MAY 2® 
this little volume. There is a peculiarity 
about the use words that is almost unexplain¬ 
able. We are often at a loss for the “right 
word” in writing or speaking, yet the dullest 
of us wj) 1 never fail to appreciate, in an instant , 
nice distinctions in the use of words by others. 
Saint Orboobv's Guest and Recent Forms. 
By John G. Whittier. Published by Hough¬ 
ton. Mifflin & Co., Boston, Mass. Price, 
$ 1 . 00 . 
We doubt if any American can ever give a 
really just criticism of Whittier’s poetry. 
There is so much of reverence mingled with 
any inclination to find flaws that the review 
always flows into an expression of admiration. 
Whittier is peculiarly the American poet. 
There is an earnest strength about bis poetry 
that lodges it firmly in every home. The 
present volume lias none of the fierce vigor 
which characterized his ringing poetry of 25 
years ago; but there is a gentleness and ten¬ 
derness about it which is quite as irmsistable. 
Perhaps we cannot say that “The Light That 
is Felt” is the best, of all Whittier’s, poems, but 
to our mind it is the equal of any. Nothing 
could appeal more powerfully to New Eng¬ 
land’s wauderiug children than “The Home¬ 
stead.” 
“O wanderers from ancestral soil, 
Leave noisome mill and chaffing store; 
Gird up your loins for sturdier toll 
And build the home ouee more. 
What matter if the gains are small 
That life’s essential wants supply? 
Your homestead's title gives you all 
That idle wealth can buy. 
Your own sole masters, freedom willed, 
With none to bid you go or staj; 
Till the old fields your fathers tilled, 
As manly men as they. 
With skill that spares your tolling hands, 
And chernic aid that science brings, 
Reclaim the waste and outworn lands 
And reign thereon as kings!” 
CONDUCTED BY MISS KAY CLARK. 
AN OLD PICTURE. 
When I was a child, a quaiut old-fashioned 
copy of Bunyan's “Pilgrim’s Progress” held 
within its leathern covers for me a mine of 
never-failing richness and delight. And be¬ 
fore 1 was six-years old, I would sit for hours 
and even days in some quiet corner, reading 
and rereading its finely printed pages and 
studying its strangely suggestive pictures, un¬ 
til the characters therein portrayed seemed to 
my imaginative mind as real as the people 
whom I met in my daily life. One picture in— 
particular bad a wonderful fascination for me. 
It was that of the man with the muck rake 
with bent body and sweat dripping from his 
face, eagerly scraping together the straws and 
rubbish with which the ground was strewn, 
while above him hovered a bright-winged an¬ 
gel liohliug out for his acceptance a jeweled 
crown, the existence, of which his constant 
downward gaze prevented hint from discover¬ 
ing. Oh! how I longed to take that man’s 
head in my two hands and direct his eyes from 
the worthless heap he was accumulating to the 
treasure above him which was within his reach. 
And often my mind reverts to that picture, as 
I see people so eager in the pursuit of perish¬ 
able pleasures and possessions, seemingly un¬ 
conscious of, or not caring for, the inestimable 
riches of knowledge, human affection and for¬ 
bearance, and those treasures which are im¬ 
perishable. 
Standing on the porch the other morning, 
the clear nil- wafted to my ear the harsh, angry 
tones of a lather’s voice swearing at his two 
little boys for some childish carelessness, and as 
I hastened into the house to avoid hearing the 
horrible stream of abuse and profanity which 
poured from that father’s lips, that old pict ure 
seemed to spread out on the wall before me. 
Here is a man, who, at the thought of the ex¬ 
pense of a dollar or two, for repairing the 
damage done, allows his passions full sway, and 
gives such an exhibition of his temper before 
those whose, natural right it is to look up to 
and revere him, as must effectually check the 
growth of either love or respect. Uukindness, 
quarreling, and cruelty to animals from others 
are passed by with no comment. He has no 
comment. He has no time to attend to such 
matters. But a tom garment, a bx-oken tool, 
or a forgotten duty, will almost invariably* 
call forth a torrent, of profanity. Yet this 
man is called a good citizen. His farm is well 
managed and productive, his buildings neat 
and orderly, and no doubt he loves his boys, 
but does not realize the great importance of 
controling his temper for their sakes. But 
“those who sow the wmd shall reap the whirl¬ 
wind,” and those little boys who now stand 
white and trembling under their father’s 
wrath will soon begin to say, “f don’t care if 
father does scold.” In a few years they will 
begin to swear back, and there will be two to 
one. And if in the future, after some furious 
altercation, the boys shall in the heat of anger 
leave their home and their parents, and rush 
with swift feet on the downward path to 
destruction, would their father have reason to 
wonder or to blame! Perchance his eyes 
would then be opened to see the folly of his 
own conduct. When his idolized farm shall 
have run down for want of interested help in 
its cultivation, when he sits alone in his silent 
home and unconsciously listens for the free, 
quick step of youthful feet, then he will real¬ 
ize that the treasures be has gathered are a 
worthless burden, and that priceless jewels 
have, by his own foolish conduct and neglect, 
been lost for time and eternity. 
