M
=3
pofirti.
ONE lilt ONE.
One by one the Rands aro flowing,
One by one the moments fall ;
Some are coming Boole 1111) going,
Do not strive to grasp thorn all.
One by, one thy 'litties wait thee,
Let thy whole strength go to each.
Let no future dreams elate thee,
Learn thou flrsi Ivlent, these atn tetteh,
Ono by ono (brigbt gifts from Itemion,)
Joys are Bunt time noro below ;
Take them readily when
Ready, too, t) lot thou go.
One by out thy griefs shall meet thee,
Do not fear an armed band;
Ono will fade as others greet thee,
Shadows passing thrOuih the land.
Do not look long sorrow ;
See how small cachmoniont's pain;
GOd will help thou for to-morrow,
Every day begin again.
Every hour that floets so slowly,
11 . 1106 task to do or Lear;
Luminous the crown, and holy,
if though set each gom with care
Do not linger with rogrotting,
Or for passion hours despond;
Nor the daily toll forgetting,
Look too eagerly beyond.
'flours are goldenklinks God's token,
Reaching Heaven; but one by one,
Take them lost the chain be broken
Ere the Pilgrimage bo done.
%glut Taft,
MOTHER'S COOKING
By MRS. CAUOLINE A. BOULE
The countenance of Mrs. Lawrence wore a
somewhat roubled expression, as she seated
herself nt the dinner table, and the shadOw
deepened as she passed the plate of bread to
her husband. It was not quite done. In the
centre of each slice was a small spot, not lar
ger than a half dollar, but still a spot that
wets not baked through. It was not raw
dough, but a little just a little 'soggy." Not
every one would have noticed it, not every
one would have troubled themselves
_to say
anything about it, and not every wife would
have cared whether or nit her husband did
it. But Mrs. Lawrence knew 'Harry'
• ..he knew ho would remark
notice
would notice It ;
upon it, and she knew those remarks wet.tu
rankle in her sensitive heart. Hence her aux-
ious look
It was as she expected. As Mr. — Lawrence
laid the slice be had just taken beside his
plate, ho exclaimed iu rather a querulous
tone—
'Heavy bread again, ns lam alive! It does
seem to me as though we might once in a
while have some that was light and fit to eat
It is enough to scare a man's appetite, let
him be e%er so hungry, to have such stuff as
that set before him.'
'The bread is not so heavy my dear,' said
his wife, mildly. 'lt is very light, and with
the exception of a small spot, baked nicely
I set the 'omptyings' . myself, and wet the
dough, lest my new girl should spoil it,
and bad I not been called out of the kitchen
to receive company, I should have tended the
baking. As it was, she drew it from the oven
&few moments too soon. But it is nice, light
bread, and as Bridget said good-naturedly,
when I pointed out the fault, 'the master may
out out the damp spot,.and I'll eat it myself."
'But, Mary, almost every time you bake,
something is the matter, and I can't see why
it should be so.'
, Don't, pray, make me out so bad a house
keeper as all that,' said his wife pleasantly,
though a close observer might have noticed
a tiny tear nestling in the corner of her hope
ful eye;—'don't, pray. It is not oftener than
once a month that anything happens to either•
broad, cake or pie. But us they say, 'acci
dents will happen in the best of families, so
there will, onoo in a while, failures happen to
the best of cooks. I never knew any one yet
bUt had, once in a while, bad luck.'
•Bad luck,' responded her husband, rather
oontemptuously,—'that phrase ought to be
banished from the kitchen department. My
mother'—and the blessed name was empha
sised powerfully-'my mother has cooked
these forty years, and more, and never had
bad luck. I toll you, Mary, you should out
some of her bread, once. It makes my mouth
water to think of it. I shall never again eat
such victuals as she used to cook.'. •
- This was the point which Mrs. Lawrence
dreaded. She had heard so much about
'mother's cooking,' during the two years of
her wedded life, that the slightest allusion to
it made her nervous. She could boar to be
fretted at if everything was not quite to the
tests; she could endure to remain shut up
La the close kiteheo, morning after morning,
though she know other young wives, mates of
bar girlish years, were prominading the pleas
ant, streets, because she loved her htisband
!rut; and tenderly, ,and it was a pleasure to
minister to his.rather saint ,palato, while to
be fretted at sometimes, she knew. was a part
of every woman's experience;. and ono she
must have to bear with a smiling face, though
the heart ached ever so sorely.
She could even have borne to be called
careless, extravagant, wasteful, though she
knew the adjectives would have been tnisap
because iu all those things she oodld
have proved to her hushatid - she was daily
antending but to be.-ventured _because she
•did not cook like his mother, was mot than
she coal& bear patiently. It was a 11, poless
• casetfor no wife ever did cook like - a man's
:mother, and for good reason, too. Mothers
' haviag the hearty appetites- of little growing
boys_to_deaLsvitli, while the poor wife has the
fastidious tastes of a mattlyed tnon, and may-'
hap. too, otie who law to eat.
She did not reply at once to her laisband.
She could not, indeed, - fur there WaS a chok
ing sub struggling in, her throat. But with
woman-like heroism she swallowed it whole,
and then said pleasantly—
I know, Batty,. your mother is a paragon .
of a cook. for all mothers are, and I. should
like dearly to eat some of her nice viotuals.—
I do wish,' and her voice assumed an manes
tone, 1 dp wish you w uld take me to see her
and let me serve an, apprenticeship.with her.
I assure you I would . willingly cook us she
does, if I only knew her way, and then it is
too bad,. too ; here we have 'been married al-
Most two years, and I have never seen ono of
your relations. Puma, let'e give up going to
New York this fall, and'.go outin the coutry
to your father's—won't you
Mt. Lawrence did no ttriraWer at once. He
was, in truth a liCie`ashrimed of the' only rea
son which had so long deterred him from in
troducing his wife to the paternal Ip.mestend.
