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THE BOSTON COOKING-SCHOOL MAGAZINE COMPANY presents the following as a list of representative works on household economies. Any of the books will be sent postpaid upon receipt of price.

Special rates made to schools, clubs and persons wishing a number of books. Write for quotation on the list of books you wish. We carry a very large stock of these books. One order to us saves effort and express charges. Prices subject to change without notice.

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[249]

Select choice, fresh fruit of all varieties obtainable. Slice, using care to remove all skins, stones, seeds, membranes, etc.; for example, each section of orange must be freed from the thin membranous skin in which it grows. Chill the prepared fruit, arrange in fruit cocktail glasses with maraschino syrup. A maraschino cherry is placed on the very top of each service.

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[251]

Through the glamour of the Colonial we are forced to acknowledge the classic charm shown in late seventeenth and early eighteenth century window designs. Developed, as they were, by American carpenters who were stimulated by remembrance of their early impressions of English architecture received in the mother land, there is no precise or spiritless copy of English details; rather there is expressed a vitality that has been brought out by earnest effort to reproduce the spirit desired. Undoubtedly the lasting success of early American craftsmanship has been due to the perfect treatment of proportions, as related one to the other. That these are not imitations is proved by an occasional clumsiness which would be impossible, if they were exact copies of their more highly refined English prototypes.

The grasp of the builder's mind is vividly revealed in the construction of these windows, for while blunders are often made, yet successes are much more frequent. They are evolved from remembered motives that have been unified and balanced, that they might accord with the exterior and be knitted successfully into the interior trim. Some of these windows still grace seventeenth century houses, and are found not only on old southern plantations, but all through New England, more especially along the sea coast. True products are they of Colonial craftsmanship, brought into existence by skilled artisans, who have performed their work so perfectly that today they are found unimpaired, striking a dominant note in accord with the architectural feeling of the period.

There is no question but that windows such as these lend character to any house, provided, of course, that they coincide with the period. Doubtless the designing of modified Colonial houses is responsible, in part, for the present-day revival of interest, not solely in windows of the Colonial period, but also in that which immediately preceded and followed it.

The first ornamental windows were of the casement type, copied from English cottage homes. Like those, they opened outward, and were designed with small panes, either diamond or square shaped. As they were in use long before glass was manufactured in this country, the Colonists were forced to import them direct[252] from England. Many were sent ready to be inserted, with panes already leaded in place. Proof of this is afforded by examples still in existence. These often show strange patches or cutting. The arrangement of casements varies from single windows to groups of two or three, and they were occasionally supplemented by fixed transoms. Surely no phase of window architecture stands out more conspicuously in the evolution of our early designs than the casement with its tiny panes, ornamented with handwrought iron strap-hinges which either flared into arrow heads, rounded into knobs, or lengthened into points. That they were very popular is shown from the fact that they withstood the changes of fashion for over a century, not being abolished until about the year 1700.

Little drapery is needed in casement windows where they are divided by mullions. The English draw curtain is admirable for this purpose. It can be made of casement cloth with narrow side curtains and valance of bright material. A charming combination was worked out in a summer cottage. The glass curtains were of black and white voile with tiny figures introduced. This was trimmed with a narrow black and white fringe, while the overdrapery had a black background patterned with old rose.

In the field of architectural progress, more especially during the last few years, there have arisen vast possibilities for the development of odd windows. These, if properly placed, showing correct grouping, are artistic, not only from the outside, but from the inside as well. The artistic woman, realizing the value of color, will fill a bright china bowl with glowing blossoms and place it in the center of a wide window sill, where the[253] sun, playing across them, will carry their cheerful color throughout the room. She also trains vines to meander over the window pane, working out a delicate tracery that is most effective, suspending baskets of ferns from the upper casement, that she may break the length of her Colonial window. Thus through many artifices she causes her simple room to bloom and blossom like a rose.

The progress made in window architecture is more apparent as we study the early types. Then small attention was paid to details, the windows placed with little thought of artistic grouping. Their only object to light the room, often they stood like soldiers on parade, in a straight row, lining the front of the house.

Out of the past has come a vast array of period windows, each one of which is of interest. They display an unmistakable relationship to one another, for while we acknowledge that they differ in detail and ornamentation, yet do they invariably show in their conception some underlying unity. There is no more fascinating study than to take each one separately and carefully analyze its every detail, for thus only can we recognize and appreciate the links which connect them with the early American types.

We happen upon them not only in the modified Colonial structures, but in houses in every period of architecture. It may be only a fragment, possibly a choice bit of carving; or it may be a window composed in the old-fashioned manner of from nine to thirty panes, introduced in Colonial days for the sake of avoiding the glass tax levied upon them if over a certain size. A charming example of a reproduction of one of these thirty-paned windows may be seen in a rough plaster house built in Salem, after the great fire. The suggestion was taken from an old historic house in a fine state of preservation in Boxford, Mass.

The first American homes derived their plans and their finish from medieval English tradition. They were forced to utilize such materials as they were able to obtain, and step by step they bettered[254] the construction and ornamentation of their homes. As increasing means and added material allowed, they planned and executed more elaborately, not only in size and finish, but in the adding of window casings, caps, and shutters.

The acme of Colonial architecture was reached with the development of the large square houses with exquisitely designed entrances and porticos. These often showed recessed and arched windows, also those of the Palladian type. At the Lindens, Danvers, Mass., a memory-haunted mansion, may be seen one of the finest examples of these recessed windows. This famous dwelling, the work of an English architect, who built it in about 1770, is linked with American history through its use by General Gage as his headquarters during the Revolution.

The recessed windows that are found here reveal delicate mouldings in the classic bead and filet design, and are surmounted by an elaborate moulded cornice, which lends great dignity to the room. This is supported by delicate pilasters and balanced by the swelling base shown below the window seats. Such a window as this is no mere incident, or cut in the wall; on the contrary, it is structural treatment of woodwork. Another feature of pronounced interest may be noted on the stair landing, where a charming Palladian window overlooks the old-fashioned box-bordered garden that has been laid out at the rear.

We have dwelt, perhaps, too much on the old Colonial types, neglecting those of the present day, but it has been through a feeling that with an intimate knowledge of their designs we shall be better able to appreciate the products of our own age, whose creators drew their inspiration from the past. A modern treatment of windows appears in our illustration.

[255]

If, some fine day, all housewives awoke to the fact that most of the trouble in the world originates in the kitchen, there would shortly be a little more interest in kitchen problems and not so much distaste for and neglect of this important part of the house.

Of course, women will cry out that we have never in our lives been so intent on just that one subject, kitchens, as we are today.

I admit that there is a good deal of talk going on which might lead one to believe that vacuum cleaners and electric-washing machines, etc., are to bring about the millennium for housekeepers; and there is also a good work going forward to make of housework a real profession.

But, until in the average home there comes the feeling that the kitchen—the room itself—is just as much an expression of the family life and aims and ideals as the living room or any other room, we shall be only beating about the bush in our endeavor to find a remedy for some of our perplexing troubles.

Nowadays, women who are doing much work out in the big world—the so-called "enfranchised" women—are many of them proving that they find housework no detriment to their careers and some even admit that they enjoy it.

But so far most of them have standardized their work and systematized it, with the mere idea of doing what they have to do "efficiently" and well, with the least expenditure of time and energy. And they have more than succeeded in proving the "drudgery" plea unfounded.

Now, however, we need something more. We need to make housework attractive; in other words, to put charm in the kitchen.

There is one very simple way of doing[256] this, that is to make kitchens good to look at, and inviting as a place to stay and work.

For the professional, scientifically inclined houseworker, the most beautiful kitchen may be the white porcelain one, with cold, snowy cleanliness suggesting sterilized utensils and carefully measured food calories.

But to the woman whose cooking and dishwashing are just more or less pleasant incidents in a pleasant round of home and social duties, the kitchen must suggest another kind of beauty—not necessarily a beauty which harbors germs, nor makes the work less conveniently done, but a beauty of kindly associations with furniture and arrangements.

Who could grow fond of a white-tiled floor or a porcelain sink as they exist in so many modern kitchens! And as for the bulgy and top-heavy cook stoves, badly proportioned refrigerators, and kitchen cabinets—well, we should have to like cooking very well indeed before we could feel any pleasure in the mere presence of these necessary but unnecessarily ugly accompaniments to our work.

We have come to think of cleanliness as not only next to godliness, but as something which takes the place of beauty—is beauty.

This attitude is laziness on our part, for we need sacrifice nothing to utility and convenience, yet may still contrive our kitchen furniture so that it, also, pleases the senses. With a little conscientious reflection on the subject we may make kitchens which have all the charm of the old, combined with all the convenience of the new; and woman will have found a place to reconcile her old and new selves, the housewife and the suffragist, the mother-by-the-fireside and the participator in public affairs. The family will have found a new-old place of reunion—the kitchen!

Granted then that our tiny house has a kitchen-with-charm, and an "other room," the rest of the available space may be divided into the requisite number of bed and living rooms, according to the needs of the family.

There is only one other very important thing to look out for; that is the matter of closets. There is no rule for the[257] number of closets which will make the tiny house livable, but I should say, the more the merrier. If there is ever question of sacrificing a small room and gaining a large closet, by all means do it, for absolute neatness is the saving grace of small quarters, and storage places are essential, if one does not wish to live in a vortex of yesterday's and tomorrow's affairs with no room to concentrate on the present.

Inside and outside the tiny house must conform to one law—elimination of non-essentials; and the person who has a clear idea of his individual needs and has also the strength of will to limit his needs to his circumstances, will find in his tiny house a satisfaction more than compensating for any sacrifices he may have made.

No one doubts that it is a sacrifice to give up a lesser pleasure even to gain the "summum bonum" and that it does take will power to keep oneself from weakly saying in the face of temptation, "Oh, well! what does it matter! My little house would perhaps be better without that, but I have grown accustomed to it, let it stay!"

Oh! the waste lands which lie beneath the sun trying to call themselves gardens! Oh! the pitiful little plots, unfenced, unused, entirely misunderstood by people who stick houses in the middle of them and call them "gardens"!

No amount of good grass seed, or expensive planting, or well-cared-for flowers and lawns will ever make the average suburban lot anything but a "lot," and most of them might as well, or better, be rough, uncultivated fields for all the relation they bear to the houses upon them or the use they were intended for.

[258]

"Huh!" exclaimed Jennie, "there comes Aunt Rachel! Wonder what she wants now? Last time it was—no, it wasn't—that was the time when Jimmie Upson and his wife were here. How scandalized Aunt Rachel looked! Said I'd ruin my husband, and a lot of such tommyrot. As though Jimmie and I couldn't afford a spread now and then! I didn't, and I won't, tell Aunt Rachel that it was a special party and a special occasion. Of course, I know Jimmie isn't a millionaire, but—it's none of Aunt Rachel's business, so there!" she finished defiantly.

Aunt Rachel plodded blissfully up the walk. "Jennie'll be glad to see me, I know," she mused. "She's high-headed, but she knows a good thing when she sees it, and I help her a lot."

Jennie received her aunt with cordiality, but not effusiveness. To be discourteous was something she could not be. Besides, she liked Aunt Rachel and pitied her idiosyncrasies. "Why can't she be as nice when she goes to people's houses as she is when she is at home?" she mused. "I love to go there, and everything is just perfect, but the minute she steps outside the door—well, we all know Aunt Rachel! And she doesn't go home early either. Jimmie'll be furious. She always calls him 'James' and asks after his health and—and everything. I do so want him to like her, but I'm afraid he never will. I do wish I could get her interested in something. I have it!" she exclaimed triumphantly. "The very thing!"

Aunt Rachel looked up in surprise. "What's the matter, Jennie?" she inquired.

"Oh, nothing much, Auntie! I was just thinking aloud."

"Don't!" said Aunt Rachel. "It's a bad habit, Jennie—though I do do it myself, sometimes."

"Sometimes!" Jennie turned away to hide her smile. Why, Aunt Rachel made a business of talking aloud!

As luck would have it, the dinner went off to Aunt Rachel's satisfaction. It was good, but conservative.

"Jennie is learning," thought the old lady to herself. "After I've been here a few times more, she'll get along all right."

Aunt Rachel hadn't noticed that every idea Jennie has used was, strictly, either Jennie's own or her mother's.

"How long does your aunt expect to stay?" asked Jimmie, casually, while Jennie was clearing the table. Aunt Rachel was in the kitchen. She prided herself on never being "a burden on any one." Doubtless, some of her friends would have preferred that she be. Most of us have a skeleton we do not wish to keep on exhibition.

"Oh, I don't know, maybe a week or two," said Jennie, mischievously. "She hasn't told me yet."

"Oh!" replied Jimmie, in a disappointed voice. "Business down town"? "Dinner at the Club"? No, he couldn't keep that up indefinitely. Besides, what did a man want of a home, if he wasn't going to live in it? Covertly, Jennie watched him. She knew every expression of his face. It amused her, but she was sorry, too. "Jimmie wants awfully to flunk—and dassent," was her mental comment.

"Anything on for this evening, Jimmie?" inquired Jennie, sweetly, too sweetly, Jimmie thought. He had heard those dulcet tones before.

"Yes—no!" stammered Jimmie. How he wished he had! However, as Jennie said no more, he dismissed the subject[259] from his mind. She probably didn't really mean anything, anyway.

When James Atherton reached home that evening, he found the house lighted from top to bottom. Beautifully dressed women were everywhere, and in their midst—Aunt Rachel, at her best!

"Ladies," she exclaimed, and Jimmie paused to listen, "I am honored—more so than you can guess—at the distinction conferred upon me. This afternoon you have seen fit to make me one of your leaders in a most important movement for civic betterment—an honor never before accorded a woman in this city—and I need not assure you that you shall not regret your choice. As a member of the Civic Betterment Committee of Loudon, I shall do my duty." ("I bet she will!" commented Jimmie, sotto voce.) "Again I thank you!" went on Aunt Rachel. "There's a work for you and for me now to do, and—" she paused impressively, "we will do it." ("I'll bet on you every time, Auntie," commented Jimmie to himself.)

"Jimmie Atherton, what in the world are you doing?" whispered an exasperated voice. "Hurry, Jimmie, hurry—do!" urged Jennie. "Dinner is almost ready to serve, and you haven't even made the first move to dress. Hurry, Jimmie, please!" And Jimmie did. He fairly sprinted into his clothes, appearing presently fully clad and good to look upon.

"Bet you a nickel Jennie couldn't have done that," he reflected, complacently. "Women never can get a move on them, where clothes are concerned."

That was the best evening Aunt Rachel had ever spent. She was the center of attraction; she had found a mission—not a desultory one, but one far-reaching in scope, so it seemed to her; and like a war-horse, she was after the charge.

Jennie's plans went through without a hitch. Aunt Rachel became, not only a member of the Committee on Civic Betterment, but, as well, its head and, in due season, mayor of the little city itself. Under her active management, Loudon became noted as a model city of its size, one good to look upon and good to live in. Crime fled, or scurried to cover, and Aunt Rachel blossomed like a rose. One day when Jimmie came home something seemed to please him greatly.

"What do you think, Jennie," he said, "Aunt Rachel is going to be married! Yes, she is! I've got it on the best of authority—the groom himself."

"Who?" gasped Jennie. "Why, Jimmie, she just HATES men! She's always said they were only a necessary evil."

"Yes, I know," smiled Jimmie, "that's what she used to say, but she'd never met Jacob Crowder then."

