the glorious 
Scenery that has been done by many writers 
in a manner far beyond my poor pen, it is only 
the “fanner’s diet.” with which I have to do at 
this time. The threatened “salt pork dinner” 
seemed to me, with my sharpened country ap¬ 
petite, to be a series of gastronomical delights. 
Evidently my friend bad improved. Although 
I had watched the preparation of this famous 
dinner I did not anticipate such very satisfac¬ 
tory results, because I made too much allow¬ 
ance for the paucity of materials, and two lit¬ 
tle for the skill of the cook, and when sweet 
Bessie, with a roguish grimace, said, “Now, I 
s hall make the soup,” I stared in amazement, 
knowing the larder to be innocent of meat or 
fresh vegetables. 
Butter of their own making was plentiful. 
A frying pan with a piece the size of an egg 
was placed over the fire, and when hot two 
medium-sized ouious, previously sliced, were 
fried iu it. This must not be done over too 
hot a fire or they will scorch, which would be 
fatal to the flavor of the soup. They were 
then lifted out with a skimmer, and placed in 
a saucepan, while a large tablespoouful of 
flour was stirred gradually into the butter 
left in the pan and cooked until perfectly 
smooth and of a light bistre color. It was 
then thinned with a cup of boiling water 
added slowly. Meanwhile half n. cup of 
mashed potato was brought from the pantry, 
and one pint of boiling milk was mixed 
smoothly with it, the whole being then passed 
through a wire sieve. A piece of soda the 
size of a very small pea was added, before 
stirring the milk and potato into the flour 
and butter. The onions were chopped 
very fine and put with the other ingredients, 
and the soup was simmered slowly for ten 
minutes; flavored with a tablespoonful of 
celery essence, and poured into the turreen 
over dice of fried bread. It was as smooth as 
velvet, aud when I saw r Fred’s pleased and 
proud look, 1 understood the “motive power" 
that had transformed our “butterfly Bess’ 
into so dainty a housekeeper. 
A small cup of cold boiled rice (the remains 
of yesterday’s dessert), was mashed to a paste, 
and mixed with au equal quantity of milk, 
seasoned lightly with pepper and salt, and 
three eggs, the whites and yelks beaten sep¬ 
arately, were stirred in, and the whole poured 
into a buttered pudding dish aud baked. It 
was with a touch of the old humor that this 
rice omelet was slipped into a majolica fish- 
dish before being sent to the table—‘ ‘as a fish 
course, my dear,” said my hostess. 
The piece de resistance, was baked salt 
pork, and if any one will take the trouble to 
cook it as follows, she will bear me out in the 
assertion that for a “once-in-a-while” dinner, 
it excels the finest capon that ever graced a 
table. 
A piece of about two pounds (our family 
was small) was soaked over night in plenty of 
sweet milk. As this latter was a tlay old, 
ami had been creamed first, it was uot an ex¬ 
travagance. The pork was gashed across the 
top with a sharp knife, making incisions au 
inch deep and half an inch apart. Into these 
incisions a highly-spired bread dressing was 
pressed, the pork well-peppered and laid in a 
Iiakiug pan, with a cup of sweet milk for 
basting. About three-quarters or an hour 
before dinner most of the gravy iu the pan 
was poured out into a bowl, and peeled po¬ 
tatoes were laid around the pork to bake and 
brown in its drippings. After the fat was 
skimmed off, the gravy that had been 
poured out was thickened and seasoned with 
a dash of cayenne. The pork was tlicu cut in 
thin slices, and, besides the potatoes, was ac¬ 
companied by a vegetable that I pronounces! 
cauliflower, and wondered nfc,iu view of the vil¬ 
lage. distant twenty miles. 11 proved, however, 
to be cabbage that had been boiled tender in the 
milk iu which the pork had been soaked, di¬ 
luted until of the rigid degree of saltiness. It 
was drained, allowed to cool quickly in the 
opcu air, chopped fine, and seasoned with 
pepper, a large spoonful of melted butter, and 
beaten smooth with three spoonfuls of cream 
and two eggs; placed in a buttered dish 
and baked covered for three quarters of an 
hour; then browned. 
Space fails mo to tell of the luscious apple 
pudding, but if I am not relegated to the scrap 
basket, I shall at some future day describe the 
cooking and serving of the “antiquated ben,” 
aud divers other good things made from such 
scanty material as to show how good a mother 
of invention is necessity. Palmetto. 
12 
ONE WINTER. 
ANNE THRIFTY.—NO. X. 
