PERCY H. VAN DYKE, PublliMr «tid EAlUf.
NEWrORT. - * ARKANSAS.
THE RIVER SPIRIT.
The mighty river spirit
Lay in the hush of death;
The frost-king long had bound him.
But he only held his breath.
When the air blew soft around him
One jubilant March day.
And the nymphs of spring low whispered
While the robin piped his lay.
The mighty river spirit
Awoke from his deathlike dream;
He heard the wakening murmur
Of the silver-hearted stream.
Calling, o'er bank and meadow,
Ail day in the golden sun:
"Awaken, thou lazy giant! ^
Let tlie sea and the strojyfos be one!”
fo he snapped the ley^ Ptters,
And he shouted, "J Hu be free!
P _irr ..Again shall white sail carry
tlfcSWP^My io\ e to the foajikc|ad sea!”
SLrhi.!
The earth and the sounding waters,
Prom the rill to the mocking main.
f§
Then the mighty river spirit
Went forth in his power and pride,
To the bridal of bright, glad waters
Out on the ocean wide.
And white sails sped to the meeting
In days of the golden sun.
When lee was a dream of winter
And the streams and the sea were one.
—Julia May Williamson, In Boston, Bud
get.
/Wore Wayc t
Than
/ . it?” he in
terrupted, in a voice of exaggerated
l. surprise.
“When I was younger, then,” she
laughed, "if that is any better.”
“I think it is—much.”
“Well, then, when I was younger
“Before I knew you?”
“Long before. In fact, when 1 was
quite a child.”
“A very nice small child, I’m sure,”
he murmured, with a sigh.
“That shows it was before you
knew me,” she laughed again. "I was
the very worst small child you could
possibly imagine.”
"I can’t possibly imagine that.”
“If 1 had been a little angel—”
“I should never have met you.”
“Oh, you might.”
“Thank you. Hut I’m afraid not.
Little angels don’t stop on earth.”
Their glances met; her eyes caught
a twinkle from his, and they laughed
together.
“What were we saying?”
“I was saying." Ju^vamb^led i
i "Holt, ye ari anu.-fu" TTJ t thSv: 1
should come^Tiid escort you and your
mother to the Koval academy this
afternoon, and now when 1 call
and. as 1 pointed out, it isn’t every
day that 1 can leave my military du
ties at the war office tc look after
themselves—your mother is lying
down with an attack of neuralgia,
and has asked you to postpone going
till to-morrow—”
“Oh, yes! And then you said she
was perverse, provoking, capricious,
and all sorts of things, and I said I
believed she was, and 1 took after
1. O
II' I
“And 1 said you wore mistaken in
that.”
“So I was going to tell you an an
ecdote of myself to prove that 1 was
not mistaken, only you kept inter
rupting me.”
“Please let me have tli<> rest of the
£ anecdote, anil I'll try not to inter
im rupt again I'll try hard."
V 11c was young; what was more, he
was decidedly good-looking; what
was more still, his manners were en
gaging and persuasive, and his dry,
gently ironical tricks of speech gave
his*«.irv nothings a pleasant piquan
cy, all of which must have prepos
sessed her in his favor even hail no
subtler sentiment inclined her toward
him.
"Well, when I was a small child,”
she yielded to his entreaty, "l was
dreadfully willful, and had the most
shocking temper—”
"You must have lost it before 1
met you.”
"And I' remember one day 1 was
out with my nurse, and, being in one
of my wickedest moods, l insisted on
doing everything she told me not to
do. For instance, 1 would keep run
ning races with (.'hurley—dear old
Charley—"
"Oh, why wasn't 1 Charley?"
"He was only a dog.”
"Ah, but you didn’t treat him like
one.”