"Jacob Crowder!" exclaimed Jennie. "Why, Jimmie, he's as rich as Croesus, and he's always hated women as much as Aunt Rachel has hated men!"

"Yes," said Jimmie, "but that was before he met Aunt Rachel. He has been her righthand man for some time now, and they've seemed to hit it off pretty well. Guess they'll get along all right in double harness."

"When the girls and I steered Aunt Rachel into politics," said Jennie, "little we thought where it would all end. I'm glad, glad, though! Aunt Rachel is really splendid, but I've always thought she was suffering from something. Now I know what—it's ingrowing ambition. She will have all she can do now to take care of her own home and we won't see her so often."

"Oh, ho! So that's it?" smiled Jimmie. "Well, you girls, as has happened to many another would-be plotter before now, have found things have gotten rather out of your hands, haven't you?"

Jennie shrugged her shoulders.

"We can have the wedding here, can't we, Jimmie?" she asked, somewhat wistfully.

Jimmie wondered if she had heard him. Perhaps—and then again, perhaps not.

"I don't see where we come in on it," he remarked. "It's a church affair, you know."[260]

"Oh!" said Jennie. "But there'll be a reception, of course, and if she'll let us have it here, I'll have every one of us girls she has helped so much in the past."

Jimmie stared. "Consistency—" he muttered.

"What's that you said, Jimmie? Are you ill?" inquired Jennie, anxiously.

"No!" replied Jimmie, "it's you women! I can't understand you at all!"

"You're not supposed to, Jimmie, dear," answered Jennie sweetly.

I never thought I should come to like cats. But I have. Perhaps it is because, as my Aunt Amanda used to say, we change every seven years, sort of start over again, as it were; and find we have new thoughts, different ideas, unexpected tastes, strange attractions, and shifting doubts. Or, it may be, we merely come to a new milestone from which, looking back, we are able to regard our own personality from a hitherto unknown angle. We discover ourselves anew, and delight in the experiment.

Or, it may all be, as my husband stolidly affirms, just the logical result of meeting Sir Christopher Columbus, a carnivorous quadruped of the family Felidæ, much domesticated, in this case, white with markings as black and shiny as a crow's wing, so named because he voyaged about our village, not in search of a new world, but in search of a new home. He came to us. It is flattering to be chosen. He stayed. But who could resist Sir Christopher?

My husband and my Aunt Amanda may both be right. I strongly suspect they are. I also strongly suspect that Sir Christopher himself has much to do with my change of mental attitude: He is well-mannered, good to look upon, quite adorable, independent and patient. (Indeed, if people were half as patient as my cat this would be a different world to live in.) More: He has taught me many things, he talks without making too much noise; in fact, I have read whole sermons in his soft purrings. And I verily believe that many people might learn much from the family cat, except for the fact that we humans are such poor translators. We know only our own language. More's the pity.

Had I known Sir Christopher as a kitten, doubtless he might have added still more to my education. But I did not. He was quite full grown when I first laid my eyes upon him. He was sitting in the sun, on top of a rail fence, blinking at me consideringly. The fence skirted a little trail that led from my back yard down to Calapooia Creek. It seemed trying to push back a fringe of scrubby underbrush which ran down a hillside; a fringe which was, in truth, but a feeler from the great forest of Douglas fir which one saw marching, file upon file, row upon row, back and back to the snows of the high Cascades.

And the white of Sir Christopher's vest and snowy gauntlets was just as gleamingly clean as the icy frosting over the hills. Sir Christopher, even a cat, believed firmly in sartorial pulchritude. I admired him for that, even from the first glance; and, afterward, I put me up three new mirrors: I did not mean to be outdone by my cat, I intended to look tidy every minute, and there is nothing like mirrors to tell the truth. Credit for the initial impulse, however, belongs to Christopher C.

But that first morning, I merely glanced at him, sitting so comfortably on the top rail of the fence, blinking in the sun.[261]

"Somebody's cat," said I, and went on down to the creek to see if Curlylocks had tumbled in.

Coming back, the cat was still there. Doubtless he had taken a nap between times. But he might have been carved of stone, so still he lay, till my youngest, tugging at my hand, coaxed:

"Kitty—kitty—kitty. Muvver, see my 'ittle kitty?"

And I declare, if Sir Christopher (my husband and ten-year-old Ted named him that very evening) didn't look at me and wink. Then he jumped down and followed, very dignified, very discreet.

I attempted to shoo him back. But he wouldn't shoo. He merely stopped and seemed to consider matters. Or serenely remained far enough off to "play safe."

Meanwhile, my youngest continued to reiterate: "Kitty—kitty—kitty! My 'ittle kitty!"

"No, Curlylocks," said I, "it isn't your little kitty. It is somebody's cat."

Which merely shows that I knew not whereof I spoke. Sir Christopher proceeded to teach me.

Of course, at first I thought his stay with us was merely a temporary matter; like some folk, he had decided to go on a visit and stay over night. But when Sir Christopher continued to tarry, I enquired, I looked about, I advertised—and I assured the children that some one, somewhere, must surely be mourning the loss of a precious pet; some one, sometime, would come to claim him.

But no one came.

Days slid away, weeks slipped into months, winter walked our way, and spring, and summer again. Sir Christopher C. had deliberately adopted us, for he made no move toward finding another abiding place. He was no longer Somebody's cat, he was our cat; for, indeed, is not possession nine points of the law?

Then one day when heat shimmered over the valley, when the dandelions had seeded and the thistles had bloomed, when the corn stood heavy and the cricket tuned his evening fiddle, when spots in the lawn turned brown, where the sprinkler missed, when the baby waked and fretted, and swearing, sweating men turned to the west and wondered what had held up the sea breeze—Sir Christopher missed his supper. He vanished as completely as if he had been kidnapped by the Air Patrol. Three weeks went by and we gave him up for lost, although the children still prowled about looking over strange premises, peeping through back gates, trailing down unaccustomed lanes and along Calapooia Creek, for "We might find him," they insisted. Truly, "Hope springs eternal."

"Perhaps, he has gone back where he came from," said Daddy. "Perhaps, he has grown tired of us."

But My Man's voice was a little too matter-of-factly gruff—indeed, he had grown very fond of Sir Christopher—and as for the children, they would accept no such explanation.

It was Curlylocks who found Sir Christopher—or did Sir Chris find Curlylocks? Anyway, they came walking through the gate, my youngest declaiming, "Kitty—kitty—kitty! My 'ittle kitty!"

And since that time, every summer, Sir Christopher takes a vacation. He comes back so sleek and proud and happy that he can hardly contain himself. He rubs against each of us in turn, purring the most satisfied purr—if we could but fully understand the dialect he speaks!—as if he would impart to us something truly important.

"I declare," said Daddy, one day, "I believe that cat goes up in the hills and hunts."

"Camps out and has a good time," added daughter.

"And fishes," suggested Ted. "Cats do catch fish. Sometimes. I've read about it."

Daddy nodded. "Seems to agree with him, whatever he does."[262]

"Vacations agree with anybody," asserted my oldest. And then, "I don't see why we can't go along with Sir Chris. At least we might go the same time he does."

"Mother, couldn't we?"—it was a question that gathered weight and momentum like a snowball rolling down hill, for I had always insisted that, with a big family like mine, I could never bother to go camping. I wanted to be where things were handy: running water from a faucet, bathtubs and gas and linoleum, a smoothly cut lawn and a morning postman. Go camping with a family like mine? Never.

But the thought once set going would not down. Perhaps, after all, Sir Christopher was right and I was wrong. For people did go camping, most people, even groups to the number of nine (the right count for our family), and they seemed to enjoy it. They fought with mosquitoes, and fell into creeks; they were blotched with poison oak, black from exposure, lame from undue exercise, and looked worse than vagrant gipsies—but they came home happy. Even those who spent days in bed to rest up from their rest (I have known such) seemed happy. And every one sighs and says, "We had such a good time! We're planning to go back again next summer."

So at last I gave up—or gave in. We went to the mountains, following up the trail along Calapooia Creek; we camped and hunted and fished to the hearts' content. We learned to cook hotcakes out-of-doors, and how to make sourdough biscuit, and to frizzle bacon before a bonfire, and to bake ham in a bread pan, such as our mothers fitted five loaves of bread in; we learned to love hash, and like potatoes boiled in their jackets, and coffee with the cream left out. We went three miles to borrow a match; we divided salt with the stranger who had forgotten his; we learned that fish is good on other days than Friday and that trout crisps beautifully in bacon grease; we found eleventeen uses for empty lard pails and discovered the difference between an owl and a tree toad. We gained a speaking acquaintance with the Great Dipper, and learned where to look for the north star, why fires must be put out and what chipmunks do for a living. We learned—

Last night we came home.

"Now, mother, aren't you really glad you went?" quizzed Daddy.

"Yes-s," said I, slowly, "I'm glad I went. It has been a new experience. I feel like I'd gained a degree at the State University."

My understanding mate merely chuckled—and went on unpacking the tinware. But Ted spoke up:

"Gee! Bet I make good in English III this year. Got all sorts of ideas for themes. This trip's been bully."

"We'll go again, won't we, Mother?" asked my oldest.

"I think we'll always go again," answered I—some sober thinking I was doing, as I folded away the blankets.

"Let me get supper"—it was Laura, my middle girl, speaking—"surely I can cook on gas, if I can over a campfire." And Laura had never wanted to cook! Strange tendencies develop when one lives out in the open a space of time.

But Curlylocks was undisturbed. "Kitty—kitty—kitty! My 'ittle kitty!" he reiterated. And truly, so my neighbor told me, Sir Christopher had beat us home by a scant twenty-four hours. He rubbed about us in turns, happily purring.

"He's telling us all what a good time he had," said I, understanding at last, "but he is adding, I think, that the best part of going away is getting home again."

"But if we didn't go we couldn't get home again," said Somebody.

And somebody's cat purred his approval. Perhaps, after all, he finds us a teachable family. Or perhaps he knows that once caught by the lure of the hills, once having tasted the tang of mountainous ozone, we will always go back—he has rare intuitions, has Sir Christopher. For, already, I find myself figuring to[263] fashion a detachable long handle for the frying pan: Yes, next time, we shall plan to conserve both fingers and face. Next time! That is the beauty of vacation days: We think of them when the frost comes, when the snow drifts deep, when the arbutus blooms again—and we plan, plan, plan! And are very happy—because of memory, and anticipation. We have opened barred windows, and widened our life's horizon. Does Sir Christopher guess? Wise old Sir Chris!

There were four of them—all girls employed in great offices. Alone, far away from their home towns and families, they were all suffering from attacks of too-much-boarding-house. Each was longing for a real, home-y place to live in. And out of that longing was born, in time, an idea, which developed, after much planning, figuring and price-getting, into a concrete plan and a course of action. They were good friends, of congenial tastes, and so they decided to "home-it" together.

Now this is nothing new, in itself. It was the thorough way they went about it that was not so common. They applied the rules of their business life, and studied their proposed path before they set foot in it. They looked over the field, weighed the problems, decided what they could do, and then arranged to put themselves on a sound financial basis from the start.

All had occupied separate rooms in sundry boarding houses. Each had experience in "meals in" and "meals out." Each could analyze fairly accurately her expenses for the preceding six months. After study, they decided that, without increasing their combined expense, they could have comfortable quarters of their own and more than meet all their needs. "Freedom, food, furniture, fixing and friends," said Margaret, "without the boarding house flavor."

They longed for a little house and garden of their own. But they were busy people, and this would mean extra hours of care and labor, more demands on their strength, and a longer travel distance—a load they felt they could not carry. So they sought an apartment.

The search was long but they found it. It was in a small structure, on a quiet street, and several flights up, without elevator. But, as Peggy said, "Elevators have not been in style in our boarding houses, and flights of stairs have—so what matters it?" The suite, when you arrived up there, was airy and comfortable. It provided two bedrooms, a cheery living room, a dining room and a kitchenette. Clarice remarked, "The 'ette' is so small we can save steps by being within hand's reach of everything, no matter where we stand."

The rent was less than the combined rental of their four old rooms. Heat and janitor service were provided without charge, but they were obliged to meet the expense of gas for the range and of electric lights.

They might have lived along happily in their new nest without a budget, and without specific agreements as to expense. But they were business girls. So they sat right down and decided every point, modifying each, under trial, to a workable proposition. Then they stuck to it and made it work.

There was the matter of furnishing. Each partner, while retaining personal title to her property, contributed to general use such articles of furniture she possessed as met apartment needs. From one, for example, came a comfortable[264] bed, from another, chairs and a reading lamp, from a third a lounge chair, and from the fourth her piano and couch. Of small rugs, sofa pillows, pictures and miscellaneous small furnishings there were sufficient to make possible a real selection.

Then the four determined on further absolute essentials to make the rooms homelike. There were needed comfortable single beds for each, dressing tables, bed linen, dining-room equipment, kitchen ware, a chair or two, and draperies. Their decisions were made in committee-of-the-whole, and nothing was done that could not meet with the willing consent of all.

To meet the first cost they each contributed fifty dollars from their small savings, and assessed themselves a dollar and a quarter per week thereafter. They then bought their equipment, paying part cash and arranging for the balance on time. And be sure it was fun getting it!

Then there was the question of meals. It was determined to prepare their breakfasts and dinners and to put up lunches. To allow a certain freedom, it was agreed that each should pack her own lunch, and that regular meals should be cooked and served, turn and turn about, each partner acting for a week. A second member washed the dishes and took general care of the apartment. Thus a girl's general program reduced to,

During an experimental period, the cost of provisions and ice was summed up weekly and paid by equal assessment. Later a fixed assessment of seven dollars, each, was agreed to, and proved sufficient. There were even slight surpluses to go into the mannikin jar on the living room mantel, which Clarice called the "Do Drop Inn", because it provided from its contents refreshment for those who dropped in of an evening.

Naturally there was a friendly rivalry, not only in making the most of the allotment, but in providing attractive meals and dainty special dishes. Clarice's stuffed tomatoes won deserved fame, and Margaret made a reputation on cheese soufflé. Peggy, too, was a wizard with the chafing dish.

Consideration was given the matter of special guests, either for meals, or for over-night. The couch in the living room provided emergency sleeping quarters. As for meals, separate fixed rates were set for breakfasts and for dinners. This was paid into the regular weekly provision fund by the girl who brought the guest, or by all four equally, if she were a "general" guest. The girl who brought a guest also "pitched in" and helped with the work.

Whenever the group went out for a meal, as they did now and then for a change, or for amusement, or recreation, each girl paid her own share at once.

Finally, there was the factor of laundry. After a little experimenting, household linen was worked out on an "average" basis, so that a regular amount could be assessed each week. Of course each girl met the expense of her own private laundry.

As a result of this planning, each member of the household found herself obligated to meet a weekly assessment containing the following items: Rent, furniture tax, household laundry, extras ($1.00) and personal laundry. Of these, the only item not positively fixed, as to amount, was the last. Each girl, naturally, paid all her strictly private expense, including clothes, and medical and dental service.

One of the number was chosen treasurer for a three-months' term, and was then, in turn, succeeded by another, so that each of the four served once a year. The treasurer received all assessments, gave the weekly allotment to the housewife, and paid other bills. Minor defi[265]ciencies were met from "surplus." Moreover, she kept accurate accounts.

