294 
THE LADIES’ FLORAL CABINET. 
system. The gardeners who garden on but one method, 
that of the Roman, or the Italian, or the Frenchman of 
the days of Louis XIV.—are not capable of using rightly 
the wealth of material lying unheeded about them. An 
hour’s walk into the hills, where godetias cluster in pur¬ 
ple masses on the slope, and azaleas bloom by the river’s 
edge, ought to furnish suggestions for many wild-gardens 
of California homesteads by the streams of Yolo, the 
ravines of Santa Cruz, or the slopes of Berkeley .—Charles 
Howard Shinn , in The San Franciscan. 
A WHISTLING GIRL. 
H ALLIE McGUIRE sat on the window-sill whist¬ 
ling “ Nancy Lee ” and swinging her heels. They 
were pretty French heels, and belonged to the daintiest 
pair of slippers imaginable. Her dress was dark gray, 
plainly made, yet fitting exquisitely to her rounded 
curves and delicate outline; a jaunty little apron, with 
scarlet bows on the pockets ; scarlet at the throat and 
nestling amid the waves of her dark hair completed her 
costume, and out of this pleasant combination of color 
arose her charming, piquant head. 
No one had ever called Hallie beautiful; her skin was 
too pale, her scarlet mouth too wide, her “ tiptilted ” 
little nose too aggressive to merit such an adjective ; but 
she was so bewitching, so original, that she possessed 
greater influence over others than if she had been an 
“ orthodox beauty.” Women, half envious of a charm 
they could not analyze, yet loved her for her sunny, 
merry ways : while men—surrendered unconditionally. 
Hallie possessod an accomplishment quite rare in the 
quiet village where she lived ; loving music with passionate 
fervor, but denied by nature a voice for singing, she could 
whistle as sweetly and clearly as any mocking-bird. Other 
girls vainly tried to imitate her; proper mammas spoke of 
the habit as highly indecorous and unladylike, while Jack, 
her merry, teasing brother Jack, gave up in despair at 
being excelled by a girl. And so she sat there, on her 
high perch, whistling, and trying to solve the perplexing 
problem—would she make custard or chocolate cake for 
supper. It was a golden morning in the last of May, the 
kitchen door stood widely open, and through it came 
sunshine and vague perfume, and the humming of bees. 
Outside, over the window, a scarlet creeper was growing, 
its leaves and gorgeous blossoms forming a gleaming 
frame for the unconscious picture within. 
Sauntering down the sidewalk came three young men 
in earnest converse—Jack, Hallie’s loving, teasing brother; 
Fred Evans and a Mr. Hamilton. Fred was an old college 
chum of Jack’s; Mr. Hamilton a stranger until that morn¬ 
ing—both had come down to the quiet little town for a 
few weeks’ fishing and hunting among the ferny streams 
and woods. 
Just now they were planning for a day’s sport, and dis¬ 
cussing tackle, bait and other necessities. A few steps 
farther, and the pretty little tableau came in view; for a 
background the dusky shadows of the quaint old kitchen, 
where, framed in by scarlet and green, sat the unconscious 
Hallie, saucy, bewitching, with the clear sweet whistle 
ringing out on the fragrant air. All three paused in¬ 
stinctively; then Jack in his cheery fashion, forgetful of 
forms, spoke out: “ That’s my sister, come in and be in¬ 
troduced.” 
“ Thanks, no,” murmured Mr. Hamilton so stiffly that 
Jack looked up surprised, until Fred, breaking into a laugh, 
explained, “ You see Hamilton’s particular aversion is a 
woman who attempts anything in the least masculine, 
and whistling, I believe, he considers a thing unpardon¬ 
able. As for myself, I would consider it a great pleasure, 
but promised to be at the station to. meet a friend at nine, 
and,” looking at his watch, “ I’ve just ten minutes to make 
the run. Ta-ta, old boy, we’ll see you further.” So say¬ 
ing the young men disappeared around a corner. Jack 
rushed up to his room, and Hallie, having decided in the 
same breath that “ a sailor’s wife his star should be ” 
and that chocolate cake was the nicest, dismounted from 
the window and plunged into the mysteries of the cook¬ 
book. 
“ Hallie,” said Jack, at the dinner-table, with his mouth 
full of potato, “ when does Motherkin give you your birth¬ 
day party ? ” 
“ On my birthday, of course, Mr. Brilliancy; or, to be 
explicit, next Wednesday evening, from eight to twelve 
P. M. Why ? ” 
“ May I bring up two friends that I met to-day ? Stran¬ 
gers in town—want to do the handsome thing—charity 
begins at home, you know,” rattled on the glib-tongued 
Jack. 
“ Of course,” assented Hallie, serenely, “you are always 
at liberty to bring your friends.” 
It was a warm evening in the early part of June; in¬ 
doors all was light and motion and music, as became 
Hallie’s birthnight, and among the gay groups of friends 
she moved a demure and graceful little hostess. Pres¬ 
ently she was confronted by two new faces, and heard 
Jack’s cheery voice—“My sister—Mr. Evans—Mr. Ham¬ 
ilton.” 
Both men were in evening dress, and both fine-looking, 
but in Fred Evans she saw, even in that passing glance, 
a man of intellect and strong will, genial yet reticent, 
keeping back his best. The other seemed to her super¬ 
ficial, and yet a man of immense conceit, who considered 
himself as belonging to a superior order of beings. 
The evening passed, as all such evenings do, with mu¬ 
sic and gay, sweet laughter, and at midnight the company 
divided. 
Hallie, tired little queen, lost herself in slumber the 
moment her head touched the pillow. Fred Evans sat 
long on the balcony smoking his fragrant Havana, mus¬ 
ing over the frank brown eyes that had looked into his 