“You promised not to—”
“1 apologize. Not another word!”
kept running races with Charley,
and nurse kept telling me not to;
she said 1 wus overheating myself
and should catch cold, and that, rac
ing in the middle of the roail, I should
lac run over and killed; but 1 took no
notice. The more she warned me
and ordered me to walk quietly with
her, the more disobedient 1 was, and
at last, all of a sudden, she managed
to catch hold of me and slapped me
angrily—”
“No—no! ' .
“Slapped me so hard that 1 cried.’
“This is heartrending!”
He leaned back in his chair and re
garded her with pensive sympathy.
• i won’t tell you any more,” sin
said, smiling, “if you are going to bi
silly about it."
"Tell me the rest,” he implored
“anil I will be wise.”
"It happeneu that our dear ok
vicar was coming up the road
"Dear old chap!” he murmured ub
■cntlj'. “Why wasn’t 1 the vicarl”
“He saw nurse slap me, and when
he reached us he stopped and spoke
to her, and patted me on the head
and told me not to cry. Of course,
1 cried more than ever—”
“Naturally—you would!”
“It made, him fancy I was hurt,
and lie lectured nurse quite severely
on the sinfulness of letting her an
gry passions rise. lie told her she
ought, to be patient with me and win
my affection, and govern me by kind
ness, not by force. 11 made me feel
good to listen to him, and 1 know it
made me think what a bad woman
nurse really was.”
“She hadn’t a word to say for her
self?”
“On the contrary, she said a great
deal. She said I was willful and pas
sionate, and everything that was con
tradictory and unmanageable, and
there was only one way of dealing
with me, and that was by punishing
me and making me do as I was told.”
“The dear old vicar didn’t admit
that, I hope?”
“lie was angry with her. He said
there were more ways than one in
which I could be managed. lie said
I was high-spirited and self-willed
and obstinate—”
“Wliat a dear old friend!”
“He told her 1 was one of those
who could not Vie driven, but I could
very easily lie led, and all that was
necessary was a little tact."
“I hope it, did the nurse good?”
“Only for a few minutes. As soon
as we turned a bend of the road, and
were out of his sight, she shook her
finger at me, and said she didn't care
for the vicar, he was an old donkey,
and the next time I disobeyed Ivor
she would make me remember it.”
“Wliat did you say to that?”
“Nothing; but I ran away with
Charley at once.”
“I knew you would.”
“I suppose I am naturally perverse.
It is always the same if anybody is
anxious that I should do anything, 1
I V « I (I lllll 111 111 | III JMII. V, «1W| I »»'*
ami if anybody does not want, me to
do it, then somehow 1 don't want to
do anything' else. It was this feeling
that made me run off with Charley
almost before the nurse had finished
speaking.”
‘‘Did she punish you again?”
“She couldn’t catch me.”
“I guessed as much. Who can?”
lie gazed at her meaningly, with a
wry shake of the. head, and she
blushed and laughed, as understand
ing him.
"1 ought to know,” he sighed.
“Now you are going to be silly
again.’'
“No; I’ve given it up. I’ve been
silly twice, but I am trying to be
sensible now.”
"You find if difficult?”
“It's not so easy as being silly. I
suppose it never is, for anyone, llut
I’ve got to persevere—I've got to
make the best of my miserable lot
somehow, you know.”
"So very unhappy, is it?”
“At present -yes. Hut 1 daresay I
shall get used to it. When one has
been living in the tropics, and is
banished to the North Pole, he feels
at first, like perishing in the cold;
but in time be becomes so thoroughly
acclimatized that if ever he were al
lowed to return he would certainly
die of a sunstroke.”
“And are you thinking of going to
the North Pole?”
“I am there already,” he said. “I
have been there for some weeks, and
am beginning to g'ct, reconciled to
the climate. I am making up my
mind to marry and settle down there,
and try to forget how happy 1 used
to be before l was an exile. You have
heard, no doubt?”
"Heard what?”
“These things generally get about
fast enough. I made sure you would
have heard.”