Once settled comfortably in their quarters, with boarding-house memories receding into the background, it took but little time for a happy, home-y atmosphere to develop. Of course, with closer intimacy, there were temperamental adjustments, as always, but they came easily. The household machinery ran smoothly, almost from the first, because there was a machine, properly set up, operated and adjusted—rather than an uncertain makeshift.

"'Keep house?' I should say not!" answered Anne, who had journeyed out into the suburbs to "tell" her engagement to Burt Winchester to the home folks before she "announced" it. "I'm going to retire to the Kensington, or some nice apartment hotel, at the ripe old age of twenty-four. What'd you think, we're back in the dark ages, B. F.?"

"'B. F.'?" repeated Aunt Milly.

"Before Ford," said Anne, laughing. "Oh, it was the thing for you, Auntie, you couldn't have brought up your own big family in a city apartment, to say nothing of stretching your wings to cover Little Orphant Annie, besides, everybody kept house when you were married!"

"And now nobody does, except a few Ancient Mariners?" inquired Cousin Dan.

Anne blushed. "Of course it suits some people, now," she amended, hastily. "Perhaps it's all right to keep house, if you have a big family, or lots of money and can hire all the fussing done."

"You don't need to hire fussing, if you've a big family," said Aunt Milly, her eyes twinkling behind the gold-bowed spectacles. "You'll keep on with the drawing—illustrating?"

"Surely," answered Anne. "Burt will keep right on being a lawyer."

"I see," said George. "Well, Queen Anne, I suppose when we want to visit you we can hire a room in the same block, I mean, hotel. I thought, perhaps, having so far conformed to the habits of us Philistines as to take a husband, you might go the whole figure and take a house!"

"Please!" begged Anne. In that tone, it was a catchword dating back to nursery days which the elf-like Anne had shared with a whole brood of sturdy cousins, and meant, "Please stop fooling; I want to be taken seriously."

"I love to draw—but my people don't look alive, somehow," said little Milly, wistfully.

Cried Anne: "Keep trying, Milly; there is nothing so lovely as to have even a taste for some sort of creative work, and to develop it; to express your own personality in something tangible, and to be encouraged to do so. Do understand me, Auntie and the rest; it isn't that I want to shirk, but I do want to specialize on what I do best! I'll wash dishes if it's ever necessary, but why must I wish a whole pantry on myself when either Burt or I could pay our proportionate share of a hotel dish-washer, or butler, or whatever is needed?"

At the studio it was much easier.

"Some time in the early fall," Anne told her callers, who arrived by two's, three's and four's, as the news began to circulate among her friends.

"No, I won't keep this," with a jerk of her thumb towards the big, bare room which had been hers since she left Aunt Milly and the little home town. "There's a room at the top of the Kensington I can have, with a light as good as this, and[266] that settles the last problem. I'd hate to have to go outdoors for meals, when I'm working."

"Nan Gilbert!" exclaimed her dearest friend. "You have the best luck! You can do good work, and get good pay for it, and be happy all by yourself; and now you're going to be happier, with a husband who'll let you live your own life; you'll be absolutely free, not even a percolator to bother with, nothing to take your mind from your own creative work, free to express your own personality!"

"Mercy," said Anne, closing the door upon this last caller. "If I don't set the North River, at least, on fire, pretty soon, they'll all call me a slacker."

She hung her card, "Engaged," upon the door leading into the hall (some one had scrawled "Best Wishes" underneath the printed word), and proceeded to get her dinner in a thoughtful frame of mind. The tiny kitchenette boasted ice-box, fireless, and a modest collection of electric cooking appliances; in a half-hour Anne had evolved a cream soup, a bit of steak, nearly cubical in proportions, slice of graham bread, a salad of lettuce and tomato with skilfully tossed dressing, a muffin split ready to toast, with the jam and spreader for it, and coffee was dripping into the very latest model of coffee-pots. Anne had never neglected her country appetite, and was a living refutation of the idea that neatness and art may not dwell together. She moved quietly and with a speed which had nothing of haste; her mind was busy with a magazine cover for December, she believed she'd begin studying camels.

After dinner came Burt Winchester, a steady-voiced, olive-skinned young man, in pleasant contrast to Anne's vivacious fairness, and together they journeyed uptown and then west to the Kensington, for a final decision upon the one vacant apartment. The rooms were of fair size, they were all light, and the agent had at least half a yard of applicants upon a printed slip in his pocket.

Burt studied the apartment not at all, but his fiancée with quiet amusement. He was much in love with Anne, but he understood her better than she had yet discovered.

"I don't think we'll ever find anything better," she was saying to him. "Perhaps he'd have it redecorated for us, with a long lease—"

The agent coughed discreetly. "The leases are for one year, with privilege of renewal," he said to Burt. "It has just been redecorated; is there anything needed?"

"It would all be lovely, if one liked blue," murmured Anne. "Just the thing for some girl, but not for me, all that pale blue and silver, it doesn't look a bit like either of us, Burt. I had worked out the most stunning scheme, cream and black, with a touch of Kelly green—"

Another cough, somewhat louder, and accompanied by an undisguised look of sympathy for Burt. "The owner prefers to decide the decorations, Madame," said the agent. "Tastes differ so, you understand."

"Please hold the suite for me until tomorrow night," said Burt, decisively. "I suppose we'll take it; if not, I'll make it right with you."

"I should say, 'tastes differ,'" laughed Anne, tucking her arm into Burt's, as they began the long walk down-town. "Do you know, Aunt Milly and the girls thought, of course, we'd keep house, and Dan and George are going to pick out girls that will keep house, I saw it in their eyes. You—you're going to be satisfied, Burt?"

"I think so," answered Burt, judiciously, and then with a change of tone, "Nan, you precious goose, you've always told me you were not domestic."

"And you've always said you were no more domestic than I was," finished Anne, happily. She entirely missed the quizzical expression of the brown eyes above her. "Nuff said.—Are we going to Branton tomorrow, Burt, with the crowd? Can you take the day?"

Anne's "crowd," the half-dozen good[267] friends among the many acquaintances she had formed in the city, were invited for a day in the country. She and Burt now talked it over, agreeing to meet in time to take the nine-thirty train, with the others.

But at nine, next morning, Burt had not appeared at the studio; instead, Miss Gilbert had a telephone message that Mr. Winchester was delayed, but would call as soon as possible. It was unlike Burt, but Anne, sensibly, supposed that business had intervened, and, removing her hat, was glad to remember that she had not definitely accepted the invitation when it was given. The "crowd" were sure enough of each other and of themselves to appear casual: Burt and she could take a later train, and have just as warm a welcome.

At nine-thirty Burt appeared, explaining briefly, "Best I could do. There's a train in twenty minutes, we'll catch it if we hurry."

Anne hurried, which proved to be unnecessary, as the train seemed late in starting; during the trip there was little conversation, as Anne was tactful, and Burt preoccupied.

"Branton!" called the conductor, at least it sounded like Branton, Burt came out of his revery with a start, and Anne followed him down the aisle. They stood a moment upon the platform of the quiet little station and watched the train pull out; as they turned back into what seemed the principal street, Anne craned her neck to look around an inconvenient truck piled with baggage, and made out the sign, Byrnton.

"Oh, Burt, what were we thinking of?" she exclaimed. "This isn't the right place at all! We were to take the road up past a brick church—and there isn't any here—this is Byrnton, and we wanted Branton. What shall we do—why don't you say something?"

"Fudge!" said Burt, soberly, but in his eyes the dancing light he reserved for Anne. "I'll ask the ticket-agent."

He came out of the station, smiling. "This isn't the Branton line at all, but a short branch west of it," he informed her. "We took the wrong train, but he says lots of people make the same mistake, and they are going to change one name or the other, eventually. I am to blame, Nan, for I know this place, Byrnton; I have, or used to have, an Aunt Susan here, somewhere—shall we look her up? We have nearly three hours to kill. It will be afternoon before we can get to Branton—and Aunt Susan will give us nourishment, at least, if she's home."

"Very well," Anne assented. If Burt's business absorbed him like this, she must learn to take it philosophically.

"What a pretty place, Burt! Do see those wonderful elms!"

Byrnton proved to be an old-fashioned village, which had had the good fortune to be remodelled without being modernized. Along the main street many of the houses were square, prim little boxes, with front yards bright with sweet williams, marigolds, and candytuft; these had an iron fence around the garden, and, invariably, shutters at the front door. An occasional house stood flush with the brick or flagged sidewalk; in that case there were snowy curtains at the window, and a glimpse of hollyhocks at the back. The newer houses could be distinguished by the wide, open spaces around them; the late comers had not planned their homes to command the village street, and neighbors, as an older generation had done, but these twentieth century models did not begin until one had left the little railway station well behind.

"What a homely, homey place," said Anne, noting everything with the eye of an artist. "I don't see how you could forget it, if you have an aunt living here."

"That's the question," answered Burt. "Have I an aunt living here? She may be in California; however, in that case, the key will be under the mat."

Anne continued to look about her, with sparkling eyes. "If Aunt Milly had lived in a place like this, I'd be there yet," she told him. "The factories[268] spoiled the place for me, but they made business good for Uncle Andy and the boys, and Aunt Milly likes the bustle, she'd think this was too quiet.—Isn't it queer how people manage to get what they want—in time?"

"It is, indeed," smiled Burt. "There, Nan, that low white cottage at the very end, the last before you come to open fields. That's Aunt Susan's."

They quickened their pace; Anne was conscious of an intense wish that Aunt Susan might be home. She wanted to see the inside of the white house, bungalow, it might almost be called, if one did not associate bungalows with stucco or stained shingles. This cottage was of white wood, with the regulation green blinds. There was an outside chimney of red bricks; a pathway of red bricks in the old herringbone pattern led up to the front door, with its shining brass knocker. A row of white foxgloves stood sentinel before the front of the house, on each side the entrance, their pointed spires coming well above the window-sills; before them the dark foliage of perennial lupins, tossing up a white spray of flowers, and then it seemed as if every old-fashioned flower of white, or with a white variety, ran riot down to a border of sweet alyssum. Above all the fragrance came the unmistakable sweetness of mignonette.

"Oh, Burt!" called Anne, "I do hope she's home. What a woman she must be, I can guess some things about her, just from the outside of her house. I hope she'll show me the inside of it."

Burt shook his head. "She'd have seen us before this and been out here," he suggested. "Come 'round to the back."

The back of the premises proved no less fascinating; there was the neatest of clothes-yards, a vegetable garden, and a small garage, after which Anne regarded the silent cottage with wistful eyes.

"Those beautiful, old-fashioned flowers, no petunias but the white frilled kind,—she's an artist—and has the wash done at home," she enumerated, "and runs her automobile herself, I am sure, for she's a practical person as well; if she were just a sentimental flower-lover, she'd have had something or other climbing up the house, and it spoils the woodwork."

"It's safe to say Aunt Susan's in California," said Burt, disregarding this. "No joke, Nan, she has a married daughter who has been trying to get her out there for years, and Aunt Susan's always threatening to go. Never thought she would, but we can soon find out; I know who'll have the key."

He left Anne and walked back to the house just passed, and presently reappeared with the key. "Here you are. Aunt Susan left it with Mrs. Brown, who is to look after the place, and to use her judgment about letting people in. Aunt Susan has only been gone two days, she went hurriedly at the last, and Mrs. Brown is to close the house for her, but she hasn't got 'round to it yet. Lucky for us, there'll be everything we need for lunch; I brought eggs—see?"

Laughing like a boy. Burt unlocked the back door, and then produced four eggs, from as many pockets. He laid them carefully down upon the kitchen table.

"Now, Nan, we can use anything in the kitchen or pantry, and Mrs. Brown has a blueberry pie in the oven which she'll give us, she'll bring it over when it's done.—Want to go over the house?—Give you my word it's all right, in fact Aunt Susan told Mrs. Brown she wished she could rent it, as is, if she only knew somebody who would love it—that was her word. You can love it until the afternoon train, can't you?"

If Anne heard, she made no reply, she was exploring.

Downstairs, a wide hall occupied a central third of the house; it was well lighted by the windows each side the front door, and by double doors of glass, which opened on to the back porch. On one side the hall were kitchen and pantry, nearly equal in size, and glistening with white paint, aluminum, and blue and white porcelain. With a hasty glance[269] over these treasures, to which she was coming back, Anne stepped out into the hall again, and around to the front of the winding staircase, and entered what she knew at once for the "owner's bedroom." There were windows on two sides, as this was a front room, and each broad sill bore its own pot of ferns. The furniture here was all old-fashioned, of some dark wood that had been rubbed to a satin finish, the floor was of plain surface, with braided mats, and a blue and white counterpane provided the only bit of drapery in the room. Anne's bright head nodded with satisfaction. Here was character; to win Aunt Susan's respect would be no light task, her personal and intimate belongings showed an austere sense of values and an almost surgical cleanliness. Yet Aunt Susan could not be a martinet; her hall, furnished for other people, showed due regard for their comfort; the living room, which took the entire western side of the cottage, bore unmistakable signs of much occupancy, with wide and varied interests. A set of dark shelves, at the lower end, held china, and suggested that one might also eat at the refectory table, which was furnished as a desk and held a few books, many writing materials, and a foreign-looking lamp. There was also a piano, well littered with music, a sewing bag thrown down upon a cretonned window seat, and the generous fireplace was flanked by two huge baskets, one heaped with magazines, the other a perfectly round mound of yellow fur, which suddenly took form and life as a yellow tabby cat fastened hopeful topaz eyes upon them, blinked away a brief disappointment, and then yawned with ennui.

"His missie left him all alone," said Anne, bending to stroke the smooth head. "What's upstairs, Burt?"

"Go and look, I'll take your place with the Admiral until you come back," offered Burt, and at sound of his name the yellow cat jumped out and began rubbing against a convenient table leg. Anne found them in the same relative positions when she returned from her inspection of the upper floor.

"Your Aunt Susan must use it for sewing," she told Burt, dreamily. "With that big skylight—it could be a studio, couldn't it?"

"It is," Burt informed her. "Aunt Susan is an artist—with her needle. She gives, or gave, dressmaking lessons, in her idle moments. She gave up dressmaking, when she bought this house and settled here, but now she teaches the daughters of her old customers, they come out in automobiles every Wednesday, in winter. Saturday afternoons she has some of the young girls in the village, here,—without price—and without taste, too, some of them! And Nan, I hate to mention it, but—Aunt Susan is a pretty good cook, too!"

"Feed the brute!" quoted Nan, with a gay laugh. "Will the Admiral drink condensed milk?"

Mrs. Brown came over with her blueberry pie as Burt was summoned to luncheon. She surveyed the table, which Nan had laid in the kitchen, and then the Admiral, who was making his toilette in a thorough manner that suggested several courses, with outspoken approval.

"My, I wish Susan Winchester could pop in this minute. You found the prepared flour, and all—baked 'em on the griddle! Wa'n't that cute! I never did see an omelet like that except from Susan Winchester's own hands, and she learned from a Frenchwoman she used to sew with. Some folks can pick up every useful trick they see."

Turning to Burt, she continued:

"With all the new fangle-dangles of these days, women voting and all, you're a lucky boy to have found an old-fashioned girl!"

"I know it," said Burt, brazenly, but he did not meet Anne's astonished eyes. "My girl has learned the best of the new accomplishments, without losing what was worth keeping of the old."

Anne's judgment told her it was a good luncheon—no better than she served herself at home, though. She stared at her own slim, capable fingers. Was she domestic, after all?

