Now I spring up the steps, catch Clarence by the arms, and pull, while great drops of perspiration start from every pore. "Jump! Clary, jump!" I wildly cry. "Oh! Clary, why don't you jump?" His little round face looks tragically earnest, and with a superhuman effort, his little round body bobbs up about two inches from the ground. Then, oh, heavens! the train moves! One sudden wrench, which seems to tear my arms from their sockets, and I am borne awayam flying through the air. Clarence, Kate's darling, is left alone among cruel strangers, bare-headed, and crying, with my watchTom's parting gift-hanging from his neck. CHAPTER III. SILENT, motionless, stunned, I stood upon the rear platform, gazing vacantly at the curved, snake-like track that crept hissing after us. It grew indistinct; black spots danced before my eyes; I reeled forward, caught at the railing and missed it. I was being hurledwhere? The door behind me burst open, a hand caught me fiercely by the arm, and dragged me in; a stern, white, passionate face-the face of my Prince-confronted me. "How dare you!" he demanded, hoarsely. "Do you mean to kill yourself?" His iron grasp hurt my arm. I think he shook me a little; and I know that his blue eyes blazed anger and scorn at me. "Let me go!" I cried, vehemently. "I have lost him! I have lost him! Oh! Kate will never forgive me!" I lifted up my voice and wept; I wrung my hands, after the most approved style of forlorn and despairing females, and otherwise deported myself in an insane and highly absurd fashion. Retaining his vice-like hold upon my arm, he set me down and sat himself beside me, and commanded me to cease crying and tell him what had happened. He calmed and controlled me by degrees, and I unfolded my simple and direful tale. Then his face was a study for a painter. He had really thought me bent upon self-destruction, and there was a spark of angry fire in his eye, which, as I proceeded, gave place to solicitude, sympathy, and, at last, to an almost uncontrollable inclination to laugh at me. I caught the incipient smile-I am very sensitive to ridicule; ridiculous people usually are-and was beginning to let my "angry passions rise," when a tender mist came over the deep blue of his brave, beautiful eyes. "Little girl," said he, gently, "do you know you have been very near the other world? My God! I am almost a murderer! How could I have left you alone?" "Oh! do not mind me," I panted. "Do tell me-you are so wise and good-what shall I do? How shall I find poor little Clary?" Well, to make a long story short, the conductor was again called upon to assist in our deliberations. I was for stopping at the next station and returning at once to the child, but the gentlemen persuaded me that this was not best, for several reasons. Firstly, my sister was expecting me that evening, would drive to the depot to meet me, and would be very anxious if I were not there. Secondly, I would be obliged to wait several hours for a returning train, and could not possibly reach the child before midnight. Thirdly, I could return a telegram to the people at the hotel where we had dined, directing them to find the child and take care of him until called for. This last was suggested by my Prince. "To be sure!" said the conductor, who spake as never man spake'-except, perhaps, Demosthenes, with the pebbles in his mouth-" know folks! Sleep there three nights'-week! Pick boy up t'-morrow on way back. Bring 'm down t' Bost'n m'self t'-morrow night, l'ong th' money, eh?" As nothing better could be thought of, I was obliged to acquiesce in this arrangement, though sorely against my will. I felt that it were easier to die, then and there, than to meet Kate and tell her that I had lost not only her money but her child. I had my suspicions, too, about that conductor. He looked black and treacherous, quite like those horrid, swarthy gipsies who had a camp on the hill, and tried to steal a baby from the village. How did I know that he was not a child-stealer in league with them? One thing was certain, if he had been at his post Clary had not been left, and if he had not thrown my baggage from the window, Kate's money had been safe. At best he was the source of all my misfortunes, and I hated him with a perfect hatred. As for my noble, fair-haired Prince, he was my deliverer! I looked into his honest, kindly face, and trusted him perfectly; I thought of all his goodness to me, and thanked him effusively. Before this last accident he had been good-humored enough, certainly, but with rather the air of condescending to be interested and amused. Now he exerted himself to interest and amuse me, and make me forget my unhappiness. He so far succeeded that I smiled two or three times, and actually laughed once, but the sound frightened me, and the thought of poor forsaken Clary sent another deluge down my cheeks. Just before we reached Boston, he asked if I were sure my sister would meet me. "Oh, yes!" I said. "Kate never fails in anything." "Then I have no further excuse to offer my valuable services, I suppose," he said, smiling "And I would rather like a parting chat with our dear, entertaining friend, the conductor. So I will take myself off." He packed up his great coat-which had somehow found its way between