“Perhaps l nave. \\ non you ten
me what you are referring to—”
“1 thought l had. To my marriage,
of course.”
She gave him a quick, startled look,
but said nothing.
“You had heard?”
“No.”
Her speech and manner had under
gone a sudden curious constraint;
when she spoke, her voice bad swell
a far-off, alien sound, she could
scarcely believe it was her own.
“Well, now you have, you don't eon
gratulate me.”
‘‘1 do. Of course 1 do.”
“Thanks I had hoped -”
“That 1 wouldn’t? Why shouldn't
I congratulate you, as much as any
one else, on your happiness?”
“because 1 am not happy.”
“Not? Then why are you—”
“For that very reason—because 1
am not happy. How can 1 be happ\
while T am always in suspense, ant
hoping after the impossible? If 1
definitely cut myself off from that
happiness, and my last hope of it
1 may be able to settle down inti
some sort of resigned peacefulness
you see. 1 can't hope for more that
that now. There was a time when
hoped —but you know what?”
She remained silent, clasping am
unclasping her hands on her lap in ;
dreamy bewilderment.
“When 1 first told you that I love<
you, Nctta,”- all trace of gnyety am
indifference seemed to have fallei
from him, and left him pathctieall;
ennobled by an intense earnestness
“and you laughed at me and seat m
away—”
“1- 1 did not laugh at you—”
She fired resentfully, though th
tears she was keeping back wer
stinging her eyelids.
“When you sent me away,” he eon
tinned, sorrowfully, “I thought in,
heart was broken. I didn’t want t
live; 1 felt that the whole world wa
empty without you. For days an
days 1 was unspeakably wretehet
and then—”
She bit her lip and kept her eye
turned from him, angry with hersel
for being taken unawares and ovei
come by lii.s unexpected news, nnc j
touched by the pathos of his confos
sion.
“Then I began to hope again,” he
went on, “and by and by 1 fooled my
self into fancying you had changed,
anil one day 1 came to you as I had
come before. . . . And you sent me
away as you had sent me before. 11
I came to you again in the same way
I feel that, in the same way, you
would only send me away again; sc
what am 1 to do?”
She did not answer him.
“I thought to myself, I must die out
of my old life and begin a new one.
When you're past hope, the wisest
thing is to give up hoping; then
you’re past despair. Once i might
have been happy; now I shall have to
be satisfied if 1 am not miserable. I
can never leave off loving you, Netta,
but I shall not make injseif a “ixtir—
sauce to you—”
“You have -you have never made
yourself a—”
Her voice fluttered in her throat,
and she discreetly let it die there,
sooner than it should falter and die
on her lips, and so betray her heart
to him.
“You will forget me, no doubt, but
I shall remember you always.” He
glanced toward her. She was not
looking at him, but an indefinable
something in her subdued expression,
in her very attitude, thrilled him
through with an ecstatic conscious
ness and assurance that brought him
instantly to his feet wdth a tremulous
cry of “Netta!”
She rose, startled, made a confused
little movement, as if she would have
evaded him and escaped from his
sight before her self-restraint was
broken down altogether.
Hut wnc nr» Pennna f llPTV
He caught, her impulsively in his arms
and drew her, after a faint, futile
resistance, close and closer to him.
“Only tell me I have misunderstood
you,” he pleaded; “I have been too
impatient—”
“No; it is too late,” she faltered,
ashamed of her strange weakness and
clasping her hands over her face to
hide it from him, since she could not
free herself from his detaining em
brace.
“Jt isn't too late, Netta,” he in
sisted, drawing her head down on his
breast so that her face was hidden
there. “I love you more than ever,
and if you love me only ever so lit
tle, how can it be too late?”
“How can you tell—her—”
“1 have told her!” he laughed, ex
citedly: “if you are not angry with
me, she won’t be. If you love me,
she will love me. If you will marry
me—”
Netta waited.
“I shall marry her!”
And in a flash she saw through his
deceit.