I spent a few days in the home of an old 
friend and schoolmate. Order and cleanliness 
were observed in the minutest detail of her 
housekeeping. The house was commodious 
and well arranged. The walls were daintily 
hung and adorned with handsome pictures. 
The carpets were bright, and spotless, and the 
furniture free from scratch or stain. The table 
was perfect in its appointments and the wel¬ 
come unmistakable; yet the visit, which had 
been so long and pleasantly anticipated, was a 
sad disappointment. I could hardly recognize 
iu the fretful, impatient, worried mistress of 
this home the merry, good-natured school-girl 
of former days. The rooms, in spite of their 
cheerful furnishings, seemed dreary. Not a 
plant or bird tempered the glaring brightness 
of her polished windows. A book or paper 
was not for a moment tolerated in a careless 
position on stand or table, and her little girls 
were allowed no playthings, lest they should 
“litter the house.” My heart ached for the 
little things who sat still and knit or pieced 
blocks al I day long, and were not even allowed 
to vary the monotony of their tasks by wiping 
the dishes, as they begged to do, as their 
mother was so very particular she must do 
everything herself. 
I heard no litt le confidences or playful words 
between mother and children, and when night 
came they were hurried off to lied with never 
a kiss or prayer. Though living within the 
sound of three church bells, this mother never 
attended Divine worship or her children the 
Sabbath-school, because she said they “could 
not afford to dress iu stylo, and they should 
not go to be made fun of.” Her bouse was her 
God, and for its decoration she spent every 
dollar she could get; and to keep it with ex¬ 
quisite nicety, she eschewed real comfort and 
innocent enjoyment. An,d in this bouse the 
old picture of the man with the muck rake 
loomed up and spread out on the walls and hid 
from my view the bright pictures and pretty 
ornaments hanging there. 
I know a young lady who has a passion for 
fancy work. Every new craze that comes 
along is rapturously embraced by her. and 
her home is literally crowded with articles of 
every description and material. Her money 
and her time are spent in the manufacture of 
the things "which perish in the using,” while 
the riches of science, of music, and of classic 
lore are within her easy reach. In the pursuit 
of her almost useless enjoyments she sacrifices 
intellect, health, aud eyesight, while the 
mother performs the arduous household duties 
alone and unaided. And as I stand and look 
around upon the ornaments of which she is so 
proud, I cannot help again seeing the man 
with the muck rake scraping the ground while 
above him bends the bright angel holding out 
the jeweled crown. lizzie glare. 
REAL LIFE. 
I think it is George Eliot who says: “The 
real heroines of this life are those who do every 
day duties uncomplainingly.” This is well, 
but I do not believe that there is a woman 
exists having a soul to comprehend larger and 
more beautiful things than such as compose 
the common every day duties, who does not 
grow weary, very weary, at times. Then the 
present needs and cares come kindly to her 
rescue. Dear ones need her so much, she 
must be ready to satisfy their longings with 
love, as well as to have ready the things requi¬ 
site for their physical needs. 
Right, here let me say to husbands, brothers, 
and sons all over this land, I pray you, do not 
fail of returning this great love by constantly 
uttering words ol love and appreciation, fol¬ 
lowed by the actions which naturally arise 
from this condition of mind. 
Do not, through thoughtlessness, make her 
feel that: 
"You think, perhaps, I should be all content 
To know so well the lovhix place 1 hold 
Wltliln your life, aud so you do not dream 
How much I long to hear the story told. 
1 weary, sometimes, of the rngsed way; 
But should you say, ‘through thee my life Is sweet,’ 
The dreariest desert, that our path oould cross 
Would suddenly grow green beneath my feet.” 
Think of the courting days 1 Tenfold sweet¬ 
er now would be your caresses amidst the hard 
work aud care she so wi’liugly accepted, than 
they were when young, bright and Induced in 
the home of her childhood she gave up all for 
a lifetime to be passed by your side. 
