47o 
THE RURAL NEW-YORKER. 
July 2 
Woman and 
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The Home.? 
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FROM DAY TO DAY. 
“ Seems to me you never worry about 
anj'thing,” observed one woman to a 
neighbor. “ I suppose you don't really 
feel things, but I've always been so sensi¬ 
tive,” and she looked at the non-worry¬ 
ing neighbor as though she considered 
unvarying cheerfulness rather an evi¬ 
dence of a coarser fiber. Don’t we very 
often take this same view, regarding out- 
ward manifestations of selfishness or 
ill-temper as the evidence of sensibility ? 
Our suffrages are given to the woman 
who wears her cheerfulness like Rosa¬ 
lind’s doublet and hose, as an armor 
against misfortune, and who remembers 
the admonition to cheerful giving when 
she gives duty and service, as well as 
when she gives material alms. 
* 
Wijat an old, old subject this is : At 
recurrent intervals, something brings 
the subject to mind, and the Chief Cook 
offers a little feminine sermon upon the 
duty of happiness, just because she meets 
so many women who seem to think that 
happiness and duty are incompatible. 
They are the women who appear to suffer 
from neuralgia of the conscience, and 
their fear lest they may not be doing 
their whole duty in their day and gen¬ 
eration casts a gray shade over their do¬ 
mestic life. Why not enjoy things as we 
go along ? A modern philosopher remarks 
that the way to get lots of fun out of 
life is to put lots of fun into it, and we 
may well try that plan with our cheer¬ 
fulness. If there isn’t any bright side, 
try polishing up the dark one. 
* 
The Chief Cook has spent a good deal 
of time lately in wandering through the 
country. Of course, she lives in the coun¬ 
try, to the extent of sleeping there and 
eating two meals a day in sight of green 
fields and waving trees, like all the 
others who follow the fortunes of The 
It. N.-Y.; but this time, she has been far 
from the sight of trolleys and electric 
lights in the real Simon-pure country, 
and the farm life shared in has been an 
unending delight. It was good to be 
there. We are not by any means losing 
sight of the dark side of farm life for 
women, which often includes both hard 
work and isolation, together with nar¬ 
row means ; but we still think that, with 
these disadvantages, there are compensa¬ 
tions quite out of the reach of city 
women of very small means. Some one 
will say : “ Well, it’s easy to be attract¬ 
ed by country life in June, when every¬ 
thing is at its best; but just try it in 
rough Winter weather ! ” Isn't it possi¬ 
ble to store up some of that sunshine 
mentally, just as we’re putting up 
canned fruit for Winter use ? The coal 
we burn is a species of preserved sun¬ 
shine, giving out with its cheerful light, 
the warmth that once shone over dead- 
and-gone prehistoric forests, now trans¬ 
formed from their first estate. We would 
be wise in preserving a mental record 
of our Summer sun, to brighten up 
the dull days of Winter. 
* 
Down under the windows of the Chief 
Cook’s office—'way down, too, for we are 
eight floors above terra firma—is a little 
newspaper stand. Its proprietor is a 
woman; a widow with four little children. 
In the country, a woman in her situation 
would, in most cases, find some tiny 
habitation, where she could, at least, 
keep a few fowls, and make some at¬ 
tempt at gardening, thus providing some 
food to eke out her small earnings. In 
the city, she lives in a dark rear tene¬ 
ment, cramped in a tiny room or two, 
whose only light comes from a window 
opening on an inner court. During the 
Winter, she used to sit inside her tiny 
stand at the street corner, huddled over 
a charcoal brazier, nursing her little 
baby. He was teething, she explained, 
and needed lots of care; besides, the ten- 
year-old girl must go to school, or the 
truant officer would be after her, and 
she wanted to make a scholar of her 
anyway. When warm weather came, 
that baby’s nursery was the sidewalk, 
and it was a great occasion when he 
pulled himself up by the corner of the 
news-stand, and started deviously across 
to the lamp-post at the corner, though 
he finished the walk on all-fours. He 
isn’t a very clean baby, and his ward¬ 
robe leaves much to be desired ; but he 
has an engaging smile for everyone who 
goes past, from the big policeman to the 
little old man with a crippled arm, who 
over on the opposite corner, sells penny¬ 
worths of candy from a stand about 2x3 
feet, which holds all his stock. The news¬ 
paper business isn't very good now, the 
widow explains; there are too many 
people in it. Since the war excitement, 
the number of people selling papers on 
the sidewalk has more than doubled, 
and the increase is largely among adults, 
both men and women. Some of the 
papers raised their wholesale prices, too, 
so that, for a time, a number of the 
newsboys refused to handle them ; they 
couldn’t afford it. The widow says that 
people take streaks in reading papers, 
and wet or stormy weather is very bad 
for the business, especially a wet Sun¬ 
day. 