the hard window-case and my soft head-held my gray glove a moment in his brown one; looked kindly and pityingly into my swollen, tearful eyes, and then cruelly, pitilessly left me-without one ray of hope that I should ever see or hear from him again. I would gladly pass over that dreadful meeting with Kate. I grow cold now as I remember it. Not that she stormed, or blustered, or made a scene. Oh, no; Kate could not, and would not, have done such a thing to save her life; but the cold, cutting scorn of her face and voice wellnigh killed me. She was scarcely surprised, she said, except at her own folly in entrusting me with anything valuable. It was a fitting punishment for her lack of discretion. She had no fears for Clarence, if I had really left his name and address with the conductor, as I said-it was almost too much to believe that I had such presence of mindhe would be sent home all right; but she should never see the money again. Indeed I can hardly tell which excited her to most contempt, my terrors lest the conductor should steal Clary or my implicit confidence in the tall, handsome stranger. It was perfectly clear to her that the latter was a polished villain, who had led me on by honeyed flattery until he had obtained from me all the information necessary to possess himself not only of the lost treasures, but of every dollar in the family coffers. In confirmation of all this, she pointed to the significant fact, heretofore overlooked by me, that he had not vouchsafed me a word in regard to himself; I knew not even his name. No words of mine can describe the dead, stolid wretchedness which took possession of me at this remembrance, and at these awful charges. Kate could not be wrong-she never made mistakes; this world was all a dreary waste. Mrs. Stanley, Kate's mother-in-law, sat quietly knitting and silently listening. She was a Quaker; a lovely old lady, with beautiful black eyes and snow-white hair. My heart went out to her the moment I saw her. She arose now, deliberately laid aside her knitting, and walked quietly and gravely across to me. "I think, Catharine," said she, gently, as she sat beside me on the sofa, "I think thee should not censure thy sister so severely. Thee knows we are all subject to misfortunes; and I see nothing in all thy sister relates which might not as well have befallen thee, had thee been in thy sister's place. I think thy money will be returned. Thee must remember that the young and innocent know an honest face by instinct: that the youth of whom thy sister tells us harbors no sinful purpose concerning thy money, I am well assured." My stony heart of grief was broken by these words. How I longed to throw myself upon her neck, to kiss the hem of her robe, the soles of her shoes. But I was afraid of Kate-she would be sure to call me theatrical or hysterical-so I only catch her dear, plump, drab arm in both mine, and hug it and kiss it, and cry over it in an ecstasy of grateful love. "There, there! thou foolish child," said she, fondly stroking my hair, with tears in her motherly eyes. Kate cast a look of deep disgust upon me, and in a calm and stately manner withdrew. This was Black Friday. The following day I kept my room and devoted myself conscienciously to self-torture. Now I was longing feverishly for the night; now filled with a shivering dread lest it come and bring no news. Now I was seized with a fit of violent weeping and remorseful selfaccusation; now hot with indignant anger at my sister's pitiless sneers and reproaches. But bitterest of all were my thoughts of the glorious unknown. “Oh! beautiful, brave Prince of the Golden Fleece! Are you indeed so vile a wretch? Could eyes of such an honest, tender blue-could a brow so calm and broad, and white-a mouth so firm and gentle-a voice so deep and manly, have aught to say to crime? Then do no upright, noble men walk upon the earth-no, not one." So I rolled myself like a porcupine against the sharp points of my own lacerating thoughts, finding a sort of morbid pleasure in the pain they inflicted. Nobody disturbed me in this interesting occupation. Mrs. Stanley was taking care of a sick child next door: she was one of those universal mothers, who are ready to answer anybody's call, and whose very touch is healing. God give her sweet soul large rewards in the "Land of the leal," whither she has gone. Kate did not come near me. The heavy hours dragged their slow length along. At five o'clock-an hour before the train was due-I was booted and bonneted, and pacing the hall, impatient for the carriage. We finally drove to the station. Kate awaited the coming train with folded arms, calm and silent as a statue, while I flew from door to window, straining my eyes and neck and raging inwardly at the delay. It came at last. It was given me to see-not, as I had unconsciously hoped and half-expected, the regal form of my Prince, who, like Saul, was head-and-shoulders above his brethren, but the ugly, dark little conductor, dragging the slow, ever-lagging Clarence toward us. He was composedly munching a big red apple, as though being lost a day and a night was the most ordinary, natural thing in the world, and rather pleasant than otherwise. Then, somehow, everything slanted and staggered in the strangest