Speak never slightingly of those she loved 
in her girlhood’s home—the parents now lying 
forever lost to her mortal view, the brother, 
the sister; to her they were perfect, though 
you, perhaps, may have distinctly seen their 
defects. But never mind, do not destroy her 
tender memories of them, for love for her own 
will make her a better wife and mother; the 
truest friend and charitable neighbor. She 
may have many faults, this wife or mother, 
but so have wo all—you among the rest. Try 
to give her the love which is her life, and 
which in herself is deathless as the stars. The 
only thing divine, perhaps, which earth has 
yet known or can bestow, is love. etta. 
THE TWO SCHOOLMATES. 
Laura Preston left the Young Ladies 
Seminary wearing the highest honors, but her 
success won little sympathy from “the dear 500 
friends” which every school girl is supposed to 
|jossess. She received the gold medal with a ball¬ 
room grace aud sweep of her rustling gown, and 
a covert smile passed around the circle of those 
who knew her best. When all was over the 
congratulations were few and formal, while 
all flocked around their darling Dulcie Russell, 
who bad only won a book of poems, yet they 
could not do enough to show their love and 
pleasure at. her success. Du h ue’s dress was the 
simplest white, with a soft inching at the 
throat and wrists, and no ornaments but half 
blown roses, which day scholars brought in 
profusion. Her arms could hardly hold the 
wealth of bouquets and flower baskets which 
the ushers handed up, at the close of her essay. 
And they were more true love offerings than 
is common on such occasions. A girl that is 
truly lovable, will hardly fail of winning love. 
“If anyone wishes to quarrel with Dulcie, 
she will have to do it all herself’ the girls 
used to say. 
In all the years she spent at school, I think 
no one could remember a single unkind speech 
of here, or one careless word that could 
wound another’s feelings. But oh, such a com¬ 
forter as she could be for lonesome homesick 
girls, or girls whose sensitive spirits had been 
wounded by unkindness. 
Dulcie seemed to be everything that Laura 
was uot. Laura’s sharp, sarcastic, tongue al¬ 
ienated all who were afflicted by it. She de¬ 
lighted in retailing ill news. If she knew some 
hateful thing about another she took n good 
opportunity of alluding to it in the presence of 
several others, aud then watching keenly how 
her victim “took it," No pleasure seemed so 
great as uttering spiteful words. It was much 
as if one made it the business of life to go 
about, and gather burs frpin burdock weeds and 
stick them on people as they passed by. It 
would seem a strange business to follow, but it 
would bo innocent amusement compared with 
stingiug the spirit with words that are like 
nettles. Suidi a disposition brings on old age 
with its crow-feet and shrill tones very early. 
While Didcie mil seem young and light¬ 
hearted at seventy. Her admirers will flock 
around her down to old age; but Laura, if she 
lives to that period, will be sourly, snapping 
at. the ingratitude and want of attention shown 
by the youth of the day, her own immediate 
friends in particular. Wealth only will secure 
for her toleration, though it can never win for 
her affection. OLIVE. 
CONDUCTED BY MRS. AGNES E. M. CARMAN. 
HOUSEKEEPING IN CALIFORNIA.—VII. 
MARY WAGER-FISHER. 
Unless one keeps up a brisk fire all the day 
long in the kitchen, au oil stove is not only a 
great convenience, but. a great, economy. In¬ 
deed, in all of our own small housekeeping on 
this coast, we tind it indispensable, aud our 
last investment cost but a dollar and a half, 
aud is altogether satisfactory. 1 have the bad 
habit of “cooking all over the house”—toasting 
bread over the parlor grate—a capital place— 
heating milk on the dining-room stove, and 
cooking a steak and boiling coffee On the oil 
furnace, as the fire in the kitchen usually ex¬ 
pires soon after breakfast. 
Living for so long a time, too, in towns 
where the water is brought into the house and 
is to be hud by the turning of a faucet, I have 
come to the conclusion that for any woman to 
be obliged to pump all the water required for 
the house and kitchen is utterly atrocious, and 
that in building a house and establishing a 
home it is just as essent ial to provide means 
for supplying the menage with a flow of 
water, by some one of the powers that be, as 
it is to have mowing machines, sewing ma¬ 
chines (a great deal more so, indeed!), horse 
pitch-forks aud hones and carts. Of course, 
there are a great many things in the world of 
which wo have no need, partly became we 
haven’t been accustomed to them; and so a 
vast army of women do not “miss” running 
water and a good drain sink, because all their 
lives they have been used to a pump in a well, 
a water pail and a dipper. But the enormous 
tax on strength goes on—the body-wrenching 
business of operating a pump and lifting the 
filled water bucket. Much of the difficulty 
could be obviated, where dwellings are high 
and there is exjian.se of roof to fill eaves, if a 
tank were constructed sufficiently high, fed by 
the eaves and led into the kitchen by a pij>e. 