“Don't look up, dear,” he said, keep
ing one arm resolutely about her,
and laying a hand lightly on the cur
ly brown head against his breast.
“I am ashamed of myself for such
trickery. Hut l had no idea of behav
ing so meanly when I came this aft
ernoon. 1 had not planned it at all.
It really was not my fault.”
“Do you mean it was mine?”
He was not sure from her voice
whether she was laughing or crying.
“No, no—not yours. It was all
through the dear old vicar. It was en
tirely his fault. While you were tell
ing me his notion that you could be
led but not driven, and what he said
about more ways than one, it struck
me suddenly that 1 had tried one way
twice, and I wondered whether it was
any good trying again, and trying a
different way. . . . Will you forgive
me, Netta, and let’s blame the dear
old vicar? . . . Don’t look up, dear,
till you can forgive me—1 don't want
to see you looking angry with me,
now.”
Hut she did look up, at last, and she
didn’t look angry; for though there
were tears in her eyes, there was a
wistful light shining through them
that made them sweeter and happier
than any laughter.—Black and White.
A Realist.
The lecturer on dramatic art, in
his wanderings over the country, was
stranded one night in a small west
ern town. Being detained by a snow
storm and low funds, he decided to
give his lecture, in the town hall.
llis audience consisted of six school
girls in the front seat and one lank
young man at the rear of the hall,
The lecture was enlivened by many
quotations, which were stolidly re
eeived until, with a finger out
stretched toward a dimly burning
kerosene lamp, the lecturer cried
“Oanst see yon light?”
lie was about to proceed with his
recitation when the young man a
the rear rose from his seat.
“I can see it by squintin’,” lu
called, cheerfully, “and l can smel
1 it without movc'n half trying! Win
. don’t you blow it out?”—Youth’i
1 Companion.
1 -
Witty Scotch Dante.
1 An old woman was recently sum
i liionetl as a witness before a court ii
Scotland, and after she was swor
I the judge, noticing that she spoke i
1 a very low tone, politely requestei
i her to raise her veil so that sli
- might be heard better. Her repl
was that she could not raise it cor
; veniently and that she could not rt
move it altogether without takin
off her hat. Thereupon the judge pc
> litely suggested that she take he
i hat off, but she answered that sh
would not do so, and that there wn
no law which could compel her t
,- uncover her head,
i At this the judge became angr
s and remarked; “My good wornai
1 since you know the law' so well, yo
, ought to come up here and take yor
seat beside me."
s “Oh, no,” was her reply; “tliei
f are quite enough old women on til
- ' bench already.”
i -t
THE “MONITOR” A\D THE “WeRRIMAC.”
Find Cni»t. John Ericsson.
In August. 1861, the navy department at Washington advertised for plans
and offers for the construction of ironclad steam batteries. Among those
answering this advertisement was (apt. John Ericsson who proposed to
build the vessel afterwards named the “Monitor.” The keel tor the vessel
was laid in a Brooklyn shipyard in October of the same year, and she was
launched on January 30. 1862. She was turned over to the government on
February 25, and nine days later left for Hampton Hoads to dispute the
question <>f supremacy with the formidable “Merrimac, which had on March
8 dcstroved the greater part of the union fleetly that point. J he novel
craft arrived at Hampton Hoads on the ui&iW MarA 8. and the following
morning engaged the “Merrimac” in a*rfea battle that clumped the naval ar
chitecture of the world, and dispHJ^d the hopes of the confederates.
PITH AND POINT.
The next time you complain of being
overworked, think of the time you
waste.—Atchison Globe.
“He’s publishing a paper now, I
hear.” “Yes; it's the official organ of
the dental profession.” “Ah! sort of a
mouth-orgaji, eh?” — Philadelphia
Press.
The Critics.—Ifla—“They say it was
a case of love at tirst^sight with him.
May—“What a pity he wasn’t a medium
and could have taken a second sight!