"We've been looking at apartments in the city," Burt went on—"apartments in a hotel, you know.—Try the omelet, Mrs. Brown—Nan's don't fall flat as soon as other omelets do.—But we haven't found what really appeals to us."

"I should think not," declared Mrs. Brown, vigorously. "I always say a person hasn't a spark of originality that will go and live in a coop just like hundreds of others, all cut to the same pattern. Look at your Aunt Susan, now. This house belonged to old Joe Potter, he built it less'n ten years ago an Mis' Potter she had it the way she wanted it, and that was like the house she lived in when she was a girl, little, tucked-up rooms, air-tight stoves, a tidy on every chair, and she made portières out of paper beads that tickled 'em both silly—yes, and tickled everybody in the ear that went through 'em, though that wan't what I meant to say. When she died, Joe wouldn't live here, said he wouldn't be so homesick for Julia in another house, this one was full of her. So, your Aunt Susan bought it, and what did she do?

"She knocked out partitions, took down fire-boards, threw out a good parlor set and lugged in tables and chairs from all over, put big panes of glass where there was little ones—in some places, she did, and only the good angels and Susan Winchester knows why she didn't change 'em all, they're terrible mean to wash—made the front hall into a setting room and the parlor into a bedroom, got two bathrooms and no dining room—well, to make a long story short, this house is now Susan Winchester. Anybody that knows Susan would know it was her house if they see it in China.

"Did you learn to keep house with your mother?"

The transition was so abrupt that Anne started. "I—my aunt brought me up—and nine cousins," she answered. "My aunt is as unlike Burt's as you can imagine, but just as dear and good. She had a big family, and there was never time enough to have her home as she wanted it—so she thought—and I thought so, too—but yet—Aunt Milly's home was always full of happy children, and, perhaps, that's what she really wanted, more than dainty furnishings or a spotless kitchen."

"Folks, mostly, get what they want, even if they don't know it," confirmed Mrs. Brown. "Look at the Admiral, here. He don't want to come over and live with me, same as Susan meant he should. He wants to stay right in his own home, and have his meals and petting same as usual, and here you come along today and give them to him. Trouble is, folks don't always know what it is they want."

When Mrs. Brown went back to her own dinner, she left Anne with something to think about. Washing the dishes in Aunt Susan's white sink, which was fitted to that very purpose, drying them upon a rack which held every dish apart from its neighbors, and, finally, polishing the quaintly shaped pieces upon Aunt Susan's checked towel, which remained dry and spotless; opening every drawer and cupboard to see that all was left in the dainty order she had found there, Anne had a clear vision of the blue and silver furnishings at the Kensington. What had she told Burt: "It doesn't look like either of us"?—while Aunt Susan's home—

"Burt," she called, "come and answer this question. Did you come to Byrnton instead of Branton on purpose?"

"What's this?" said Burt. "Cross-examination?"

"It's an examination, surely, but I won't be cross," replied Anne, with a rare dimple. "You must answer my question truly."

"Yes, Your Honor," said Burt. "I did, Your Honor."

"Did you know your Aunt Susan wouldn't be home?"

"Our Aunt Susan," corrected Burt.—"No, Your Honor—that is, I thought—"

"You knew she was going to California?"

"Yes, Your Honor."

"This summer?"

"I didn't know exactly when—honestly, Nan, I did want you to meet her."

"Why?"'

"I knew you'd like the way she keeps house. I didn't realize that the house could speak for itself, without her.—You do like it, Nan?"

"I don't have to answer questions, because I'm the Judge," Nan told him. "I'll ask you one more. Do you want me to ask you to take this cottage, for us, in the fall, and stay in it until Aunt Susan comes back?"

"Not unless Your Honor pleases."

"Case dismissed, for lack of evidence," said Nan.—"Burt, could we live here?"

"We could. I'll admit it's what I'd like, if you do. The difference in rents would buy gasoline. Could you work here, and keep house, too?"

"I can if I'm smart," answered Nan, soberly. "I wonder if I'm smart."

"Dear," said Burt. "What have you done since you came to New York but work and keep house, too, in less convenient quarters than this, and with no one to help you—no good husband like me—?"

"That's so!" she turned a radiant face upon him.

"If we like, we can begin another home, of our very own, when Aunt Susan wants hers back," Burt smiled quizzically. "No one else's house would suit you for always, Nan. Ask me why."

"Why?"

"Because," said Burt in triumph, "personality, like the measles, will out!"

[270]

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"On Armistice Day, November 11, at the hour when the twenty-four men representing the six participating nations first face each other across the council table, a nation-wide demonstration will be under way in the United States. Organized labor announces that in every town and city the workers will join with other citizens in mass-meetings and parades and that the keynote of Armistice Day should be, 'It is time to disarm.' It will help in impressing upon our own government and upon other governments that the people are weary of war-made tax burdens; that they are deeply in earnest in their demands that these burdens be removed. It will strengthen the purpose of the four men who are to represent America to know that they have the support of the workers and the voters. The action of organized labor will help in liberating and directing these 'moral forces'; but Labor cannot do it alone. There are others of these 'forces' that cannot be tapped or directed by Labor, and these must come into action. The time is drawing nigh for their mobilization."

"Without the crowding, persistent, fighting force of the masses the crusade cannot be won. This is the people's salvation and it is, therefore, the people's fight. It is now up to the people of this country to make their wishes known and their opinions felt. It should be constantly in mind that, without the mobilized moral force of those upon whom these crushing burdens are now falling, there is little hope that the load will ever be lifted. If it is not lifted, no one can prophesy what lies beyond. There can be no relief from taxes, no relief from expenditures and no relief from war, except through disarmament."

"One more war, fully prepared for, prepared for with all the diabolical perversions of science, will reduce Europe and America to what Russia is today."

Certainly we believe in the closest limitation of armament. In this matter[271] we would go to the extreme limit. We are tired of militarism and tired of war and the rumors of war. While we need and desire a merchant marine, we have no use for fighting ships or submarines. Years ago we began to dream that America would never engage in another war, but we have witnessed the most horrid conflict that ever devastated the earth. How can any one ever want war again? The nation that makes an aggressive attack on another should be regarded as an outlaw and treated as such by the rest of the world. Dissensions are sure to arise, but these can be settled by conference and agreement or by arbitration.

Prosperity is dependent on peace. No other world-wide saving can equal that which can be gained through limitation of armament. The wealth of the world consists of just what the world produces. The one master word of the day is Production. People are not producing enough to satisfy all their wants; there is not stuff enough to go round. As a nation we need less of politics and more of production. Our main contention should be a moral appeal for unity in the industrial world. "The field for constructive, imaginative, and creative minds is the field of commerce."

From a recent report by Mr. Eugene Davenport, vice-president of the University of Illinois, we draw the following:

Miss Isabel Bevier retired this year from her work in Home Economics at the University of Illinois. She entered the service of the University in 1900. During the twenty-one years of its existence, Professor Bevier has given herself unsparingly to the development and conduct, day by day, of the department of Home Economics. The field was almost entirely new, as a university subject. The courses have been outlined and conducted with a double purpose in mind. First, the presenting of home economics as a part of a liberal education; and second, the development of courses leading to a profession in teaching, dietetics, and cafeteria management.

The first graduating class in 1903 numbered three. The number rapidly increased, reaching ninety-four in 1918. The total number of students coming under the instruction of the staff of teachers for the last twenty-one years is approximately 5,000.

If efforts are to be judged by their results, whether in respect to alumnæ or the present registration of undergraduate students, it is not too much to say that the purposes of this department have been in the main accomplished, by which is meant that the department has trained hundreds of competent executives and teachers without such exclusive attention to the professional as to break the contact with that great mass of university women who are to become, not teachers or professionals of any kind, but the heads of American homes. To achieve this double purpose has been the great ambition of the department, in which it has eminently succeeded.

It is not too much to say that at present, no department of the university enjoys more of the confidence and respect of the institution than does the department of Home Economics.

At the Recognition Service in honor of Professor Bevier, in May, 1921, the alumnæ presented the University with an excellent portrait of Miss Bevier.

Women are waking up to the fact that upon their shoulders rests the responsibility of having a healthier nation. Too many people are dying of avoidable diseases. Rich foods have taken more toll of life than war and pestilence, dietitions tell us. More and more stress is being placed upon diet—not for the sick only, but for those in good health, that they may preserve it. By diet we mean the proper combinations of foods and the scientific uses of vitamines, starches, proteins and acids.[272] What we need is more than a reading acquaintance with those subjects.

A certain group of women in Long Beach, Calif., have decided that the acquisition of knowledge concerning food properties is the only way to better living for their families. They have grouped together under the name of the "Feeding-the-Family" Club, and, under the leadership of the head of the department of domestic science of the public schools, they meet on Wednesday evening each week for two hours to learn how to prepare healthful, nourishing meals for the average family. There are sixteen women in the group, representing fifty-six persons, most of whom are children in school. Think what it means to those children to have mothers who are vitally interested in seeing them grow up to be strong, virile men and women. "Knowledge makes Power," aye, the knowledge of the mothers of today makes for the powerful citizens of tomorrow.

If you are one of the people who are "sick unto death" of these thrift articles and are utterly weary of reading how to clean your porcelain gas-stove and keep your electric washer in repair.

The magazines are so full of helpful hints to the $5,000 and upwards class, that it seems as though a mere person like myself might inquire, "How about poor us? Won't somebody write something for us? How can we, who make up most of the world, live within our incomes?"

As nobody has responded as yet, I am going to tell how we manage and, possibly, some one else may be helped thereby.

Six years ago, when my husband and I awoke from our honeymoon trance, we found ourselves in California, strangers in a lone land, penniless and jobless. My husband was blessed with neither college education nor profession, but we were both young and undaunted—therefore we pulled through. We rented an apartment, furnished, at $15 per month and buckled in. I might say that the rent didn't have to be paid in advance or we wouldn't have moved in. My soul mate—otherwise husband—worked as a truckman, a taxi driver, a cement lamp-post worker, a chauffeur, a night watchman, a salesman, a cook and a dish-washer. In five years we moved twenty different times, an average of once every three months (not because we wished to skip our rent, but because my husband found jobs in so many different parts of the city).

The end of the sixth year has found us located, at last. We get $150 per month and live on that alone. We are buying our own home, a flivver stands in the garage, our house is nicely furnished (a good deal of the furniture we have made ourselves) and we dress and live respectably. I do all my own cooking, washing, ironing, sewing, cleaning, baking and gardening, with a little writing thrown in as a spare-time occupation. No electric machine, $300 gas stove, $700 bedroom set, nor blue-goose stenciled kitchen yet graces our home. No little tea-wagon runs our food to the table. We don't lay by 35 cents in one envelope, $1.25 for electricity in another, nor 63 cents per week for meat in another. We merely save a small portion each month. First, toward our home and the rest we spend or save as we see fit. Our twenty chickens help out a little in meat and eggs, but one whole year passed by before we bought linoleum for kitchen or bath-room. At present we are working on a $7 second-hand writing desk with varnish remover and putty knife and in the end we shall have a very modern, pretty, little, fumed-oak desk for one-seventh the cost of a new one.

So, Ladies, get in and do your own work. Forget the servant problem and the money question. Make things yourselves and see how much fun there is in Life. Don't be afraid to soil your hands—cold cream will fix them. Get as much fun out of each day as possible.

[273]

In all recipes where flour is used, unless otherwise stated, the flour is measured after sifting once. Where flour is measured by cups, the cup is filled with a spoon, and a level cupful is meant. A tablespoonful or a teaspoonful of any designated material is a LEVEL spoonful. In flour mixtures where yeast is called for, use bread flour; in all other flour mixtures, use cake or pastry flour.

Cook the well-washed, white stalks of two or three leeks, sliced lengthwise, in two tablespoonfuls of fat in a saucepan, and allow to remain over the fire for five or six minutes, or until slightly colored. Add four large potatoes, pared and sliced, one quart of cold water, and two teaspoonfuls of salt, cover, and cook for twenty minutes after the water boils. Strain out the potatoes and leeks and press through a colander. Thicken the water by adding one-fourth a cup of flour, blended with two tablespoonfuls of butter or a substitute; stir until it has boiled for one minute; add one-half a teaspoonful of white pepper, stir into it the potato purée, and let the whole come to a boil. Pour into the tureen, and add one-half a cup of rich cream, a cup of well-browned croûtons, and a few chervil leaves, or the green leaves of cress or any preferred herb. The addition of the half-cup of rich cream is essential to the soup "parmentier."

Mix one cup of roasted and fine-ground peanuts with one cup and one-half of highly seasoned mashed potatoes. Add one beaten egg, and form the mixture into small sausage-shaped rolls, rolling each one in flour. Roll on a hot pan, greased with bacon fat, or bake in a very hot oven, until the outside of the sausages is lightly browned. Pile in the center of a dish, and garnish with curls of toasted bacon, placed on a border of shredded lettuce.

Clean, stuff and truss a twelve-pound turkey, that, when cooked, may rest on the wings level on the platter, the drumsticks close to the body. Rub all over with salt and dredge with flour. Cover the breast with thin slices of salt pork.[274] Set on a rack in a baking-pan (a "double roaster" gives best results). Turn often, at first, to sear over and brown evenly. For the first half hour the oven should be hot, then lower the heat and finish the cooking in an oven in which the fat in the pan will not burn. Cook until the joints are easily separated. It will require three hours and a half. Add no water or broth to the pan during cooking. For basting use the fat that comes from the turkey during cooking.

Add one teaspoonful of salt, one-fourth a teaspoonful of pepper and one tablespoonful and one-half of poultry seasoning to three cups of cracker crumbs; mix thoroughly and add three-fourths a cup of melted butter.

Parboil eight choice onions about one hour. Remove from the water and cut out a circular piece from the top of each to form cups. Chop, fine, the pieces of onion; add an equal measure of cold, cooked ham, salt and pepper to season, one-fourth a cup, each, of fine, soft crumbs and melted butter and mix thoroughly. Season the inside of the cups with salt, then stuff with the prepared mixture. Bake slowly about half an hour, basting with melted butter. Serve decorated with celery tips.

Steam one pound of white onions, and when tender sift through a colander. Cook one quart of oysters in their liquor until the gills separate; strain, and chop the oysters in a chopping bowl. Return the liquor to the saucepan, and cook with three tablespoonfuls of flour and three tablespoonfuls of softened butter, rubbed together, stirring constantly until well thickened and smooth. Season with one teaspoonful and one-half of salt and one-half a teaspoonful of pepper. Sift into the onion-pulp one-fourth a cup of flour, and stir until blended; add one-fourth a teaspoonful of celery seed and one bayleaf, and mix with the thickened oyster liquor. Stir until the whole comes to a boil and the purée is thick as porridge. Add the chopped oysters and one pint of thin cream, let heat through, and serve with oysterettes, saltines or other plain crackers.[275]

Clean and scale a small salmon, stuff with one-half a loaf of stale bread moistened with hot water, seasoned with one-fourth a cup of butter, salt and pepper to taste, and one-half a cup of capers. Mix all well, and bind with one beaten egg. Place the salmon on the rack of a baking-pan in a very hot oven, cover with thin slices of bacon, and let cook until done. Serve on a bed of chopped fresh mushrooms, cooked in a little bouillon, and garnish the dish with small fresh tomatoes.