way, and the next thing I remember I was in the carriage opposite Kate and Clarence, whirling toward home, and wondering at my dripping ribbons. Kate concisely informed me that no trace of the money had been discovered. My watch, too, was gone. I questioned Clary about it, but he did not know, or could not tell, when he and it had parted company. [TO BE CONTINUED.] BEWARE of substituting quantity for quality in education. KEEP your difficulties to yourself, and let people imagine that you are in expectation of good fortune. It lies at the gates of the morning, Hard by the fair pleasaunce of youth. THE VALLEY OF FLOWERS. Bear its winds never whisper of warning? Its songs never burden of ruth? Ah nay, for the airs are all gracious That breathe through its bloom-laden bowers; Serene, sunny-swarded and spacious, The Valley of Flowers! By what mystical rose-shadowed portal, Are the feet of the way-weary mortal What soul, that hath strayed o'er its borders, Soft, soft is the footway and glowing With green that out-glories the spring. What sweeter than trancedly straying Through thy green-girt and blossomy mazes, Oh Valley of Flowers? What flowers? Ah say, are they roses Red-hearted, that crush and that trail? Yon lily that languidly dozes With mystical pallor is pale, They are blazoned with beauty that thralleth, What flowers? Flame-tinted, snow-creamy, What delirous odors and dreamy Exhale! Oh the ominous hue That peers up through the mosses and grasses! He must crush out those petals who passes Ah where in the flower-dight mazes, What spell in the pathway is growing. Cold! cold! and the odors are sickly, 362 HOW TO MAKE HOME ATTRACTIVE. HOW TO MAKE HOME ATTRACTIVE. BY HENRY LE JEUNE. No. 21. WINDOW GARDENING. A FEW words with regard to the use of flowers in home decoration will appropriately conclude this series of papers. The love for flowers is universal, and although all persons are not endowed with the same talent for cultivating plants, there are few who do not admire them, just as many who cannot appreciate works of art, or who care nothing for literature, find in them the means of gratifying their innate admiration for the beautiful. There are few homes in which flowering plants are not cultivated in some degree; but they are not by any means used to the extent that they might be for decorative purposes. A rose-bush in full bloom is a beautiful object in itself, but, like most other beautiful things, its attractions are enhanced if it is properly placed in juxtaposition with other objects. It is only the loveliness of the flowers themselves that makes the rows of red earthenware pots which are displayed in many windows endurable to a cultivated eye, whereas with a little care and trouble these same plants might be so displayed that they will really ornament a room, just as a handsome picture does. Decorated flower-pots may be procured for comparatively small sums in the shops; but as those made of common red clay are at once cheap and well adapted for the purposes for which they are used, it is quite as well to exercise a little ingenuity in making them sightly as to invest money in more expensive ones. Quite pretty covers for ordinary flower-pots can be purchased; but equally handsome ones can be made at home without the expenditure of a single cent. These may be in various styles, from bits of rustic work made of roots and twigs, fastened together into proper shapes, and varnished to very tasteful contrivances, ornamented with appliqué work of an elaborate character. In a parlor, a fine plant of some kind placed in the centre of each window will have a charming effect. It may be placed in its ornamented pot on a shelf prepared for it, or perhaps, better still, upon a small stand made for the purpose, this stand being itself constructed with an eye to decorative effect. If something more elaborate is desired, a pyramid may be arranged, to consist of three or more plants, or the flowers may be arranged one above the other on each side of the window, or any one of the numerous contrivances that will suggest themselves to those who give the subject consideration may be adopted. A large number of plants may very advantageously be cultivated in boxes, and by this means every window in the parlor or sittingroom may be converted into a beautiful garden, which will require comparatively little attention to keep it in good condition. For the purposes of a window garden, almost any well-made wooden box will answer. Such a box it is an easy matter to decorate by covering it with strips of bark; and we have seen some which did not cost more than a few minutes' labor, and were really more picturesque and more truly ornamental than many of the costly affairs sold in the shops. In the same way, hanging-baskets made of wooden bread-bowls, and covered with bark or varnished twigs, will answer all practical purposes, and be sufficiently ornamental to satisfy the eyes of the most fastidious. The beauty of a hanging-basket ought to consist in its contents, and such a basket filled with flowering plants, ferns, and trailing vines, is one of the most beautiful objects that can possisibly be used for the decoration of a room. A wardian case is a glass box for the culture of ferns and other plants which require