One Saturday evening, early in March, 
Uncle John brought home n history of the Re¬ 
bellion, giving an interesting description of 
the campaigns in which he had served. He 
began the volume and was soon deeply ab¬ 
sorbed in it. The boys grew sleepy and went 
to bed. Uncle only looked up to say “good¬ 
night,” aud rend on. 1 sat up an hour later 
writing letters at the table, then leaving pen, 
ink and paper where I had been using them, 
1 retired, leaving Uncle still reading. 
I had fallen into a sound sleep when I awak¬ 
ened with a vague seuse Of something wrong. 
Yes, Uncle was calling me iu commanding, 
exciting tones. 
“Annie, Annie, wake up, the lamp has ex¬ 
ploded !” 
“What can I do?” I answered, only half 
aroused, aud thinking it strange he should 
waken me arid tell me that the lamp had ex¬ 
ploded. But his answer wakened me as in¬ 
stantly as though a cup of cold water had been 
dashed iu my face. 
“Wake up, I’m burned,” be said. As I 
dressed in frantic haste, he called out. “Put 
ou your shoes, uot those crocheted ones; there 
is broken glass on tbc floor.” I put my feet 
into u pair of thick-soled shoes without stop¬ 
ping for stockings aud hurried to Uncle’s side. 
As 1 opened my door a stifling odor of kerosene 
and burnt wool met me Trembling with fear 
lest Uncle’s wounds were worse than his words 
implied, I groped my way to the kitchen, 
found aud lighted the lantern, snatched up the 
baking soda and hurried back to the sitting- 
room. Uncle sat holding one arm against his 
breast and looking around at the ruin the ex¬ 
plosion had caused, He held out his arm to 
me and showed the wrist to be badly burned; 
about four square inches of skin were gone 
and t he burn extended even farther. To band¬ 
age the burn in soda seemed the only thing to 
be done, as there was neither sweet oil nor 
glycerine in the house. 
“How did it happen?” I asked; as I applied 
the soda. 
“I read until the oil had burned low,” he 
said, “and the lamp exploded, whether just 
before I blew down the chimney or just after 
I cannot toll, throwing the oil over the table 
where the papers and books caught fire in¬ 
stantly. I caught, up everything m the table- 
cover, smothering the flames as well as I 
could, and started to throw them out-of-doors, 
but the door was locked, und while I tried to 
open it tbc flames blazed into my face and 
siuged my beard, as you see. I rubbed the 
fire with this arm, clutching the table cloth 
with ray bund, while with the other hand I 
opened the door, and that is the reason it is so 
badly burned. I worked in desperation at 
that door, for I knew if I didn’t get the blaz¬ 
ing bundle out wo would be homeless to¬ 
morrow. YV heu at last that was out in the 
snow, the carpet there by the table was blaz¬ 
ing, and my heart came into my mouth when 
I saw how near the bed the flames were where 
Bertie was asleep." 
Bertie now began to stir, and rousing up 
stared about in great bewilderment, and 
everything had to be explained to him before 
be would lie down uguin. “Is it as bud as 
getting shot, papa?” he asked anxiously. But 
us uncle had never been shot, he only said, 
with a laugh in spite of the pain, that it was 
bad enough. After making uncle as comfort¬ 
able as I could, 1 went to bed again with 
uncle’s words rejieatiug themselves iu my 
mind: “I was so thankful you were not in the 
room with your cotton dress.” Bud as the ac¬ 
cident seemed, the possibilities that had come 
so near reality were far worse. 
Th* next morning revealed the full extent 
of the damage to the household goods: the 
table-cover was totally ruined, the table was 
marred and scorched, u ragged hole in the 
carpet ruined it, the ink left on the table 
had spattered over floor and wall, the una¬ 
bridged dictionary lay,fortunately, almost un¬ 
harmed in the snow, with papers and letters 
all more or loss burned. Wo surveyed the 
damages very ruelully, for u uow carpet or 
even a table cover meant expense that uncle 
could not well meet. To the question what 
caused the lamp to explode, he answered, first 
that the oil was inferior; it hud given warn¬ 
ing on two or three occasions by puffing 
smoke into the room, and when Uncle had 
called me 1 supposed by “exploded” hu meant 
to describe one of these freaks of the lamp. 
We had tried to get other oil, but a wholesale 
$Ri0ffUatte<uii9 
When Baby was sick, we gave her Castorla 
When she was a Child, sho cried for Castorla, 
When she became Miss, she elung to Castorla, 
When she had Children, she gave them Castorla. 