The rain tank is usually i>ut. below the ground 
and called a cistern, and the water has to be 
pumped. The elevates! tank would be beset 
with some difficulties—particularly in Winter 
where blizzards prevail—but I do not, see, with 
intelligent management, why it could not. be 
made a very efficient and satisfactory adjunct 
of the kitchen. If any woman has such an 
arrangement she might serve the cause of 
woman-saving by telling about it iu the Ru¬ 
ral. It sometimes happens that farm 
houses are so situated that water could be 
brought from an adjacent hill, and, of course, 
in the good time coming, electrical power will 
be so well understood and so cheap, that every¬ 
thing will be done for us by the touch of a 
spring, aud windmills and steam engines that 
now vex our souls by their “cranks” will vex 
as no more; and if we all were to live a thous¬ 
and years, patience to wait, would be no great 
virtue. 
One day a lady said to me, “How do you 
eat your tomales?” (pronounced to-mal-es.) 
I stared at her in ignorauce and replied “I 
don’t eat them; what arc they;” “A Mexican 
dish—tlireo for 25 cents. Shall I send the 
man around to you?” So it came about that 
one evening, about seven o'clock, there was a 
ring at t he door, and there apjieared a hand¬ 
some black-eyed young man, with a wooden 
pail iu his hand, which contained coarse 
brown wrapping paper iu a confused condi¬ 
tion. I heard him say “Tomales!” aud T sang 
out from the parlor, where I was rending, 
“Yes! this is the place. Come inhere!” Then 
he began to fumble around in the bucket, and 
presently fished out from the sea of jut per, 
three packages tied uj» in corn husks—still 
warm, like a cooled-off poultice. A volley of 
questions succeeded, and he informed me that 
the tomales were made in San Francisco, by 
Mexican women, and were distributed, piping 
hot, both in that city and Oakland. They 
could be reheated best by steaming them. I 
quickly cut. from one the husk strings, one at 
each end, and one in the middle. The “thing” 
was about six inches long and as large around 
as au unhusked ear of corn—and 1 then took 
off a husk, a very wide one I thought, aud it 
measured 11 inches in width. “The husks are 
all parboiled” explained the man. Thou on 
the next husk, I discovered something that 
looked like a busk also, and I said, “this is 
husk too, and goes into the fire.” “No, 
rnada me, this is the beginning of the toniale”— 
it was spread on the husk like a plaster. 
“And what is it made of?” “Of lard and 
corn meal; cooked together”—so I proceeded 
taking off husk after husk with its layer of 
lard and meal, meantime I asked what was 
inside? “Oh. inside there are olives and 
raisins aud Chili pepper and chicken mice.” 
“Mice!" “Mince do you call it? Mince of 
chicken—sometimes of pork. This is chicken!” 
Finally the inside wad was reached—minced 
chicken meat mixed with the ingredients lie 
had named—amt the mercy only knows what 
else. I lagan at once to eat, the “laddie" look¬ 
ing on and wanting some—but refused because 
it was too near his bed hour—and 1 had strong 
suspicions that it was a mixture to give a 
hyena indigestion, Anaximander declined 
with thanks—so that two tomales were laid 
away to be steamed hot for breakfast. Upon 
the whole I rather liked it—or thought 1 
might, with practice become fond of toniale. 
The young man said he was a Spaniard from 
Spain—not n Mexican—and told us how many 
chickens were daily used at the tonntie factory; 
that the French and Germans did not care for 
them, and that Mexicans and Americans 
formed the chief patrons. He stood by, until 
I had swallowed the last of the toniale, and 
hoped that we would let him know if we want¬ 
ed him to bring any more. The Chili j>ep- 
jjer made me very thirsty, and I went to sleep 
to dream dreams of being a participant in five 
or six enviously ingenious murders, and of 
being murdered myself, finally, after which I 
awoke. I concluded* that so fur as 1 was con¬ 
cerned, the toniale man need not call again. 
The steamed tomales for breakfast were 
nibbled at gingerly by the uninitiated members 
of the family. The “laddie” liked the raisins 
and the chicken mince, while Anaximander 
thought he might eat them sooner than starve! 
As a mechanical device, the toniale is a suc¬ 
cess —the oddity of the corn husks, and the 
successive layers encircling the middle roll. 
The mush of lard and meal spread between 
the husks, is Compressed into a wafer-like cake, 
aud bears the print of the husk, Reyond 
cheajmessand convenience, and its peculiar 
character as a wrapper 1 do uot know that 