peculiarly delicate treatment. It is usual to have such a case mounted upon legs like those of a table, and furnished with casters, so that it can readily be moved about from place to place. Such a table without the glass case, and fitted with a movable zinc tray to contain earth or pots, may be used for the culture of ordinary plants, and will be found very convenient. As neat and inexpensive a window garden as any one need desire, consists of a light frame-work of walnut or pine, stained of a walnut color, and supported upon brackets. Within this the flower-pots may be placed, or it may be made to hold a tray filled with earth. Such a frame as this may be decorated with carvings or turnings, or it may be constructed of rustic work, or of plain pine wood, and ornamented with drapery. It is not within our province to give any directions for the cultivation of home plants, but we recommend that their culture be attempted, as well for the pleasure which attention to them will conconfer, as for their value as ornaments. Flowers in our homes are seldom as decorative as they ought to be, simply because they are not arranged properly; and we would advise our readers not to be satisfied with merely growing a variety of plants, but to exercise their artistic tastes in arranging them with a view to the production of picturesque effect in their rooms. Properly managed flowers and plants will give a vitality, an air of life and companionableness, to a room that nothing else will; and a tastefully-arranged window garden will give the last touch of elegance and artistic finish to the most expensively-furnished apartment, while the humblest parlor will gain from it that which wealth alone cannot purchase. In concluding these papers, the writer would state that no one can be more conscious of their imperfections than himself. They have been written in the intervals of other pressing occupations, and for a variety of reasons it has been necessary to treat the subject under consideration, to a certain extent, at least, in a superficial manner. Nothing more, therefore, has been attempted than to give a few hints as to the right way to go to work in making home attractive, and to lay down a few plain principles which will enable the home artist to make a fair start in the right direction. We are confident, however, that although much has been left unsaid that might have been said, those who are really anxious to have beautiful homes will be assisted by what has appeared in this and the preceding papers, even if the series has had no other effect than to start a train of thought in a certain direction. As we said at the beginning, the importance of home decoration cannot be overestimated, and it is not necessary for any one to shirk his or her responsibility in the matter on the score of expense, for under any circumstances, the ornamentation of a home depends far more on the exercise of good taste than it does upon the expenditure of money. TWO FAMOUS FRENCH ACTRESSES. ADRIENNE LECOUVREUR AND RACHEL. ADRIENNE LECOUVREUR, one of the most famous of French actresses, was a hat-maker's daughter, an amateur actress, then a strolling player. In 1717 she burst upon Paris, and in one month she enchanted the city by her acting in Monimia, Electra, and Bérénice, and had been named one of the king's company for the first parts in tragedy and comedy. Adrienne's magic lay in her natural simplicity. She spoke as the character she represented might be expected to speak. This natural style had been suggested by Molière, and had been attempted by Baron, but unsuccessfully. It was given to the silver-tongued Adrienne to subdue her audience by this exquisite simplicity of nature. The play-going world was enthusiastic. Whence did the new charmer come? She came from long training in the provinces, and was the glory of many a provincial city before; in 1717, she put her foot on the stage af the capital, and at the age of twenty-seven, began her brilliant but brief artistic career of thirteen years. Tracing her early life back, people found her a baby, true child of Paris. In her little-girlhood she saw Polyeucte at the playhouse close by her father's house. She immediately got up the tragedy, with other little actors and actresses. Madame la Présidente La Jay, hearing of the ability of the troupe, and of the excellence of Adrienne as Pauline at the rehearsals in a grocer's warehouse, lent the court-yard of her hotel in the Rue Garancière, where a stage was erected, and the tragedy acted, in presence of an audience which included members of the noblest families in France. All Paris was talking of the marvellous skill of the young company, but especially of Adrienne, when the association called the "Comédie Française," which had the exclusive right of acting the legitimate drama, arose in its spite, screamed “Privilege!" and got the company suppressed. The little Adrienne, however, devoted herself to the stage; and when she came to Paris, after long and earnest experience in the provinces, her new subjects hailed their new queen-queen of tragedy, that is to say; for when she took comedy by the hand, the muse bore with rather than smiled upon her; and, wanting sympathy, Adrienne felt none. Outside the stage her heart and soul