—Chicago Daily News.
Adolphus (penitently)—“So sorry,
dearest, that l was angry with you
yesterday evening, and lost my tem
per.” Olivia—“Pray don’t mention it,
Dolly. It wasn’t a very good one, and
Pin sure you can easily find a better.’
•—Punch.
His Apology.—Bill—“Do you know
you owe me $10?” .Jill—“O, yes, 1 re
member, 1 borrowed it a month ago.”
"That’s what you did.” “I owe you an
apology.” “I should say you did.
“Here’s 25 cents.” “What’s that for?”
“That's an apology for $10.”—N. ^ .
Telegram.
Burton—“What sort of a man is
Bjohnson, anyway?” Barton—“Well,
Bjohnson is the sort of man who, if
he should come to your house on a
visit and see that your parlor clock
was slow, would calmly compare it
with his watch and set it exactly
right.”—Somerville ((Mass.) Journal.
Very Obliging.—Silas Hopkins (in
the city)—“Mandy, these here city fel
lers is mighty kind and polite.” Mandy
Hopkins—“How do you know, Silas?
Silas Hopkins’—“I wanted ter git a
fifty dollar bill changed on-' a nice
young feller said he’d get it for me,
and he's goin’ ter bring ther change
to ther hotel.”—Detroit Free Press.
LEAPS INTO THE PEERAGE.
Trick* Ivln>cil l»j tlie I.nw of Sncce*
*ic« Ur lit tv Title* Sever
Expected.
To retire at night just an ordinary
citizen, a poor man, and to rise in
tlie morning with a noble title or two
and perhaps vast acres, with castles
and wealth, is an experience possi
ble only to a British subject. The
law of succession regarding the no
bility sometimes plays strange tricks
of this kind, not only in fiction but
in real life, says the Chicago Tribune.
Cncxpeeted leaps from obscurity
to the perage, from poverty to great
wealth, are not uncommon in Eng
land. Many such instances have
been recorded in recent years, the
elevations in some eases going to
persons who did not even know they
were in the line of succession for a
title.
The present duke of Hamilton, by
a sequence of accidents, found him
self transformed seven years ago
from an unknown lieutenant to the
* premier peership of Scotland, with
three ducal titles and as many mar
quisates, to say nothing of earldoms
and baronies sufficient to equip half
a dozen average peers.
How slight was the prospect of
Lieut. Alfred Douglas-Hamilton ever
j succeeding to the family honors may
b< gathered from the fact that, al
though he is the thirteenth duke of
y Hamilton, lie derives his descent
fiom a third son of the fourth duke.
' who was born in the faraway seven
’ teeuth century, and that all his in
^ termediate ancestors were younger
sons. How many lives might in the
\ ordinary course have come between
the young lieutenant and the duke
dom it is impossible to estimate; but,
as it was said in sporting parlance
^ at the time of liis accession, the odds
’’ were thousands to one against his
11 ever wearing the strawberry leaves.
r By a similar series of accidents the
present duke of Portland succeeded
l! to the fitly awealth of the Hen
* tineks. The''turn of a third son, who
41
i
■
in turn was a third son of the third
duke, there seemed as much elianee
of the young subaltern of the guards
ever being the head of his family as
of his becoming emperor of China.
The fourth duke alone had four sons,
all of whom were considerate enough
not to marry; and the third duke
was also blessed with four sons, who
were sufficiently amiable to make the
way clear for the lucky young sol
dier.
When Master William Grey first
opened his eyes in Newfoundland SO
years ago his: prospects of a coronet
would have been considered dear at
half a crown, for his father was but
the third son of the third son of an
earl of Stamford, and there were
many lives between him and rank
and fortune. His father was a poor
clergyman, and the future earl had
to face many vicissitudes of fortune
before he was suddenly exalted from
the position of a London diocesan
reader to be earl of Stamford and
Baron Grey of Groby.