Make a mush of yellow cornmeal, and mould in cylindrical moulds, such as baking powder boxes or brown bread moulds. Let stand until next day, and cut into slices. Arrange the slices on a large porcelain pie-plate in pyramidal form, sprinkling each layer with some sharp, hard cheese, grated, and seasoned with a very little red pepper. Sift buttered crumbs freely over the whole; brown in a hot oven, and serve as a vegetable with fish, with sour grape jelly melted and poured over it.

Boil, separately, one chicken and four pounds of corned beef. The next day remove meat and fat from both kettles of liquid, combine liquids, season with salt (if needed) and pepper; when boiling add five quarts of hulled corn; remove to slow fire and let simmer three hours. Have ready three pints of New York pea beans that have been soaked twelve hours, boiled until soft and strained through a sieve; add to soup (for thickening). Boil one yellow turnip (or two white turnips), and six potatoes; when done add to succotash. This recipe makes eight quarts.

Dress flowerets of cold, cooked cauliflower with oil, salt, pepper and vinegar. From cold, cooked beets remove the top and center portions to make beet cups. Arrange the prepared cauliflower to fill cups, pour over boiled salad dressing and arrange a heart of celery in each filled beet-cup.[276]

Clean and truss two guinea chickens; place on a bed of sliced, uncooked carrots, potatoes and celery, arranged in the bottom of a casserole—(a large bean-pot serves as well). Sprinkle the chicks with salt and pour over them melted butter; set the cover in place. Bake in a moderate oven one hour and one-quarter, basting every fifteen minutes with melted butter. Add no water to the casserole.

Place a rib roast of beef on a rack in a dripping pan; dredge with flour and sear over the outside in a hot oven, then add salt and pepper and drippings and let cook at a low temperature until done, basting every ten minutes. Remove to a platter and serve with Yorkshire pudding.

Sift together one cup and a half of flour, and one-third a teaspoonful of salt; gradually add one cup and one-half of milk, so as to form a smooth batter; then add three eggs, which have been beaten until thick and light; turn into a small, hot dripping pan, the inside of which has been brushed over with roast beef drippings; when well risen in the pan, baste with the hot roast beef drippings. Bake about twenty minutes. Cut into squares and serve around the roast.

Cut the apples in quarters, removing imperfections. Barely cover with boiling water, put on a cover and let cook, undisturbed, until soft throughout. Turn into a bag to drain. For a quart of this apple juice set one and one-half pounds of sugar on shallow dishes in the oven to heat. Set the juice over the fire with the leaves from a bunch of mint; let cook twenty minutes, then strain into a clean saucepan. Heat to the boiling point, add the hot sugar and let boil till the syrup, when tested, jellies slightly on a cold dish. Tint with green color-paste very delicately. Have ready three to five custard cups on a cloth in a pan of boiling water. Let the glasses be filled with the water; pour out the water and turn in the jelly. When cooled a little remove to table. (English recipe.)

Cut a pound of the best end of neck of mutton into cutlets, allowing two cutlets for each bone, beat them with a cutlet bat[277] and trim them neatly. Let them soak for an hour in a marinade made by mixing six tablespoonfuls of red wine vinegar, one tablespoonful of olive oil, half a teaspoonful of salt, six bruised peppercorns, a minced onion, a sprig of thyme, and a bayleaf. At the end of the hour drain the cutlets, and dredge them with flour to dry them. Brush over each one with beaten egg, and roll it in bread-crumbs; repeat the egging and breadcrumbing a second time, and, if possible, leave them for an hour for the crumbs to dry on. Half fill a deep pan with frying-fat, and when it is heated, so as to give off a pale blue vapor, place the cutlets carefully in the pan, and when they float on top of the fat and are of a rich brown color, they are sufficiently cooked, and must be taken from the fat and drained on kitchen paper before being served en couronne, or on a mound of mashed potatoes, green peas, French beans, or Brussels sprouts.

Veal cutlets, fillets of beef, fillets of white fish, or cutlets of cod or hake, are excellent when prepared by the same method. (English recipe.)

Sift together two cups of corn meal, two cups of white flour, four heaping teaspoonfuls of baking powder, one level teaspoonful of soda, one teaspoonful of salt, and one-half a cup of sugar. Add one cup of sour milk (gradually), three-fourths cup of sour cream, four eggs and one-third a cup of melted butter.

Beat the yolks of four eggs; add one pint of soft bread crumbs, one cup of sugar, the grated rind of a lemon, one teaspoonful of salt, and one cup of large table raisins from which the seeds have been removed; mix all together thoroughly, then add one quart of rich milk. Bake in a very moderate oven until firm in the center. When the pudding has cooled somewhat, beat the whites of four eggs dry; beat in half a cup of sugar and spread or pipe the meringue over the pudding; dredge with granulated sugar and let cook in a very moderate oven about fifteen minutes; the oven should be of such heat that the meringue does not color until the last few minutes of cooking.[278]

Add one-half a cup of fine-ground coffee to one cup of cold water, bring very slowly to a boil, and let simmer for ten minutes. Strain, allow grounds to settle, decant, and add one cup of sugar. Mix one-half a cup of sifted strawberry preserve with the juice of two lemons, the juice of three oranges and the grated rind of one, and half a cup of pineapple juice. Let the whole stand together for half an hour; then strain, add the coffee, a quart or more of Vichy, or any preferred sparkling water, and serve in tall glasses filled one-third full with shaved ice; garnish each with a thin strip of candied angelica.

Make a syrup by boiling one cup of sugar and two cups of water fifteen minutes; add one quart of sweet cider and one-half a cup of lemon juice; when cool freeze—using equal parts of ice and salt. Serve with roast turkey or roast pork.

Chop one-half a pound of figs and cook until tender in a pint of water. Add a pint of cranberries, and cook until they pop. Mix one cup of sugar with four tablespoonfuls of flour and stir into the fig-and-cranberry mixture; let boil, remove from fire, and stir in two tablespoonfuls of butter and the juice of one-half a lemon. Put into a pastry shell, arrange strips of paste in a basket pattern over the top, and bake until these are browned.

Wash and scrape—not pare—three large parsnips; cut in halves, lengthwise, and place, cut side uppermost, on the grate of a rather hot oven to bake for thirty to forty minutes, or until soft and lightly browned. Soften one-half a cup of butter, without melting it, and rub into it the following mixture: Two teaspoonfuls of salt, four tablespoonfuls of dry mustard, one-half a teaspoonful of cayenne, one teaspoonful of white pepper, and flour enough to stiffen the paste. When the parsnips are cooked make four slanting cuts in each of the halves, and fill each with as much of the paste as it will hold. Spread over the flat side with the remainder of the paste, arrange on the serving dish, sift fine buttered crumbs over them, and place under the gas flame, or on the upper rack of an oven until crumbs are brown.

Soak, over-night, one-half a cup of well-washed rice, and cook in one pint of[279] milk in double boiler until very tender. Mix this with three cups of apple sauce, well-sweetened and flavored with cinnamon. Add the beaten yolks of two eggs, one ounce, each, of candied citron and orange peel, very fine-chopped, and one-half a cup of raisins. Add, the last thing, the whites of the eggs, beaten to the stiffest possible froth. Line a deep dish with a good, plain paste, pour in the pudding, bake until both paste and pudding top are brown, invert on serving dish and pour the sauce over it.

Beat one-half a cup of apple jelly until it is like a smooth batter; gradually add two tablespoonfuls of melted butter, the juice of one lemon and one-half the grated rind, and a few gratings of nutmeg. Set into a saucepan of boiling water until ready to use, then beat well and pour over the pudding.

Spread a round of paste over an inverted pie plate, prick the paste with a fork eight times. Bake to a delicate brown. Remove the paste from the plate, wash the plate and set the pastry inside. When cold fill with a cold, cooked cranberry filling and cover the filling with a top pastry crust, made by cutting paste to a paper pattern and baking in a pan. Arrange tart just before serving.

Mix together three level tablespoonfuls of cornstarch, three-fourths a teaspoonful of salt and one cup and one-half of sugar; pour on one cup and one-half of boiling water and stir until boiling, then add one-third a cup of molasses, two teaspoonfuls of butter and three cups of cranberries, chopped fine. Let simmer fifteen minutes.

Mix together one cup and a half of dry, sifted pumpkin, half a cup of sugar, two eggs, two tablespoonfuls of molasses, one tablespoonful of ginger, two tablespoonfuls of melted butter, one teaspoonful of cinnamon, one-fourth a teaspoonful of salt, and one cup of rich milk. Pour into small tins lined with pastry, and bake about twenty-five minutes. Serve cold; just before serving decorate with whipped cream.

Let soak overnight one cup of seedless[280] raisins, then drain and dry on a cloth. Cream one-third a cup of butter; beat in one cup of brown sugar, one tablespoonful of milk, and two eggs, beaten light. Add the raisins, and one cup of flour, sifted with one-half a teaspoonful, each, of nutmeg and cinnamon and two teaspoonfuls and one-half of baking powder. When thoroughly mixed, add one-half a cup of graham flour, unsifted, and one-half a cup of bran, unsifted.

Bake any good layer cake or other simple cake mixture in one or two thin sheets, in a large pan. When done cut into as many graduated circles as the child is years old. Ice each circle, top and sides, with any good cake icing, either white or tinted, and lay one above the other with layers of jelly or preserves between slices. Around each layer arrange a decoration of fresh or candied fruits of bright colors, glacéed nuts, candied rose petals or violets, bits of angelica, or any other effective decoration. Let the cake stand on a handsomely decorated dish, and small flags be inserted in the topmost layer.

Measure three cups of graham flour into a large mixing-bowl; add one cup of bran, and sift on to these one cup and one-half of white flour, to which one and one-fourth a teaspoonful of salt has been added. Stir together until mixed. Dissolve one teaspoonful of baking soda in a tablespoonful of hot water, and add to two cups of buttermilk. Melt two tablespoonfuls of butter and one of any preferred substitute, mix with one-half a cup of molasses, stir into the buttermilk, and add all to the dry ingredients, stirring vigorously. Lastly, add one-half a compressed yeast cake to the batter, and stir again until the yeast is thoroughly incorporated with the batter, which should be very stiff. Place in a greased bread pan, cover, set in a warm place until batter has risen to top of pan or[281] doubled in bulk. Bake one hour in an oven with gradually increasing heat. This bread keeps fresh for a long time, and is particularly good sliced thin for sandwiches.

Beat, until light, the yolks of six eggs; add one-half a teaspoonful of salt, one teaspoonful of soda, dissolved in one tablespoonful of vinegar, then two cups of sifted flour, alternately, with the beaten whites of the eggs, and if necessary add enough milk to make a thin batter. Pour a small ladleful at a time on the griddle; spread each cake, when cooked, with raspberry jam, roll up like a jelly roll, pile on a hot platter, dust over with powdered sugar, and serve with each one a spoonful of Aigre-Doux Sauce.

Add to two cups of sour cream the juice and fine-grated rind of one large lemon. Stir in enough sugar just to develop a sweet taste, one-half a cup or more, and beat hard and long with a Dover beater until the sauce is quite light.

Pare four large cucumbers and cut in quarter-inch slices; season by sprinkling with salt and pepper, then dip in beaten egg, and afterwards in fine, sifted crumbs. Proceed in the same manner with two firm tomatoes, removing the skin by dipping first into boiling water, then into cold, and rubbing the skin off. The tomatoes should be cut in half-inch slices. Heat a large spider until very hot; add two or more tablespoonfuls of dripping or other fat, and sauté in this, first the cucumbers, then the tomatoes, turning the slices when browned on one side, and cooking until crisped. Serve in a hot vegetable dish.

Make a rich stuffing by chopping together three-fourths a pound of veal, one-half a pound of ham, and an ounce of beef suet or other fat. Add the grated rind of a small lemon, and a teaspoonful of dried, mixed herbs, or of kitchen bouquet, two beaten eggs, a grate of nutmeg, and one cup of cream. Cook all together over hot water until mixture is the consistency of custard; thicken further with fine bread crumbs, and let cool. Divide a two-pound skirt steak into halves, crosswise, spread the stuffing over both parts, roll up each one and tie. Let steam for half an hour, then put into a hot oven to finish cooking and brown. Serve with Raisin Sauce.

Add one-half a cup of seeded raisins to one pint of cold water, set over fire, bring slowly to a boil and let simmer, gently, for fifteen minutes. Blend two tablespoonfuls of flour with one-half a teaspoonful of salt and one-fourth a teaspoonful of white pepper, and stir this into two scant tablespoonfuls of melted butter or butter substitute; add to the raisins and water, and let boil, keeping stirred, for three minutes. Remove from fire and add the juice of one-half a lemon or two tablespoonfuls of vinegar.

Cook a dozen small onions, sliced, in a saucepan with one cup of sweet leaf-lard. While cooking put through the meat chopper one-half a pound, each, of fresh pork and the dark and white meat of a fowl or chicken. Add to saucepan containing onions and lard, and stir in enough fine bread crumbs to make the whole the consistency of a soft dough. Add seasoning of salt and pepper with a spoonful of mixed dried herbs. Lastly, add one cup of sweet cream and three well-beaten eggs, and stir the whole until the eggs are set. Stuff this into pig entrails, making links six inches long. Keep stored in a cool place, and cook like sausage. Or the boudin may be packed into jars, and sliced or cut into dice and sautéed when cold.[282]

[283]

[284]

A certain Englishman who breakfasted with the Washington family in 1794 wrote of the occasion: "Mrs. Washington, herself, made tea and coffee for us. On the table were two small plates of sliced tongue and dry toast, bread and butter, but no broiled fish, as is the general custom." However sparing the mistress of Mt. Vernon might have been, it was the usual custom in old times to eat a hearty breakfast of meat or fish and potato, hot biscuits, doughnuts, griddle cakes and sometimes even pie was added. A section of hot mince pie was always considered a fitting ending to the winter morning meal in New England, at least.

When Charles Dickens was in the United States, in 1842, he stopped at the old Tremont house in Boston. In his "American Notes," which followed his visit to this country, he wrote critically of the American breakfast, as follows: "And breakfast would have been no breakfast unless the principal dish were a deformed beefsteak with a great flat bone in the center, swimming in hot butter and sprinkled with the very blackest of pepper."

For a time my household included a colored cook, who, according to local custom, went to her own home every night. Invariably before leaving she came to me with the short and abrupt question, "What's for?" This experience taught me the difficulty of planning breakfasts off hand. More than one beginner in housekeeping wonders whether a light breakfast of little but a roll and coffee is more healthful than one of several courses. It is an old American idea that luncheon or supper may be light, dinner varied and heavier, but breakfast must be wholesome and nourishing. This is based on the belief that it is natural for man and beast to wake up in the morning with a desire for food and unnatural to try to do the hardest work of the day with but a pretence at eating.

About twenty years ago there was much talk of the alleged healthfulness of going without breakfast entirely. For a time this plan was the object of much discussion and experiment by medical and scientific men and workers in general. The late Edward Everett Hale was a strong opponent to abstinence from breakfast by brain workers, while those who labored with hand and muscle looked with little favor on the morning fast. Finally the no-breakfast idea went the way of most fads in food.

As a compromise between the extremes of going without any breakfast, and the old-time, over-hearty meal of several courses, there came into fashion the simple meal of fruit, cereal and eggs. This is to be commended, if the egg, or its substitute in food value, is not omitted. Too often a sloppy cereal is washed down rapidly with a cup of coffee and called sufficient. Sometimes the ready-to-eat cereal and the milk bottle left at the kitchen door include the entire preparation for the morning meal.