were surrendered to the great soldier and utterly worthless fellow, Maurice de Saxe. He was the only man to whom she ever gave her heart; and he had given his to so many, there was little left for her worth the having. What little there was, was coveted by the Princess de Bouillon. Adrienne died while this aristocratic rival was flinging herself at the feet of the handsome Maréchal; and the wrathful popular voice, lamenting the loss of the dramatic queen, accused the princess of having poisoned the actress. Adrienne Lecouvreur (whose story has been twice told in French dramas, and once marvellously illustrated by the genius of Rachel,) before she made her exit from the world thought of the poor of her district, and left them several thousands of francs. The curé of St. Sulpice was told of the death and of the legacy. The good man took the money, and refused to allow the body to be buried in consecrated ground. Princes of the church went to her petits soupers, but they would neither say "rest her soul" nor sanction decent rest to her body; and yet charity had beautified the one, as talent and dignity had marked the other. The corpse of this exquisite actress (she was only forty when she died) was carried in a fiacre, accompanied by a faithful few, to a timber-yard in the Faubourg St.-Germain; a hired porter dug the shallow grave of the tragedy queen. * * * * * * * * Many years ago a curious scene used to occur nightly in summer time in the Champs Élysées. Before the seated public, beneath the trees, an oldish woman used to appear, with a slip of carpet on her arm, a fiddle beneath it, and a tin-cup hanging on her finger. She was closely followed by a slim, pale, dark, but fiery-eyed girl, whose thoughts seemed to be with some world far away. When the woman had spread the carpet, had placed the cup at one corner, and had scraped a few hideous notes on the fiddle, the pale darkeyed girl advanced on the carpet and recited passages from Racine and Corneille. With her beautiful head raised, with slight, rare, but most graceful action, with voice and emphasis in exact accord with her words, that pale-faced, inspired girl, enraptured her outof-door audience. After a time she was seen no more, and it was concluded that her own inward fire had utterly consumed her, and she was forgotten. By-and-by there descended on the deserted temple of tragedy a new queen bearing the name of Rachel. As the subdued and charmed public gazed and listened and sent up their incense of praise and their shout of adulation, memories of the palefaced girl who used to recite beneath the stars in the Champs Ely sées came upon them. Some, however, could see no resemblance. Others denied the possibility of identity between the abject servant of the muse in the open air, and the glorious, though pale-faced THE ART OF COOKERY. fiery-eyed queen of tragedy, occupying a throne which none could dispute with her. When half her brief, splendid, extravagant, and not blameless reign was over, Mdlle. Rachel_ gave a “house-warining" on the occasion of opening her new and gorgeously-furnished mansion in the Rue Troncin. During the evening the hostess disappeared, and the maître d'hôtel requested the crowded company in the great saloon so to arrange themselves as to leave space enough for Malle. Rachel to appear at the upper end of the room, as she was about to favor the company with the recital of some passages from Racine and Corneille. Thereupon entered an old woman with strip of carpet, fiddle, and tin pot, followed by the queen of tragedy, in the shabbiest of frocks, pale, thoughtful, inspired, and with a sad smile that was not altogether out of tune with her pale meditations; and then, the carpet being spread, the fiddle scraped, and the cup deposited, Rachel trod the carpet as if it were the stage, and recited two or three passages from the master-pieces of the French masters in dramatic poetry, and moved her audience according to her will, in sympathy and delight. When the hurricane of applause had passed, and while a murmuring of enjoyment seemed as its softer echo, Rachel stooped, picked up the old tin-cup, and going round with it to collect gratuities from the company, said, "Anciennement, c'était pour maman; à présent, c'est pour les pauvres." The Rachel career was of unsurpassable splendor. Before it declined in darkness and set in premature painful death, the now old queen of tragedy, Mdlle. Georges, met the sole heiress of the great inheritance, Mdlle. Rachel, on the field of the glory of both. Rachel was then at the best of her powers, at the highest tide of her triumphs. They appeared in the same piece, Barine's Iphigénie. Malle. Georges was Clytemnestre; Rachel played Ériphile. They stood in presence, like the old and the young wrestlers, gazing on each other. Then each struggled for the crown from the spectators, till, whether out of compliment, which is doubtful, or that she was really subdued by the weight, power, and majestic grandeur of Malle. Georges, Eriphile forgot to act, and seemed to be lost in admiration at the acting of the then very stout, but still beautiful, mother of the French stage. The younger rival, however, was the first to leave the arena. She acted in both hemispheres, led what is called a stormy