* 
That little news-stand gives one side 
of city life among the poor. Sultry Sum¬ 
mer nights, when the country dwellers 
sit out under the trees, and watch the 
fireflies flickering among the dark leaves, 
the women in the tenement houses take 
their children out on the roof, or huddle 
on the fire-escape, to get a breath of fresh 
air ; it is impossible to sleep in the close, 
foul rooms. No wonder the teething 
babies languish and die. The floating 
hospital helps them, taking thousands 
of infants, in the course of the Summer, 
to grow stronger in the salt breezes of 
the bay ; but there are so many of 
these poor little mortals. Only those 
who have seen the children of poverty at 
the New York floating hospital, or the 
Chicago Fresh-air Sanitarium in Lincoln 
Park, can realize what Summer is to the 
city poor. In the lower part of the city, 
near the North or East Rivers, the people 
crowd upon the docks, often remaining 
there nearly all night. The new recrea¬ 
tion piers make provision for their com¬ 
fort, and are a very great blessing. Rut 
doesn’t it seem as though we ourselves 
have reason to be thankful that our lines 
are cast in such pleasant places as the 
country during the Summer and Winter 
both ? 
THE STAFF OF LIFE. 
Much has been said in condemnation 
of the homemaker who feeds her family 
on fine wheat flour, although many do 
not relish the whole-wheat bread. Such 
is the case with us, so I overcome diffi¬ 
culties and please all concerned by the 
following method : 1 procure the best 
grade of wheat flour on the market; it 
is not extravagant, as it makes much 
more bread in bulk, and is used for no 
other baking purposes. Real brown 
bread made after the recipe appended is 
usually to be found on the table, besides 
the white, and as the demand is often 
greater for the brown loaf, it would ap¬ 
pear that it suffers nothing by com¬ 
parison. The white bread is made in 
what seems to me to be the simplest, 
and easiest way possible, as well as giv¬ 
ing the best results of any method I 
have ever tried (and their name is 
legion). 
Yeast. —Nearly fill a two-quart glass 
can with warm water, in which potatoes 
have been boiled. Add one-half cupful 
of sugar (no salt, no scalded flour), one 
fresh yeast cake, previously dissolved ; 
set in a warm place to rise. At each 
baking, take one-half the contents of 
the can, replenishing it with more potato 
water and three tablespoonfuls of sugar, 
but no more yeast. Add w r ater to make 
the required amount of wetting ; make a 
thin sponge with flour. When light, add 
flour sufficient to knead on the board till 
smooth, add salt, put back in the pan to 
rise at least twice the size, form into 
loaves, when light, bake. The first rising 
may be dispensed with, and it be made 
immediately into the hard loaf, if pre¬ 
ferred. 
In warm weather, I set the sponge at 
7 r. m., knead on the board at bedtime, 
cover closely, and set in the cellar. With 
well-greased palms, I form into loaves 
before breakfast, and behold, the “roast¬ 
ed mother ” of baking day is avoided. I 
won't tell at what hour I sometimes take 
the finished product from the oven, as it 
might startle some late riser who would, 
perhaps, doubt my tale ; but I really get 
much better results than from starting 
the bread in the morning, as I avoid 
keeping the dough too warm. 
Brown Bkead.— Three cupfuls each of 
corn meal, Graham flour (unsifted) and 
white flour ; one-half cupful of molasses, 
a pinch of salt, one scant tablespoonful 
of soda, and fresh buttermilk to make 
rather a stiff batter. Pour in a well- 
greased, four-quart pan, bake slowly, 
and do not cut slices from it till cool. 
SWEET FERN. 
SCREEN-DOOR FRAMES. 
Screen doors can easily be made at 
home. Use well-dried pine, and frame 
the joints as shown in Fig. 211. A small 
bit permits the long wire nails to be 
counter-sunk, the openings then being 
FRAME FOR NET DOOR. Fig. 211. 
plugged. A pin of hard wood may be 
used instead of nails in some positions. 
These joints require but little chiseling, 
yet hold firmly. Stretch wire cloth 
firmly over the frame, and tack. Use 
hinges with springs that will close the 
door always. D. w\ 
SCRAP-BOOKS IN VARIETY. 
SKIMMING THE CREAM FROM THE PAPERS. 
“ Did you ever see such a house as this 
is for papers, magazines, pamphlets, 
circulars, catalogues and books ? ” I ex¬ 
claimed, half vexed, as I cleared a chair 
of the daily paper for my caller, Mrs. 