The adaptability of this quick breakfast, and its ease of preparation, keep it in favor, but filling the stomach with a[285] cereal, from which some of its best elements have been taken, means, for women folks at home, placing the coffee pot on the range to warm up the cup that will stop that "gone" feeling so common after a near-breakfast. The man at work might once have found solace in a glass of beer; now, perhaps, he smokes an extra cigarette. It is well understood that children grow listless and dull before noon, when an insufficient breakfast is eaten. One who has breakfast leisurely at nine o'clock may be satisfied with a roll and a cup of hot drink, but a commuter with a trip ahead to office or shop, and the farmer who must make an early start in the day, cannot rely on light, quickly digested food in the morning. Their energy and working capacity will slow down long before noon.

Objection is sometimes made to a good, sustaining breakfast because of a distaste for food in the morning. In such a case, look to the quality or quantity of the night meal; it may be too heavy or indigestible.

Between a breakfast with warmed-over meats, and one without meat, especially if eggs are substituted, the choice should be given to the latter. Twice-cooked meats, however pleasing they may be to the palate, are not easy to digest. They serve merely as a way to use left-overs, which good management will keep to the minimum.

When selecting fruits for breakfast, the fact must not be overlooked that the starch of cereals and acid fruits, like a sour orange, often disagree. When apples are plentiful nothing is better than this fruit when baked, but in cities the banana frequently costs less and it stands at the head of all fruits in food value. When perfectly ripe it has about 12 per cent of sugar, but as it is picked green, the fruit sold in the markets is often but partially ripe and is more easily assimilated, if baked like the apple; it then becomes a valuable breakfast food.

It is a common mistake in a meatless breakfast to use too large a proportion of cereal. While the standard cereal foods, when dry, are from two-thirds to three-quarters starch, with the balance made up of a little protein, fat, water, fibre and a trace of mineral matter, it should not be forgotten that while cooking they absorb several times their bulk of water, which reduces the food value of the product. Oatmeal and corn meal are best adapted for winter use because they contain a little more fat than wheat or rice, which are suitable for summer diet.

Eggs are the most available substitute for meat at breakfast and it is doubtful economy to omit them, except in times of extreme high prices. They are not essential in all desserts and saving in their use should begin at that point. Eggs may be cooked in many ways so that they need never become a monotonous fare. All kinds of fish are an excellent substitute for meat, and, as prepared for the table, nearly equal beef and mutton, in the amount of protein, which is the element missed in a non-meat diet, unless it be carefully planned.

The following are adapted to different seasons and the beverage may be selected to suit the taste.

1. Strawberries, eggs baked in ramekins, oatmeal muffins.

2. Fruit, cheese omelet, rice griddle cakes.

3. Oranges, codfish balls, wheat muffins.

4. Oatmeal, baked bananas, scrambled eggs, rice muffins.

5. Cereal, hashed browned potatoes, date gems.

6. Oranges, soft boiled eggs, lyonnaise potatoes, dry toast.

7. Cereal with dates, whole wheat muffins, orange marmalade.

8. Stewed prunes, French omelet, creamed potatoes, dry toast.

9. Grapefruit, broiled salt codfish, baked potatoes, corn muffins.

10. Fresh pineapple, broiled fresh mackerel, creamed potatoes, French bread.[286]

11. Sliced bananas, omelet with peas, rusked bread.

1. Fresh apple sauce, pork chops, stewed potatoes, graham muffins.

2. Dried peaches, stewed, broiled honeycomb tripe, escalloped potatoes, reheated rolls.

3. Fruits, minced mutton, potato puffs, rice griddle cakes, lemon syrup.

4. Baked apples, baked sausages, hashed potatoes, corn cakes.

5. Baked rhubarb and raisins, ham omelet, bread-crumb griddle cakes, caramel syrup.

6. Melon or berries, broiled ham, shirred eggs, creamed potatoes.

7. Oranges, broiled beef cakes, French fried potatoes, toast.

8. Steamed rice, sliced tomatoes, bacon and eggs, rye muffins.

9. Berries, broiled chicken with cream sauce, fried potato cakes, muffins.

10. Cereal with syrup, scalded tomatoes with melted butter, baked hash, dry toast.

11. Melon, veal cutlet, cream sauce, baked potatoes, corn bread.

Fowls should be divided into four classes, according to their uses. The uses are controlled by the age of the fowl.

What is suitable for one dish is not suitable for others. In fowls the age of the bird controls the use to which it can be put. This is something the caterer and the housewife must remember.

A young bird can be distinguished from an old one by the pliability of the tip of the breastbone. When this tip bends under pressure, then the bird is young. If it is hard and unyielding, then it is old.

Very old birds are used for soup and for fricassée.

Medium-aged birds are used for roasts.

Spring chickens are used for broilers and for sautéed dishes.

Very young chicks are used for frying in deep fat; for this purpose they are dipped in a thin batter, or else in flour, and in eggs mixed with milk and afterward in breadcrumbs. These chicks, and also spring chickens, are used for casserole dishes and for cocottes (covered earthen ware containers, in which the fowls are roasted in the oven).

The liver of fowls is used in different ways; it makes an excellent dish. It is best when sautéed with black butter. Some of the fine French ragouts consist mostly of chicken livers.

With omelettes they make an incomparable garnish.

In very high-class establishments the wings and breast are often separated from the carcass of the fowl and served in manifold ways. Sometimes the entire fowl is freed of bones, without destroying the appearance of the bird. These latter dishes are best adapted for casserole service and for cold jellied offerings.

Capons are castrated male fowls. They fatten readily and their flesh remains juicy and tender, owing to the indolence of the birds. The meat of animals is tenderest when the animal is kept inactive. For this reason stall-feeding is often resorted to. When the animal has no opportunity to exercise its muscles the latter degenerate, and nourishment, instead of being converted into energy, is turned into fat. Range birds and animals are naturally tough; this is especially true of the muscles.

Large supply houses now regularly basket their fowls for about two weeks before putting them on the market.[287] During this time they are fed on grain soaked in milk. This produces a white, juicy flesh.

When a bird is to be roasted it should be trussed. This is done by forcing the legs back against the body (after placing the bird on its back); a string is then tied across the bird's body, holding the legs down. The wings are best set firmly against the breast by sticking a wooden skewer through the joint and into the bony part of the carcass, where the skewer will hold against the bones.

In preparing birds for the oven their breasts should be protected by slices of bacon. Otherwise they will shrivel and dry before the birds are cooked.

For broiling, the birds are cut through in the back, in such a manner that they quasi-hinge in the breast; they are then flattened so they will lie evenly in a double broiling iron; for this purpose the heavy backbone is removed.

After trussing the bird rub it with lemon so it will keep of good color; now cover the breast with thin slices of bacon (these can be tied on). The poularde is put into a deep, thick saucepan and cooked with butter and aromatics in the oven. When it is nearly done it is moistened with poultry stock. If this stock reduces too fast, then it must be renewed. It is finally added to the sauce.

These fowls may be stuffed with a pilaff of rice. This is prepared as follows: Half an onion is chopped and fried in two ounces of butter. Before it acquires color half a pound of Carolina rice is added. This is stirred over the fire until the rice has partly taken up the butter; then it is moistened with consommé (one quart); and covered and cooked in a moderate oven for fifteen minutes. It is now combined with a little cream, a quarter a pound of dice of goose liver and some dice of truffles.

The rice should not be entirely cooked by the time it is stuffed into the bird; the cooking is completed inside the bird. The cream is added to provide moisture for the rice to take up.

Instead of cream one may use consommé, and the truffles and fat liver may be left out, if too expensive.

The bird is served with a suitable sauce.

The best sauce for this purpose is Sauce Suprême, and is prepared as follows: Put two pints of clear poultry stock and some mushroom-liquor into a sauté-pan. Reduce two-thirds.

While this is going on prepare some poultry velouté by bringing some butter in a pan to bubble, and adding some flour. This is brought to a boil while stirring constantly. The flour must not be allowed to color. Now, gradually, add some poultry-stock, stirring all the while with a whisk. Salt, pepper and nutmeg are added. This is simmered on the side of the fire, and then strained.

Now add one pint of this velouté to the suprême sauce; reduce the whole on an open fire, while constantly stirring. Gradually add half a pint of good cream and finish with a little butter.

Young chickens should be used for this purpose. Feel the breast bone; if it bends beneath pressure the bird is right.

Empty, singe and clean, and disjoint the bird. This is done by cutting the skin at the joints and loosening the bones with a knife.

The wings are cut off in such manner that each holds half of the breast; the pinions are entirely cut off; the different pieces are seasoned with salt and pepper; now heat some clarified butter in a sauté-pan; when it is very hot insert the pieces of chicken and let them color quickly; turn them over, from time to time, so as to get a uniform color; cover the utensil and put it in a fairly hot oven. The legs are cooked for about ten minutes more than the breast and wings. The latter are kept hot separately.

When all pieces are done, they are dished on a platter and kept hot in the[288] oven; the pan is now moistened with mushroom-liquor, or chicken stock, and again put on the fire; only a very little moistening is put in the pan. As soon as it boils swing it around the pan and then add to it, gradually, the sauce that is to be served. This swinging in the pan dissolves the flavor, which solidifies in the bottom of the pan; it greatly improves the sauce.

A simple sauce for sautéed chicken is nut butter, that is, butter browned in the pan. This may be varied by flavoring it with a crushed garlic-clove. An addition of fine herbs will further improve it. A dark tomato sauce may also be served.

A good garnish for sautéed chicken is large dice of boletus mushrooms, sautéed in garlic butter; also dice of raw potatoes sautéed in clarified butter, and again fresh tomatoes cut up and sautéed in butter. Egg-plants are also excellent for a garnish.

Sautéed chicken may be baked and served in the cocotte.

The chicken is trussed; the breast is covered with strips of bacon and put into a deep, thick saucepan. It is colored in the oven, and when nearly done is transferred to a casserole. It is now moistened with some chicken-stock and a little white wine. This moistening is used in the basting, and after being freed of fat, added to the sauce.

A few minutes before the fowl is done bouquets of fresh vegetables are added to the chicken, in individual heaps, and the chicken is then served, either with a sauce, or else with an addition of butter. It should be carved in sight of the guests.

A fowl is cooked (boiled) with flavoring vegetables until done, and is then cut up as for fricassée; the pieces are seasoned with salt and pepper and sprinkled with chopped onions, a few mushroom-buttons and some chopped parsley. The pieces are now put into a pie-dish, legs undermost, some thinly-sliced bacon is added and some potatoes Parisienne (spooned with the special potato spoon). The pie-dish is now filled two-thirds with chicken velouté (chicken-stock thickened with flour and egg-yolks), and a pie crust is laid over all, pressed to the edges of the dish and trimmed off. The crust is slit open (so the steam can escape), it should be painted with egg-yolk, and be baked for one and a half hours in a moderate oven.

Of a poached cold fowl the suprêmes (boneless wing and breast in one piece) are loosened and trimmed to oval shape. They are covered with white chaudfroid sauce, by putting the pieces on a wire tray and pouring the sauce over while still liquid. They are decorated with tarragon leaves.

In a square, flat pan a half-inch layer of aspic is laid. On this slices of goose liver are superimposed (after having been trimmed to the shape of the suprêmes); the suprêmes are now put on top of the fat liver, and then covered with half-melted chicken jelly.

When thoroughly cooled and ready to serve, a square piece is cut out of the now solid jelly around the suprêmes. The suprême is thus served incrusted in a square block of thick jelly; the dish is decorated with greens.

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It is to be supposed that when a man gives up the comforts of town apartments and hies him to the country, it is the garden, the outdoors, which lures him.

Why is it, then, that he seems to take particular pains to arrange his garden so that it is about as much his own as Central Park is?

It might give the average man a great deal of pleasure to be able to say to all the passersby on the Mall, "This little bit of the Park belongs to me! I cut that grass, I weed those flower beds in the evening when I come home from the office; and every Saturday afternoon I take the hose and thoroughly soak that bit of lawn there, you may see me at it any week in the summer."

But then, we are not dealing with the fictitious average man, and we firmly believe that many "commuters" wonder deep down in their hearts why it is they get from their gardens so little of the pleasure they anticipated when they came to live out of the city.

Any one who has traveled abroad, has admired and perhaps coveted the gardens of England, France, and Italy. Their charm is undeniable, and thought to be too elusive for reproduction on American soil without the aid of landscape gardeners and a fair-sized fortune.

Just why we, as a nation, are beset by the idea of reproducing instead of originating beautiful gardens is a question apart from this discussion. But as soon as we try to develop, to their fullest extent, the advantages of our climate, and soil, in combination with our daily life as a people, we shall produce gardens which will equal, without necessarily resembling, those of other countries.

In every case we must, however, follow the same procedure which every successful garden is built upon, whether it be in Mesopotamia or in Long Island City. That is, we must study the place, the people, and the circumstances.

The most general fault in American gardens is their lack of privacy.

No one claims that the high walls of Italy and France or the impenetrable hedges of England would invariably suit the climate here. But there are many ways to obtain seclusion without in any way depriving us of much-needed air in summer and sun in winter. One way is by placing the house rationally upon its lot. Our custom has been to invariably build so that we had a "front yard," "back yard," and two side yards, all equally important, equally uninteresting, unbeautiful and useless.

Of course, we have the porch which in a way takes the place of the outdoor living room, always so attractive in foreign gardens. And recently some laudable efforts are being made to incorporate the porch into the house, where it belongs, as a real American institution, instead of leaving it disconsolately clinging to the outside and bearing no resemblance to the house either in shape or detail.

But after all, a porch is a porch, and a garden is a garden, and one does not take the place of the other.

Especially is this true of the tiny property.

If you have only ten feet of ground to spare outside your tiny house, plan it so that every foot contributes to your joy at being in the country. Arrange it so that on a warm summer evening when the porch seems a bit close and dark, you wander out into your garden and sit beneath the stars in quiet as profound as on the Desert of Sahara. And in the winter, let your garden provide a warm corner out of the wind, where on a bright Sunday morning you may sit and blink in the sun.

Once you have got the desire for a[290] room outdoors, a real garden, which is neither flower beds, nor lawns, nor hedges, nor trees, but a place for your comfort, with all these things contributing to its beauty, you will know as by divine inspiration where to put each flower and bush and path. Your planting will be no longer a problem for landscape architects, but a pleasant occupation for yourself and family.

So then will your successful tiny house stand forth in its real garden, an object of pride to the community and a tribute to one man who has refused to be the impossible average, and has dared to build and plant for his own needs.

May he live forever and ever happy in his tiny house!

The idea for the party came to Polly one night as she was washing the dinner dishes, and that very evening she waved away the boys' objection that Thanksgiving was a family affair pure and simple.

"I'm not planning to have any one in for dinner," she said, "though there's nothing that would suit me better, if the apartment boasted a larger dining room. But there are three girls in my Sunday School class that can't possibly go home this year, and I've no doubt you boys could find somebody that won't be invited anywhere. Thanksgiving is such a cheerless place in a boarding house! If we ask a few young people in for a party in the evening, it will liven things up a bit for them, and I think it will be pretty good fun for us, don't you?"

In the end Polly had her way, and just a week before Thanksgiving, she sent invitations to three girls and to two boys whom Rupert and Harry suggested.