life, was as eccentric as she was full of good impulses, and to the last she knew no more of the personages she acted than what she learned of them from the pieces in which they were represented. Rachel died utterly exhausted. The wear and tear of her professional life was aggravated by the want of repose, the restlessness and the riot of the tragedy queen at home. She was royally buried. In the foyer of the Théâtre Français Rachel and Mars, in marble, represent the Melpomene and Thalia of France. They are both dead and forgotten by the French public. THE ART OF COOKERY. BY PIERRE BLOT. NO. 7. BONED TURKEY. THE month of November is one of the most favored of the year for good food and a great variety of every kind of it. Amateurs of small birds should remember that the season for rice-birds, robins and other small birds ends with November. We think it proper to say a few words to the over-sensitive people who cry cruelty, wickedness, etc., whenever they see a dead robin or other small bird. In the first place, we do not think that out of a hundred there is one hunter that would kill a quail or a robin if he had it in his hands, but to shoot them at a distance is quite another thing. In the second place, if we were not killing large and small birds they would kill us, and in this way: They would become numerous enough to destroy and eat up all the grains and other crops, and destroy us through starving. In the west, prairie-chickens and quails have often been a nuisance to farmers, and here in the east and north robins are well known for their proclivities to destroy cherries, picking each cherry that comes within their reach, while hopping from branch to branch, causing thereby the juice of the fruit to run and become dry. An old lady of Flushing expressed herself in this way in speaking of robins: "When you see them hopping in the green grass they look very harmless and pretty, but they are very mischievous when in a cherry-tree in May or June. If they would only eat some and stop, it would not matter so much, but, as if mischief-bound, they go from branch to branch, and pick as many as they can." Even the pretty rice-birds, when argel flocks of them fall on a rice-field, are not as harmless as they seem to be. Turkeys, wild as well as tame, are in their prime in November, and we may say the same of almost all the feathered tribe-having had the benefit of ripe grains and what harvesters leave while gathering the crops. Birds, as well as quadrupeds, are fatter from October till snow or the hard frost comes, than at any other time of the year. BONED TURKEY.-All birds are boned in the same way, be they reed-birds or turkeys; but the larger the bird the easier it is for inexperienced persons. We will explain, therefore, to our readers how to bone a turkey, assuring them that the anatomy of one is the same as that of the other, and that it is not as difficult as it may appear at first. We may also assure them that when they can bone a turkey, easily they will be able to bone a quail or smaller bird just as well. All birds to bone must be picked dry-the skin of those that are scalded breaks too easily. Those sent to market for that purpose, 363 be they chickens or turkeys, have been kept without food before being killed at least twenty-four hours, their empty crops showing it easily. The proportions for a boned turkey are: A middle-sized turkey, one-and-a-half pounds of fat, salt pork; a smoked beef'stongue, or six boiled, fresh sheep's-tongues; two pounds sausagemeat; two pounds boiled ham; a quarter or half-pound of truffles, (if handy;) two pounds of shin-of-beef; four stalks of parsley--one of thyme; two cloves--one of garlic; one carrot in slices; a bayleaf; ten whole peppers, and salt. The tongue, salt-pork and ham are cut in square strips, about four inches long and half-an-inch thick. The process is, to singe the bird first; but do not draw it. Then cut the neck off about half-way between the head and the body; the wings are cut just above the second joint from the end, and the legs are cut off just above the joint nearest the feet. Split the skin from the rump all along the back to the place where the neck was cut, after which, by using a small, but sharp-pointed knife, the skin and flesh are detached from the carcass by running the point of the knife between the bones and flesh, going toward the breast-bone after having commenced on the back. The first thing you meet with is the wing, which you detach from the carcass by running the knife through the joint: it is easily done. The second thing you meet with is the leg, around the joint of which you run the knife, holding the bird fast on its side, you twist the leg gently, so as to dislocate it, then run the knife through the joint, and continue until you reach the breast-bone. You then turn the bird over and do the same for the other side; the duct leading from the crop to the gizzard is then cut off, also the gullet, which you remove with the crop; hold the bird then by the neck, having a towel in your hand to prevent it from sliding, and pull the meat off the breast-bone, being careful not to break the skin, and using the knife when wanted to separate the flesh from the bone until the breast-bone is entirely uncovered. The rest