Probably no one was more sur
prised than the late earl of Caithness,
when he realized that he was heir to
his distant cousin, the fifteenth earl.
As a young man there had been so
many lives between him and the title
that he would have laughed at the
suggestion that one day he would
wear an earl’s coronet, and he made
himself quite happy as a bank agent
in Scotland, while his son, the earl
of to-day, tended his farm and herd
ed his sheep in the states.
There was equally little chance of
Augustus Arthur Perceval ever quali
Tying xor a seal in inc nouse oi umis,
for his father, a poor army officer,
v.as a second son of the fifth son o
the second Baron Aden, who himself
was not within measurable distance
of the earldom of Egrnont.
There are few more dramatic
stories in the peerage than this of
the elevation of the hall porter of
Chelsea town hall to the rank of
earl, viscount, and baron by a series
of accidents only less remarkable
than the hard blows that Fortune
l ad dealt him before she revolution
ized his life in this startling fashion.
A still more dramatic story is told
of one of flic earls of Huntingdon,
who before liis elevation to tlie earl
dom was an obscure barrack master
in Ireland. One day he chanced to he
looking through some old corre
spondence of his grandfather, a man
of a position as humble as his own
when he saw a reference to a possi
ble claim to tlie extinct earldom of
Huntingdon. Following up that clew
the barrack master discovered that
he was really heir to the title, and
after a long struggle succeeded in
getting liis claim admitted and in
taking liis seat in ttie house of lords.
The history of the Bellew family il
lustrates the strange vicissitudes by
which a title may fall to a seemingly
impossible person. At one time there
were no fewer than ten lives between
tlie present holder and the title, and
yet within the short space of two
years every one of these intermediate
lives was removed, four heirs perish
ing together through the upsetting
of a boat in a squall.
Dokm Ate H1h I.niich.
Bev. E. G. I’esk.an English misionary
who lias spent much time among tlie
Eskimos, tells an-amusingstory of how
he built a church and how he lost it.
When his flock reached sufficient size
he had a church built. It was 18 feet
long by# 12 wide and was made of seal
skins stretched over light framework
the whole banked with snow. It had
been in existence but a short time when
the dogs discovered that it was edible
They scratched the snow away and be
tween two Sundays ate the church™
at least its covering—up. — ( hicag*
Chronicle.
The Great Trouble.
The trouble with these observing
people is, they are liable to talk abou
their observations.—Atchison Globe.
1 DIGESTIBILITY OF CHEESE. j
Moat Be Ready to Melt In the Month
Before It la Ready to
Be Eaten.
Delicate stomachs always find cheese
an artmle of diet not easily disposed of.
his is due to the fat contained in th«
eheese; this forms an impervious coat
resists the action of the di
gestwo iuiCes on the casein, if it does
not p««it their access entirely, M*
the Washington Star. Cheese must be
reduced Vo a state of fine division first
m the mouth hy thorough mastication
aiid not sv.a\\owed in lumps. Unless
cheese is rich enough to melt like but
ter in the mouth,Hseldom enters the
stomach in suitnhto torn, for proper
digestion. Dry hard ehW j,^
easily pulverized than the sVt and
liable t„ elude ,he .
fore more readily di&posed ^
it reaches the stomach. Itaui eke "
should, however, be graUAhcin^>e
eaten, and the softer kinds ,(.TV.(
better purpose when they fnedW,,;,^
and mixed with other forma ot toed
The practice of serving hard, tl- '
crackers or wafers with the
savory cheeses lias a better reasoi\\h%n
custom to recommend it, as the cmV.
er crumbs assist in breaking |u> tod
separating the cheese so that it is not,
rn-oll, ncnd ‘ i > %» "" "HFil i
m v win j;h v. l- lmirjJS.
rvts cheese undergoes the ripening
process a small percentage of fatty !