Davis, to sit in. “ I declare, they ac¬ 
cumulate so fast that I don’t know but 
we shall be crowded out of house and 
home! The attic is so full, already, that 
they have begun to fall down the stairs.” 
“It’s the same way at our house, or 
would be if I hadn't taken strong 
measures,” laughed Mrs. Davis. “ What 
puzzles me is where it all comes from. It 
doesn't seem as if we paid out much 
money that way.” 
“ I guess it is a case of ‘ our own rush¬ 
ing to meet us,’” I said. “You notice 
that those who care nothing for reading, 
are not troubled that way. There are 
the Petersons—I was there the other 
day, and if you will believe it, there 
wasn’t a book or paper or bit of printing 
in sight, excepting a calendar and the 
Old Farmer's almanac. 
“I used to think I’d be so philan¬ 
thropic,” I went on, “and after reading 
a thing, pass it along. But it seems as 
though those who really care for read¬ 
ing—at least, around here,—have all they 
want, while those who don't care, won’t 
read it if you give it to them. Then, 
it costs so much to send it to a distance, 
and you never feel sure whether it is 
appreciated. There was a woman I heard 
of indirectly, who lived in another State, 
who was said to be extremely anxious 
for reading matter, especially religious 
reading. I was taking one of the very 
best religious weeklies at the time, and 
I thought I would send it to her, and I 
wrote a little note to go with the first 
one, saying I would send it regularly, 
and expressing my pleasure in the 
thought that it would give her enjoy¬ 
ment, as well as me. Now wouldn’t you 
think that she might have sent me a 
postal—just one postal—to say it came 
safely, and she was glad to have it ? 
Well, I sent it for nearly six months, at 
frequent intervals, so she would get it 
while it was comparatively new, and in 
all that time, I never heard a word from 
her. I don’t know, even now, whether 
she ever received a single one of the 
papers, though I directed them very 
plainly, and asked that they be returned 
if not called for. Other people I have 
sent magazines to, didn't seem to care 
for them, and the postage is really quite 
a tax on a person whose money is as 
hardly come by as mine.” 
“ My experience has been similar to 
yours,” said Mrs. Davis, “ and at last, I 
stopped trying to give reading matter 
away, and began throwing it away, in¬ 
stead—after skimming off the cream.” 
“ How did you skim it ? ” I asked. 
“ With the scissors. I began making 
scrap-books. At first, I had only a prose 
and poetry one, in which I pasted any¬ 
thing of the kind that I thought partic¬ 
ularly good. Then I started one con¬ 
taining hints on housekeeping, and later, 
one in which I put everything relating 
to hygienic living, and so on, till now 
my husband and children call me a scrap¬ 
book fiend.” 
“ How many kinds have you now ? ” 
“ Let me see,” and she counted on her 
fingers. “ I’ve mentioned three. There 
is one devoted to the care and training 
of children, one to ethics, which includes 
anything that helps to true and noble 
living, then one for cookery recipes and 
hints about cooking, one containing pic¬ 
tures of noted people or places or beauti¬ 
ful scenery, and any little biography 
or description that accompanies them, 
which I call my album, and lastly a large 
book—an old Congressional Record—in 
which go doubtful things, things I can¬ 
not easily classify or which seem too 
good to throw away, and yet not ex¬ 
tremely good. That makes eight.” 
“But doesn't it take a good deal of 
time?” I questioned. 
“No, it takes very little time. T gen¬ 
erally have a pair of scissors handy, and 
as I am usually the one who reads a 
periodical last, I just cut out anything I 
come across that I like, and lay it aside. 
Then, some day, when I have a little 
time to spare, I take the mucilage bottle, 
and paste the scraps into their respective 
books in almost no time. The rest of 
the family have caught the habit, also, 
and Mr. Davis and Mary and Tom each 
have a scrap-book in which they pre¬ 
serve the things they particularly like. 
Mr. Davis, for instance, takes four or 
five poultry papers, and you know the 
house would be overrun in a very short 
time if he kept them all. He cuts out 
what he wants to save, and the rest can 
be destroyed. Of course, there are some 
of the magazines that we keep and have 
bound, but everything else is skimmed.” 
“ But isn’t it difficult to find things in 
the scrap-books ? ” I queried. 
“ Not at all. I paste in two other fly¬ 
leaves, and on those, I write the name of 
each scrap that goes in. When the books 
are full, if they ever are, I intend to 
make an alphabetical index, also.” 
“ I believe I’ll try your method,” I said. 
ELIZABETH ROBBINS. 
Benzine will remove the shine from 
black cloth. Great care must be exer¬ 
cised in using it, as it is very inflam¬ 
mable. 
Meat should be cleaned with a damp 
cloth, not washed; fish, in salt and 
water. 