Polly searched the shops for a card of two-eyed white buttons of the size of ten cent pieces. She carefully sewed a button on the upper part of a correspondence card, added eyebrows, nose and mouth with India ink, copied a body and cap from Palmer Cox's "Brownie Book," painted the drawing brown, and behold, a saucy brownie grinned at her from the invitation. Underneath the picture, she carefully printed a jingle.

The boys took a walk into the country on Thanksgiving morning and came laden with sprays of high-bush cranberries. These, with the bunches of chrysanthemums which they bought, and Polly's fern and palm, gave the small living room a festive appearance.

Assisted by her brothers, Polly served the dinner early. After clearing the dining room table, she placed a pumpkin jack-o-lantern in the center, and arranged around it piles of apples, grapes, and oranges.

After the guests had been introduced to each other, Polly passed each one a paper plate containing a picture, cut and jumbled into small pieces, and a tiny paper of paste and a toothpick. Each girl and boy was asked to put the "pi" together and paste it on the inside of the plate. When arranged, the pictures were found to be of Thanksgiving flavor. "Priscilla at the Wheel," "The Pilgrims Going to Church," "The First Thanks[291]giving," and others of the same type. To the person making his "pi" first a small and delicious mince pie was awarded.

Pencils and paper were then passed. On one slip was written, "What I have to be thankful for," on the other, "Why I am thankful for it." The slips were collected, mixed up, and distributed again. Each guest was asked to read the first slip handed him with the answer. The result caused much laughter.

This was followed by a modification of the famous "donkey game." Polly had painted a huge picture of a bronze turkey, but minus the tail, and this was pinned to the wall. Real turkey feathers with pins carefully thrust through the quills were handed about, and each guest was blindfolded and turned about in turn. To the one who successfully pinned a feather in the tail was given a turkey-shaped box of candy, and the consolation prize was a copy of "Chicken-licken."

A pumpkin-hunt came next. Tiny yellow and green cardboard pumpkins were concealed about the apartment. The yellow pumpkins counted five and the green two points. At the end of the search a small pumpkin scooped out, and filled with small maple sugar hearts, was presented to the guest having the highest score, and a toy book of, "Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater" was awarded to the unfortunate holding the lowest score.

Polly had determined to keep the refreshments very simple. The day before Thanksgiving she made an easy salad dressing by beating two eggs, adding one-half a cup of cider vinegar, two tablespoonfuls of sugar, one teaspoonful of mustard and one-half a teaspoonful of salt, and a tablespoonful of melted butter. She placed the ingredients in a bowl, set in a dish of water on the front of the stove, and when they thickened she removed it from the fire and thinned with cream. To make sandwiches, she mixed the dressing with minced turkey, added half a fine-chopped pepper, and spread the mixture between dainty slices of bread.

The sugared doughnuts she made by beating two eggs, adding one cup of sugar, one cup of sour milk, three tablespoonfuls of melted butter and flour, sifted with one-half a teaspoonful of soda and two teaspoonfuls of baking powder, to make the mixture thick enough to roll without sticking to the moulding board. They were cut with a small cutter, fried in deep, hot fat, and sugared plentifully.

Rupert contributed "Corn Popped in a Kettle." A large spoonful of lard and a teaspoonful of salt were placed in the bottom of a large kettle over a hot fire. A cup of shelled popcorn was added and stirred briskly with a mixing spoon. When the kernels began to pop, the kettle was covered and shaken rapidly, back and forth, until filled with fluffy, white popcorn.

With the fruit and "grape-juice lemonade," the sandwiches, doughnuts and popcorn made a pleasing "spread," Polly felt. She served everything on paper plates and used paper napkins, decorated with Thanksgiving designs.

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Elizabeth Goose of Boston bestowed a great blessing upon American posterity when she induced her good man, Thomas Fleet, to publish, in 1719, "The Mother Goose Melodies," many of which rhymes dated back to a similar publication printed in London two hundred years before. Is it strange that, with this ancestral nursery training, the cry against the use of pastry goes unheeded, when as children, we, too, have sung to us, over and over, the songs of tarts and pies?

The word tart comes from the Latin word tortus, because tarts were originally in twisted shapes, and every country seems to have adopted them into their national menus. That they were toothsome in those early days is shown in these same nursery rhymes, and, that tarts seemed to have been relished by royalty and considered worthy of theft is evinced in the rhymes,

Again this ancient lore speaks of "Five and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie," and, too, there was that child wonder, "Little Jack Horner" who, with the same unerring instinct of a water wizard with a willow twig, could, by the sole means of his thumb, locate and extricate, upon the tip of the same, a plum from the Christmas pie.

American tarts and pies are in a class of their own. Pies were very closely allied to pioneer, and the Colonial housewife of early days was forced to concoct fillings out of sweetened vegetables, such as squash, sweet potatoes, and even some were made of vinegar. Yet the children still doted on these tempting tarts, pies and turnovers, for were they not trotted in babyhood on a

The next time you have a few varieties of vegetables left over, or wish a dainty luncheon side dish, try making a tray of vegetable tarts with various fillings, and they will prove as fascinating to choose from as a tray of French pastries.

While I have worked out these modern recipes in tempting ways of serving left-overs using common vegetables, I will lay all pastry honors to our fore-mothers, who passed on to us the art of pie-making. Proof as to the harmlessness of pies in diet is shown in the fine constitution of our American doughboy, who is certainly a great credit to the heritage of pastry handed down by the Daughters of the American Revolution.

The moral of this discourse is that, "The child is father of the man," and men dote on pies.

Line round muffin pans with pastry circles as for other preserve tarts, and fill with the following:

Dice cold-boiled potatoes, season with salt and pepper, moisten with white sauce, made of two tablespoonfuls of flour, two tablespoonfuls of lard, one cup of milk,[293] one-half a teaspoonful salt. Mix with this grated cheese. Fill the shells and sprinkle grated cheese on top. Bake a light brown.

Parboil medium-sized onions in salted water. Cut half way down in quarters, add salt, butter, and pepper. Place each on a square of biscuit dough or pastry, rolled thin. Bring together opposite corners, twist, and place in a moderate oven to bake the onion tender. Serve with white sauce.

With a round cooky cutter make rounds of pastry. Cut an equal number with the doughnut cutter. Prick, sprinkle lightly with grated cheese and bake a light brown. Place a plain shell on a crisp lettuce leaf, add a slice of tomato, not larger, on top. Then pour on a little mayonnaise and place on top the tart shell with a hole in the center. Serve at once.

One peck of green tomatoes, put through a food chopper. Boil, drain and add as much water as juice drained out. Scald and drain again. Add water as before, scald and redrain. This time add half as much water, then the following:—

Boil all together, and add one cup of vinegar. Cook till thick as desired. Put in jars and seal.

To one pint of this mixture add one cup of chopped apple and the juice and rind, grated or ground. Sweeten to taste, fill crust and bake as the usual mince pie.

Evaporated apples may be used, but grind before soaking and do not cook.

These pies will not harm children, and are very inexpensive, as compared to those made of mincemeat.

Make a circle as big as a saucer, or a square equal in area. Fill the center with plum tomato preserve and fold over matching edges, either as a half circle, or a triangle. Prick and bake.

Turnovers are especially ideal as pies for fitting into lunch boxes, and may be made of any sweetened vegetable preserve for school lunches.

Use cabbage, which has been boiled in salted water and seasoned with salt and pepper to taste. Make a white sauce and pour over, mixing well with the cabbage. Fill round muffin pans lined with pastry circles, sprinkle with cheese over the top and bake. Carrots may be used the same way, omitting the cheese and using latticed strips of pastry over the top. These will be hardly recognizable as such common vegetables.

While probably the best way of using milk is to drink it in its raw or pasteurized state, many children and adults will not use it in that form. In that case, the problem is to disguise or flavor the milk in some way so that the food value will not be changed or destroyed, and yet be more palatable than the natural product.

It has been found that children will drink flavored, sweetened milk when they will simply not touch pure milk. In order to demonstrate how universal the craving for sweetened, cold drinks has become, and how easy it is for the milkmen to cater to this demand, Prof. J. L. Sammis of the Wisconsin College of Agriculture conducted a booth at the 1921 Wisconsin state fair and dispensed milk in twenty-five new, pleasing, and attractive ways over a soda fountain.

Thousands of these milk drinks were[294] consumed, and a report from a Tennessee county fair also revealed that 10,000 similar drinks were sold there by an enterprising dairyman. There is nothing elaborate about the proposition. If these drinks are to be prepared in the home, and the whole question is largely one of increasing the home consumption of milk, Professor Sammis declares:

"Take any flavor that happens to be on the pantry shelf, put a little in a glass, add sugar to taste, fill the glass with milk, and put in some ice. That is all there is to it. Be sure that the milk is drank very cold, when it is most palatable. Vanilla is a very good flavor."

It is not even necessary that whole milk be used, as condensed milk will do very well. Simply dilute the condensed milk with an equal volume of water, and use as whole milk. Condensed milk, however, has a cooked flavor found objectionable by many, and, in that case, a suitable substitute is powdered milk, which has no such cooked flavor.

To prepare a powdered milk drink, put the flavor into the receptacle first, then the sugar, and then the powdered milk with a little water. Beat the powdered milk with an egg beater until it is wet through, and then add the rest of the water, finishing with the ice.

By adding fruit colors these various milk drinks can be given a changed external appearance, and wise is the mother who will prepare them often when her children show an inclination not to drink enough milk. Served at the table, they attract every member of the family. These milk drinks are no more expensive than many of the more watery and less useful compounds, so often substituted.

Soda fountains might well consider these various forms of sweetened and flavored milk to attract new trade. At the fountains the various flavoring syrups would naturally be used, and no sugar is necessary. And instead of clear water, carbonated water is used. The variety of these drinks is limited only by the ingenuity of the dispenser.

Wash seven pounds of fruit and let boil with a little water until soft enough to press through a colander. Add three pounds of sugar, three pints of vinegar, and cloves and cinnamon to taste, and let the mixture boil, slowly, until it is thick and jelly-like.

Pare a medium-sized pumpkin and cut into inch cubes. Let steam until tender, but not broken. Or cut the pumpkin into large pieces and let steam a short time and then cut the cubes.

Prepare a syrup of sugar and water, about three pounds of sugar and a pint-and-a-half of water, in which simmer the juice and rind (cut into strips) of two lemons. Drop the pumpkin cubes into the syrup and let simmer, carefully, until the pumpkin is translucent. Dip out the pumpkin and pack in ordinary preserve jars; pour over the syrup and lemon and close the jars.

Take seven pounds of apples, all green, if possible; wash and remove any imperfections, also the blossom and stem. Cut, but do not core nor peel. Cut in very small pieces. Three oranges; wash and remove peel, which put through finest knife of food-chopper, after discarding the inner white peeling, also seeds. Put the apple on to boil, adding water till it shows among the fruit, and boil to quite soft; mash fine and put in jelly bag to drain over night. Boil the juice with the orange pulp, cut in very small pieces; add the orange peel and cook for twenty minutes, or till the orange is cooked. Add five (5) pounds of granulated sugar and let boil until a little in a cold saucer will jell.

This recipe has never been in print to my knowledge and will prove very satisfactory to the majority of people.

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This department is for the benefit and free use of our subscribers. Questions relating to recipes and those pertaining to culinary science and domestic economics in general, will be cheerfully answered by the editor. Communications for this department must reach us before the first of the month preceding that in which the answers are expected to appear. In letters requesting answers by mail, please enclose address and stamped envelope. Address queries to Janet M. Hill, Editor. American Cookery, 221 Columbus Ave., Boston, Mass.

Query No. 4241.—"I wish you would let me have a good recipe for Caramel Icing, the kind that does not call for the whites of eggs."

Add two cups and one-half of dark brown sugar to three-fourths a cup of milk, and let boil thirteen minutes. When nearly done add three tablespoonfuls of butter and one teaspoonful of vanilla. Beat until nearly cold, then spread on top of cake. It may also be used between the layers. If a sugar thermometer be used, the syrup should be boiled to the soft-ball stage, or between 235 deg. Fah. to 240 deg. Fah.

Query No. 4242.—"Please let me have a recipe for Spiced Pineapple."

Weigh six pounds of pineapple, after paring, coring, and cutting in rather small pieces. Cook in a porcelain kettle with three cups of the best white vinegar, until the pineapple is softened, keeping the kettle closely covered, and turning the fruit once in a while so that the pieces may be equally exposed to the action of the vinegar. Tie in cheesecloth or netting one ounce, each, of whole cloves, previously bruised, and stick cinnamon, broken into small pieces; add these to the kettle with five pounds of granulated sugar, and let cook until the mixture is of the consistency of marmalade, being careful to avoid burning. The spices may be removed as soon as they have given the flavor desired.

Query No. 4243.—"Will you kindly answer the following in your Department of Queries and Answers? Should Boiled Potatoes be started in cold or boiling water? Should Corn on the cob be put on in cold water and allowed to simmer for several minutes after it comes to a boil, or be put on in boiling water and boiled five minutes? Should Chicken, Turkey, or other Fowl be covered during roasting? Can you give a clear and up-to-date article on correct Table Service?"

Very young, new potatoes—the kind hardly bigger than walnuts, should be put on in cold water and brought quickly to a boil, for potatoes so young as to be immature contain more or less of a bitter principle, which is desirable to get rid of in the cooking. Potatoes in their prime, as from September to March, are best put on in boiling, salted water. Later in the spring, when the potatoes begin to sprout and shrivel they ought to be put on in cold water and brought, as slowly as possible, to a boil, or allowed to stand in cold water for some hours before cooking.

It is usually preferred to put on the corn in cold water, bring to a boil, and let simmer until done. But to steam the ears will give, in our opinion, the best results.

Decidedly not; it spoils the flavor not only of chicken and turkey, but of any[296] prime joint of meat to bake it in a covered pan. The covered pan is properly used for braising only, for the tough cuts which have to be braised call for the combination of baking and steaming which results from the covered pan. All kinds of poultry, and all prime joints of meat should be placed on a rack in an uncovered roasting pan, put into a very hot oven for the first ten or fifteen minutes, and then have one or two cups of water poured over them, mixed with fat if the meat is lean, this water to be used for basting every ten or fifteen minutes. The rack in the pan serves both to allow a circulation of air around the meat, and to keep it from touching the water. It is this circulation of air that gives the fine flavor of the properly roasted meat, and the frequent opening of the oven door for the basting serves to supply the fresh air needed for the best results.

The Up-to-Date Waitress, by Janet M. Hill, or Breakfasts, Luncheons, and Dinners, by Mary D. Chambers, both contain clear and up-to-date directions for table service. We can supply these books if you wish to have either of them.

Query No. 4244.—"Will you tell me in your paper why my Lemon Pies become watery when I return them to the oven to brown the meringue? Also give me some suggestions for Desserts for Summertime, other than frozen dishes."

A lemon pie may become watery when put in the oven to brown the meringue, if it be left in the oven too long; or it may water because the filling was not sufficiently cooked before putting into the pastry shell; or it may be from an insufficiency of flour being used in making the filling. If you had told us just how your pies are made, we would be better able to solve your problem.

In future we hope to answer queries as soon as they reach us, and by direct reply to each individual questioner; but up to the present we have answered most of them in this department of the magazine, and since it takes two or three months to get the manuscript into print many of the questions are answered too late. So it happens with your inquiry regarding desserts for Summertime. Any of the cold desserts, such as gelatines, custards, blancmanges, or fresh fruits with cream, are suitable for summer and are easily prepared.