of the work may be made more easy and sure by putting the bird on its back on the table-the rump of it toward you. Then have the neck held fast or put a weight on it, pull the skin and flesh toward you, using the point of the knife to make it come off more easily, and run it between the end of the back-bone and the rump, in order to make the latter come off with the skin. When you have only the end of the entrails to cut off do not cut it, but cut the skin around what is called the ring, and which is placed immediately under the rump: thus proceeding, you have not touched anything unclean, and you have the carcass left whole and the flesh and skin in one piece. After that, you spread the boned bird on the table-the skin underneath. Remove the bones of the wings and legs, holding them by the broken joint, and scraping the flesh off all around. Have a coarse towel in your hand, and pull off the tendons at the lower end of the legs, after which you push wings and legs inside, so that you do not leave any hole in the skin. Then you again spread the bird on the table as before-the rump nearest to you. Spread a layer (about a quarter-of-an-inch thick) of sausage-meat, which you cover with pork, ham and tongue, alternating the slices, and, when the whole is covered, with another layer of sausage-meat. Cover the latter; then put another layer of strips, etc., until you have a bulk of them of the size of the carcass, so that when the slit-skin is brought together it will be perfectly full. Sew the slit with twine and a trussing-needle, commencing near the rump, and turning the skin of the neck on the back, and sewing it while sewing the sides, so that the end will be closed as well as the back. You then place on the inside of the bird, to close the opening under the rump, a slice of salt pork a little larger than the opening itself. Then have a strong towel before you across the table; place the bird on it so that the length of the bird will run on the width of the towel. Have fast on the table, and held by somebody, the end of the towel furthest from you, turn the end nearer to you over the bird, which you roll inside as tight as you can; then tie each end fast, in order that the bird be in as small a bulk as possible, though without spoiling it. Twist around the towel a strong string, so that the bird will be kept in a form like a large sausage; put it in an oblong pan or kettle, with all the bones of the carcass, legs and wings, broken in pieces, together with two pounds of shin-of-beef, (one pound for a chicken.) Season with the following, tied in a linen rag: Two cloves; one piece of garlic; a bayleaf; four stalks of parsley, one of thyme, and ten whole peppers; also with one carrot, in slices, and salt. The bird is then covered with cold water and taken off the pan, which you set on a good fire, and as soon as it boils, put the bird back into it. For a middlesized turkey boil for three hours. When put in the kettle the bird sinks to the bottom, but when cooked it partly rises above the liquor. The bird then is taken from the liquor, and the towel removed, after which it is enveloped as before, and placed on a dish; the back or sewed part of the bird underneath. A dish, a bakepan or a piece of board, is put over it, with a weight of some kind on it so as to flatten it on the dish, and it is left thus for eight or ten hours in a cool place. The towel is taken off after that length of time, the twine used to sew it is also pulled off, a small slice is cut out at both ends, and the bird put back on the dish, ready to serve. A boned bird is generally served with meat-jelly, made with beefbroth, or with the liquor in which the bird has been cooked, after being strained and the fat skimmed off it. The subject will be continued in future numbers. I THINK it is the most beautiful and humane thing in the world so to mingle gravity with pleasure that the one may not sink into melancholy and the other rise up into wantonness.-Pliny. THE baby should never be allowed to sleep in the bed between the parents. Several good objections must occur to every one; I need name but one. It must, when thus placed, constantly inhale the poisonous emanations from the bodies of the two adults. It should sleep in a crib by the side of its mother's bed. The best bed at all seasons of the year is one of oat-straw. The straw should be changed and the tick washed as often as once in two weeks. This gives little trouble, and involves little or no expense, while the perfect cleanliness and sweetness contribute not a little to the baby's health. During the cold season a woolen blanket should be spread over the straw bed to increase the warmth. For covering of the little sleeper, woolen blankets should be used, and all these blankets should be frequently washed. DOES HE KICK OFF THE BED-CLOTHES? Then fasten them on the sides of the crib with tapes or little knobs. The little chap may then kick ever so obstinately, he can't uncover himself. THE PILLOWS SHOULD BE STRAW! I forgot to speak of this in connection with the bed. The proximate, if not the original, cause of a large proportion of deaths among American babies is some malady of the brain. When we suppose the death to result from dysentery or cholera infantum, the immediate