acids is produced, and these are irritat
ing to weak stomachs. Some writers
recommend the addition of a small ji
amount of an alkali in the solution of j
tlie cheese to neutralize these and ren- j
iler them less harmful. When these |
cheeses are eaten with vegetable salads !
they ought to be digested without dif- j
ficulty. The difficulty of digesting fl
cheese occurs only in the stomach; S
safely through this stage, it is ab- J
sorbed as easily and completely as \
meat. The mode of cooking cheese, •
known as fondu, is one that is exceed
ingly savory and nutritious. It is of
the naftire oi ‘U and contains
milk and eggs in edmblnvtion. The
dish is cheap, convenient and '»*Uoj£
some and used very extensively abroad.
WAYS OF THE WORLD.
TJi« Lack of Mrntul Stimulus la ttia
lauie of Many Ilodily
Ills.
A great many so-called illnesses are
probably the result of boredom—that
is, the lack of some mental stimulus
sufficiently strong to overcome the fre
quent disquieting symptoms to which
humanity is heir and which undoubted
ly can often be converted into bona
fide ailments by mental suggestion.
This is certainly true of three-fourths
of milady’s indispositions, says the
New York Tribune, which disappear
as if by magic under the skillful and
tactful treatment of a physieian_wbo— —■—
combines a knowledge of the world
with the skill of an Aesculapius.
“Even a counter irritunt is better
than a constant dwelling on the one
idea,” said the family doctor. “As an
illustration, 1 had a patient who was
convinced that her lungs were affected
and that she would die of consumption.
When I first examined her there was
nothing wrong, but she actually devel
oped alarming symptoms., simply, 1 do
believe, by dwelling on them and fos
tering them; and 1 think she really
would have gone into a decline if, as
luck would have it, she had not caught
the measles, and when she was cured
of the latter the lung trouble was
gone.”
“(live your daughter a very smart ,'A
walking costume, and tell her how be
coming it is.” said another physician
with the wisdom of the serpent, “and
make up some theater parties for her;
she needs exercise and amusement;
that is what is the matter with her.”
“That must he wonderfully good air
at Palm Beach,” said a husband whose
wife was on the verge of nervous pros
tration and had been sent south to re
cover. “Mary writes me she has not
had an ill moment since she got there.”
“Poor man,” said his auditor to her
self as she smiled sympathetically.
“He does not know, and I dare say his
wife does not know either, that it was
pure boredom that ailed her. Xow that
she is amused she is all right.” ,
Vent I'n^rnkf,
Mix six tabIe<r>.«onfuls of flour
with a pinch of salt, the yolks of six
eggs, a wine glass of brandy and
enough water to make a thick batter,
mixing thoroughly. Take a minced
calf’s kidney, which has been lightly
fried in butter, season with pepper
and salt, and stir it into tins batijir^*
Whisk the whites of the eggs and stir
them into the batter with two table
spoonfuls of cream, a teaspoonful of
minced parsley and the juice of a
lemon. Stir all well together and
pour about a teacupful into boiling
fat and fry lightly. When done,
drain and hold over them a redhot
salamander. Place them upon a dish
nnd put them into a hot oven until
they rise high, then send to the table
with a boat of rich, thick gravy.—
Brooklyn Eagle.
Pauley Butter.
Put three tab 'spoonfuls of butter
into a bowl and beat to a-cream;
whip in slowly half a tablespoonful ^
of strained lemon juice and a table- (
spoonful of finely minced parsley.
Flavor to taste with salt and pepper.
Beat until thick and creamy and set
on ice a few minutes, unless it is to
be served with broiled or boiled fish.
In this case add a full t.ablespoonf«*J
of lemon juice.—Washington Star. '
Cutskill Preserve*.
An old-fashioned preserve Is mada
of maple sugar and plums. Melt the
sugar in a little water and cook with
the plums, allowing pound for pound.
This gives a delightful tart sweet
ness.—X. Y. Herald.