Query No. 4245.—"Will you oblige me by an answer to the following in the pages of American Cookery? How shall I make Tartare Sauce? What should be the temperature of the fat for French Fried Potatoes or for Potato Chips? Mine are never crisp, can you tell me why? Also tell me how to Broil Fish, how to make a good Cream Dressing for fish, meat, or croquettes, and how to make Soft Gingerbread with a sauce to put over it."

A Tartare Sauce or Sauce Tartare is merely a mayonnaise dressing with pickles chopped into it, a tablespoonful, each, or more, of chopped cucumber, cauliflower, and olives, with a tablespoonful of capers and two teaspoonfuls of red pepper to a pint of the mayonnaise. There is, however, a hot Tartare Sauce which is made by adding to one cup of thick white sauce the following ingredients: One tablespoonful, each, of chives, parsley, pickled gherkins, olives, and capers, all put through the food chopper. Stir into the white sauce; heat while stirring constantly, but do not allow the mixture to boil, and add one tablespoonful of vinegar just before serving.

We think your trouble is not so much the temperature of the fat, which should be about 350 deg. to 375 deg. Fah., as it is that potatoes, to be crisped by deep frying, should first be soaked in cold water for twenty to thirty minutes, then dried perfectly before immersing in the fat. Also, they should be removed from the fat the moment they are done, and drained dry.

Wipe the fish dry, and brush it lightly[297] with oil or melted butter. Place it in a double wire broiler, and cook over a clear fire, turning every other minute until both sides are a light, even brown. Remove carefully from the broiler, using a sharp boning knife to free it from adhesions. If the fish is thoroughly oiled, it should not adhere to the broiler.

I came to analyze the flavor-and-health values of these two fruit-foods. At first their use seemed rather limited but with each new dish others immediately suggested themselves.

The chief nutritive element in both prunes and apricots, of course, is fruit sugar. But you derive great value, too, from their mineral salts and organic acids. These improve the quality of the blood and counteract the acid-elements in meat, eggs, cereals and other high-protein foods.

Also, they are rich in tonic iron and other mineral and vitamine elements needed for body tone. Nor should I forget to mention that prunes especially provide a natural laxative made in Nature's own pharmacy.

But aside from these essential health values, I found that Sunsweet Prunes and Apricots offer wonderful possibilities—varying from the most delicate soufflé to the more substantial cobbler, pie or pudding.

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Blend together butter and flour, and add to hot milk; keep stirring until the whole has boiled for at least one minute. Add seasonings to taste, at the beginning of cooking. The proportions for a thin, a medium, and a thick sauce are, respectively: One, two, and four tablespoonfuls of flour to one cup of milk. And an equal volume of butter, or one-third less than the flour, is called for.

To two beaten eggs in a mixing-bowl add two tablespoonfuls of butter, melted, three-eighths a cup of sour milk, and one cup of molasses. Beat all together; add two cups of flour, sifted with one-half a teaspoonful of salt and one teaspoonful of baking powder, and one tablespoonful of ginger. Lastly, add one teaspoonful of baking soda, dissolved in two teaspoonfuls of water. Bake in a sheet, and serve with whipped cream for a simple dessert.

Query No. 4246.—"Can you give me a recipe for Deep-Dish Apple Pie? It has a thick top covering, I cannot call it a crust, for it is something between a cake and a biscuit dough—not at all like pie crust."

This is the genuine English Apple Pie—they would call ours an apple tart. It is made in oval baking-dishes of thick yellow ware, about two and one-half or three inches deep, and with flat rims an inch in width. The first thing to do is to invert a teacup—preferably one without a handle—in the bottom of the dish, then core and pare sour, juicy apples—any number, from six to a dozen, depending on the size of the family and the dish—and divide them in eighths. Arrange these in alternate layers with sugar in the dish, with a generous sprinkling of whole cloves over each layer, and pile, layer on layer, until not another bit of apple can go in anywhere without toppling out. The apples are piled up as high again as the depth of the dish, or higher. Now lay over all a very rich biscuit dough, lightly rolled out to one-fourth inch in thickness. Decorate this with leaves, or other cut-out designs, and arrange them over the covering and moisten the under sides with water, to make them adhere during the baking. Place long strips of the dough over the brim of the pie-dish, and press with the bowl of a spoon in concentric designs. Bake in a moderate oven for an hour. Pieces of the crust are cut off for serving, and spoonfuls of the apple pulp are served with them on the plate, then, as soon as convenient the inverted cup is removed, and the rich liquid collected under it is spooned over each serving of crust and apples.

Query No. 4247.—"I wish very much to know the right temperature for Baking both layer and loaf, white, butter Cakes, also for chocolate Cake. Should the Baking begin with a cold or a warm oven? How long should each kind of cake bake?"

The usual time and temperature for baking layer cakes is 400 deg. Fah., for twenty minutes. Loaf cakes, made with butter, with or without chocolate, take a temperature of from 350 deg. to 375 deg, Fah. for from forty minutes to an hour. These temperatures are approximate, and are in accordance with the general rules for oven temperature, but this has to be adapted to the recipe. The more sugar used the lower should be the temperature, to avoid burning, and especially when molasses is used does the need to decrease temperature become imperative. The more butter used the higher should be the temperature, at least, until the cake is "set," to keep it from falling. Cakes with much butter[299] need the greatest heat at first, and then a reduced temperature. So do all cakes of small size. Large cakes are better at a uniform temperature, not so high as the average. A different flavor is produced, especially in very rich cakes with a good many eggs, when put into a cool oven and baked with gradually increasing heat, from that developed by a high initial temperature and then a decreased heat. The quality of the flour and shortening also affect the temperature and time needed in baking. It is a good safe thing to follow the rules, and to temper them with judgment. When the cake is just firm in the center, and has shrunk from the sides of the pan, it is done, no matter what the temperature has been or how long it has baked. But you will always get your cake at this condition, more surely and safely, by following the rules, though you must be on the alert to use them with flexibility.

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Has taken the place of all makeshifts ever known for holding up baby's tiny socks—equipped with that exclusive feature found only on Velvet Grip garters for "grown-ups"—namely the

Query No. 4248.—"Will you please give me a recipe for Canned Pimientoes?"

Cut round the stem of each, and with a small, sharp knife remove the seeds and the white partitions inside. Set on a baking sheet in a hot oven until the thin outside skin puffs and cracks, then remove it with a small, sharp knife. Or they may be scalded, then dipped into cold water and the skin be carefully removed. Sometimes the skin is left on. Now press each one flat, and arrange them in layers, alternately overlapping one another, in the jars, without liquid, and process for twenty-five to thirty-five minutes at 212 deg. Fah. During the processing a thick liquid should exude, covering the pimientoes.

Query No. 4249.—"I should like a recipe for New York Ice Cream."

There are three distinct classes of Ice Cream: The Philadelphia, which is supposed to be made of heavy cream; the French, which is made with eggs on a soft custard foundation; and the so-called American, which is made on the foundation of a thin white sauce. All three classes are made in New York, and in every other large city, but we have never heard that any special recipe for ice cream is peculiar to New York. The less expensive forms of cream, in that and every other city, are those based on a thin white sauce, sweetened, flavored, and frozen.

It was the custom of the congregation to repeat the Twenty-third Psalm in concert, and Mrs. Armstrong's habit was to keep about a dozen words ahead all the way through. A stranger was asking one day about Mrs. Armstrong. "Who," he inquired, "was the lady who was already by the still waters while the rest of us were lying down in green pastures?"

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Sift flour, salt, soda and spices into bowl. Melt together HEBE, water, sugar, butter, syrup and molasses. Cool slightly and add to dry ingredients with egg and raisins. Turn into greased and floured cake tin and bake in moderate oven for an hour.

You'll love gingerbread made this way. It's a good wholesome food and an always welcome dessert. HEBE gives it that good rich flavor and the fine texture that makes it melt in your mouth—and HEBE adds nutriment too.

HEBE is pure skimmed milk evaporated to double strength enriched with cocoanut fat. In cooking it serves a threefold purpose—to moisten, to shorten and to enrich.

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No. 4244

Foreman: "What are you doin' of, James?"

Bricklayer: "Sharpenin' a bit o' pencil."

Foreman: "You'll 'ave the Union after you, me lad. That's a carpenter's job."—Punch.

Since 1905 the American School of Home Economics has given home-study courses to over 30,000 housekeepers, teachers, and others. The special textbooks have been used for class work in over 500 schools.

Of late years, courses have been developed fitting for many well paid positions:—Institution Management, Tea Room and Lunchroom Management, Teaching of Domestic Science, Home Demonstrators, Dietitians, Nurses, Dressmaking, "Cooking for Profit." Home-Makers' Courses:—Complete Home Economics, Household Engineering, Lessons in Cooking, The Art of Spending.

BULLETINS: Free-Hand Cooking, Ten-cent Meals, Food Values, Family Finance, Art of Spending, Weekly Allowance Book, 10c. each.

Details of any of the courses and interesting 80-page illustrated handbook, "The Profession of Home-Making" sent on request. American School of Home Economics, 503 W. 69th Street, Chicago.

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Bernard Shaw: "Say, Einie, do you really think you understand yourself?"

Einstein: "No, Bernie—do you?"

As the Sunday-school teacher entered, she saw leaving in great haste a little girl and her smaller brother. "Why, Mary, you aren't going away?" she exclaimed in surprise. "Pleathe, Mith Anne, we've got to go," was the distressed reply. "Jimmy thwallowed hith collection."

DELISCO is considered by connoisseurs a most delicious, refreshing and healthful drink. It fully satisfies, by its aroma and flavor, the natural desire of the coffee drinker who has heretofore continued to take coffee because unable to find a satisfactory equivalent. When properly made, experts have been unable to distinguish DELISCO from the finer grades of coffee.    —Adv.

It explains just how to prepare food, "good enough to sell"; just what to cook, with many choice recipes; how to establish a reputation and a constant profitable market; how to cater for all occasions, and tells in detail how to establish and conduct successful tea rooms, etc.—how to manage all food service.

The expense for equipment is little or nothing at first, the correspondence instruction is under the personal direction of Miss Bradley which assures your success, the fee for the course is very moderate and may be paid on easy terms. For full details write to American School of Home Economics, 503 W. 69th Street, Chicago.    —Adv.[313]

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Six hundred leading hotels, from Bangor to Los Angeles, are using them.

A new sweet pepper used as salad cups, garnishes, etc.—beautiful red—rich, nutty flavor—crisp—tender—melting—juicy.

If not on sale in your Fancy Grocery we will deliver, charges prepaid, east of Denver, a case of six full quarts for $3.90. Each quart will serve 13 to 16 people.

Try them at your next dinner. Your guests will rave. The first expression is: "The lovely things, what are they?" Then at the first taste: "How delicious; where can I get them?"

If dissatisfied after using one quart, return the remainder at our expense and we will return all money paid.

A new book of SALADS in every case, or sent free on request, with the name of your retail Fancy Grocer.

Wagner Cast Aluminum utentsils utensils are cast, not stamped. Being in one solid piece there are no rivets to loosen, no seams to break, no welded parts. Wagner Cast Aluminum Ware wears longer and cooks better. The thickness of the metal is the reason—heat is retained and evenly distributed—food does not scorch or burn as is liable in stamped sheet utensils.

Wagner Ware combines durability and superior cooking quality with the most beautiful designs and finish. At best dealer's.

Don't ask for aluminum ware, ask for Wagner Ware

Have you ever considered how much an hour a day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year is worth to you? Many workmen get $1 an hour—surely your time is worth 30 cents an hour. We guarantee these "Helpers" to save you at least an hour a day, worth say $2.10 a week. Will you invest the 10 cents a week to gain $2 weekly? Send the coupon.

And the value our "Helpers" give you in courage and inspiration, in peace of mind, in the satisfaction of progress, in health, happiness and the joy of living,—is above price. In mere dollars and cents, they will save their cost twelve times a year or more. Send the coupon.

These helpers, "Lessons in Cooking" and "Household Engineering," were both prepared as home-study courses, and as such have been tried out and approved by thousands of our members. Thus they have the very highest recommendation. Nevertheless we are willing to send them in book form, on a week's free trial in your own home. Send the coupon.

In these difficult days you really cannot afford to be without our "Helpers." You owe it to yourself and family to give them a fair trial. You cannot realize what great help they will give you till you try them—and the trial costs you nothing! Send no money—send the coupon.

Send your two "HOUSEHOLD HELPERS," prepaid on a week's trial, in the De Luxe binding. If satisfactory, I will send you $5 in full payment (OR) 50 cents and $1 per month for five months. Otherwise I will return one or both books in seven days. (Regular mail price $3.14 each).

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Write for this book, "Sea Foods; How to Prepare and Serve Them." With it we send our list with delivered price of each kind of fish.

FAMILIES who are fond of FISH can be supplied DIRECT from GLOUCESTER, MASS., by the FRANK E. DAVIS COMPANY, with newly caught, KEEPABLE OCEAN FISH, choicer than any inland dealer could possibly furnish.

We sell ONLY TO THE CONSUMER DIRECT, sending by EXPRESS RIGHT TO YOUR HOME. We PREPAY express on all orders east of Kansas. Our fish are pure, appetizing and economical and we want YOU to try some, subject to your complete approval or your money will be cheerfully refunded.

SALT MACKEREL, fat, meaty, juicy fish, are delicious for breakfast. They are freshly packed in brine and will not spoil on your hands.

CODFISH, as we salt it, is white, boneless and ready for instant use. It makes a substantial meal, a fine change from meat, at a much lower cost.

FRESH LOBSTER is the best thing known for salads. Right fresh from the water, our lobsters simply are boiled and packed in PARCHMENT-LINED CANS. They come to you as the purest and safest lobsters you can buy and the meat is as crisp and natural as if you took it from the shell yourself.

FRIED CLAMS are a relishable, hearty dish, that your whole family will enjoy. No other flavor is just like that of clams, whether fried or in a chowder.

FRESH MACKEREL, perfect for frying, SHRIMP to cream on toast, CRABMEAT for Newburg or deviled, SALMON ready to serve, SARDINES of all kinds, TUNNY for salad, SANDWICH FILLINGS and every good thing packed here or abroad you can get direct from us and keep right on your pantry shelf for regular or emergency use.

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As illustrated, are used to make dainty, flaky patés or timbales; delicate pastry cups for serving hot or frozen dainties, creamed vegetables, salads, shell fish, ices, etc. Each set comes securely packed in an attractive box with recipes and full directions for use. Sent, postpaid, for two (2) new subscriptions. Cash Price $1.50.

One of the most modern and efficient kitchen helps ever invented. A big labor and time saver.

Sent, prepaid, for one (1) new subscription. Cash Price 75 cents.

Best quality blued steel. Six inches wide by 13 long. One pan sent, prepaid, for one (1) new subscription. Cash Price 75 cents.

Two of these pans sent, postpaid, for one (1) new subscription. Cash Price 75 cents for two pans.

Sent, prepaid, for one (1) new subscription. Cash Price 75 cents.

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Dissolve a package of Lemon Jell-O in half a pint of boiling water and add half a pint of juice from a can of pineapple. When cold and still liquid whip to consistency of whipped cream. Add a cup of the shredded pineapple. Pour into mould and set in a cold place to harden. Turn from mould and garnish with sliced pineapple, cherries or grapes.

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