cause of the death is an affection of the brain supervening upon the bowel disease. The heads of American babies are, for the most part, little furnaces! What mischief must come from keeping them buried twenty hours out of every twentyfour in feather pillows! It makes me shiver to think of the number of deaths among these precious little ones which I have myself seen, where I had no doubt that cool straw pillows would have saved them. The hair pillow is inferior to straw, because it cannot, like straw, be made perfectly clean and fresh by a frequent change. Do not fail to keep their little heads cool. THE COMMON BABY CAP. This covering for the baby's head has been mostly abandoned. I am glad of it. It certainly increases the heat of the head, and if worn during the day, it must likewise be worn at night, which increases the perspiration about its head and neck, and thus increases its susceptibility to colds and other kindred affections. Besides, the hair, which is nature's covering, grows better when no artificial covering is used. During the greatest heat of summer, the child may often be laid on the naked canvas generally found stretched across the bottom of the crib. And if the baby's head be allowed to rest on the same canvas, which may be raised a little for that purpose by a joint in the frame on which the canvas is nailed, it will be found a great luxury. The canvas, with a fresh sheet and a soft flannel night-gown, make a perfect sleeping arrangement for the hottest nights. And what a luxury it is, if you can afford the space, to have two cribs, so as to change from one to the other during the hot season. A change of the straw pillow on which the little body lies, and likewise of that which supports the head, will do very well without a change of cribs, if the crib be entirely open at the sides. And this, I must say, is very desirable, giving, as it does, an opportunity for a perfect ventilation of every part of the bed. I suppose it is unnecessary to condemn the practice of putting a veil over the baby's face, to keep away the flies. It has at length been abandoned. I have seen a baby put down in the bottom of a box in July, and then, down in there, its little face covered with a thick green veil to keep the flies away. It does keep the flies away, true enough, but at the same time it keeps away the fresh air. The number of little ones killed by over-heated and unventilated nurseries in this country annually is frightful. God alone can number them. THE New York Herald of September 13, 1873, gives an account of the sale of a number of cows and calves of the "Improved Short-Horn Breed," at York Mills, near Utica, N. Y. One cow sold for $40,600; a heifer calf less than seven months old sold for $27,000; a cow a little over three years old sold for $30,000; a heifer calf less than fifteen months old sold for $19,000. Fifteen cows and calves sold for $260,000. It makes me dizzy to try to imagine what would be the result of the same study and care devoted to the development of a better breed of men. Within a hundred years this world would be redeemed, and the ministering spirits might turn their attention to some other planet. ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS. BY THE EDITOR. [Only questions of general interest, and of a nature fitted for public reply, will receive the attention of the Editor.] AN INQUIRER.-I think there can be no doubt that our people are becoming larger, healthier, and longer lived. I believe, next to our general prosperity and success, the climate has most to do in developing this gradual improvement. MRS. A M., WORCESTER.-It is the opinon of many medical men that sleeping with the head toward the north alleviates nervousness and favors sound sleep. I do not certainly know that it is so, but I have known several cases in which there appeared strong confirmation of the theory; and, indeed, I have experienced a considerable addition to my ability to enjoy an entire night of undisturbed sleep by changing the head of my bed from the east to the north. I need not give the philosophy, or what is supposed to be the philosophy, of this theory, as I suppose it is generally known; but if it were at all convenient, I should always have the head of my bed toward the north. RENSHAW.-Your question reminds me of the old story of the little Dutchman who "set up for a doctor" in New Orleans, and it involves so much of an important law in health as well as disease, that I repeat it. It seems that a small Dutchman had been engaged in the lager beer profession, but had failed. He cast about for a new occupation. The yellow fever had just appeared, and it occurred to him that it might pay to "set up for a doctor." There was no time for books, and so he resolved to study at the bedside of the sick, keeping a little memorandum. His first case was a Dutchman who had the fever pretty badly, but longed for sauer krout. The doctor prescribed sauer krout. The Dutchman got well. The doctor wrote in his little memorandum, "Sauer krout will cure a Dutchman of yellow fever." His next case of yellow fever was a FrenchSauer krout was prescribed. The Frenchman took on the black vomit at once and died. The doctor added after his first record, "but will kill a Frenchman." man. |