She was a City born and city bread woman,
hail' been nurtured in affluence, and always
mingled in fashienable society ; and he did
hate to have her see the contrast between his
lowly home and countryfied relations. and-hei
stately.residenee and genteel friends. it was
a reason to be ashamed of and lie knew - it, fur
not holier were the associations that clustered
around the city home, nay, not as holy were
they as those which clung to that low, brown
home, with its mossy caves, its archion elms,
its rippling spring, broad sweep of meadow,
and its dint old forest so like a picture with
its lights and shades. •
And well too did he know that in all that
makes true men and women, in sterlin . , Integ
rity, in fixedness of puipose, in warmth and
devotion of heart, the aged parents
had left years before under'thatliumble rottf, ,
would stand to say the least side by side with
those had claimed the young affections of his
wife
Yes Mr. Lawrence was ashamed of the only
reason that had deterred him so long from
introducing to his parents the gentle one
whom their only sou had chosen for his life
companion, and so though he put her oil with
an excuse at dinner, yet afterwards when
they sat together on the sofa, enjoying the
half hours chat which he always allows him
self, hu assented to her wish, and that day
week was decided upon as the one which
should present Mary to his friends, and as
laughingly said, present to her some of her
mother's victuals.
will write them to-day. They have a
mail on Thursday, and if they do . , not receive
it then, why-Saturday's will carry it, and as
they are always at church, they can get it
Sunday. We must always make some allow•
once for country mails. But if they got it to
Sunday, there will be time enough ore Tues
day noon, for a'deal of cooking ; and l till you
Mary, such a chicken pie as you'll see in the
centre of mother's table—'
•You havu't eat since you were a boy,' in
terrupted she pleasantly. 'O, I'm so glad
that you're going. I shall make me a new
check apron this very afternoon, for I mean
to be in ,, the kitchen or pantry all the time
You'll never tall of mother's victuals after
this visit.'
'Only to say this tastes like her's, and that
will be praise enough, 1 surpose,' said the
young husband, now all good nature, kissed
the soft beautiful cheek presented, and went
on his way,.feuling for the time, quite satin
fled with his dorling.wife, although her vic
tuals did not taste to him like those of his
boyhood's board. •
The next Tuesday morning fiund Mr. and
Mrs. Lawrence on their way to the olden
home of the husband. Four hours' ride in
an express train left them within ten miles of
the place. A carriage was hired at once, and
they proceeded.
As they entered it Mr. Lawrence observed
gaily, 'Our horses, poor as they look, can
easily carry us there , by tioon—we shall be in
good season for the Woken pie r
'And shall, doubtless do juetioo to it,' reit
pondod the wife. 'I hope it will be wide and
deep.'
'Never fear—l know them of old,' said he
tad giving, the word to the driver, they were
off. and after passing many a rich and pleas
ult field, and now and then under the shad
ows of patches of woodland, they turned
bout noon, into what seemed a long' grassy
gsa i ll6aa q):trs3lo,o.
lane. A beautiful light played in the hus•
band's eye as they rolled along, and he whis
pered softly as though he feared to break the
holy, spell i 'this is -the homestead_ road, I've
played omits sunny banks many nn hour with
the only..biother ii even ever gave me; and
al .ng this we passed when we carried him to
his little grave. 0, it is lined with autumn
' flowers, but, thicker arelthe,ipting time mem- ,
ories that cluster here,' and be turned his
head and wiped away a tear.
A,MOILICrIt after they drew up,before a lit
tae low-toofed house, J brown find mossy, but
neat and 'elieeittil,"viiilt iidtiastm tie Of 'cling
ing vines banging all
_about,. Anil a garden
path radiant with blossoms, but to the sur
prise of Mrs. Lawrence, no ono came to . the
to to me
ga.
tet them, nor did any one. scorn its
waiting on the threshold.
A shadow passed over the love lit brow of
her husband, and as he assisted her to alight
he said pettishly, 'my letter must.have , ,flitcd
—urbat a nuisance are these country
Bat we shall find them at; for mother.
never goetnnyarhere,' and drawing his wife's
arm within his own ho led het' up the grassy.
puthivay. Just as . they reached the steps,
the door was opened and a little old-fashioned
woman, dressed in 'short gown and petticoat'
advanced to meet them.
Ere Mrs Lawrence had time to conjecture
who it might be, the wrinkled hand was clasp
ed by her husband, while the words 'My
mother, my dear mother,'—'My son, Harry,
Harry, my dear bOy, 'is it you ?' revealed to
her in whose presence she now found her
self.
'And is this your wife,' Enid the old lady,
turning to her kindly and taking her to her
bosom as she would a long absent daughter.
'You are welcome child., God bless you and
spare you to him these many a year, for I
know by looks you have Made him happy in
deed. , .:Come in children, come in,' and she
ushered thein into a cheerful kitchen and was
soon busy in assisting them to rid themselves
of the Mist that had gathered upon their
c'othes and in carying off outer garments to
her nice spare room.
•But why in the world,, Harry,' said she,
when they' were , comfortably.. seated, 'didn't
you let us know that you were comiug, that
I might have fis_ed up a little, and had some•
thing good for your dinner. You'll have to
take farmer's fair now—its pot lutrk to- !ay.,
'lf its
. only some of mother's cooking
it will do; I know,' said the young wife ; 'for
Harry has talked ^" - •
your victuals at mearly
every meortsince I've knot him. And I've
come on now, itht only to aeo;iou, '.bvit
have you tetteh l me your ways that I may
make him love mo all the more. You wi'l
show me, won't you now mothei*
'That I will child,' said the old lady kindly,
her heart wort, completely by the gentle ways
of her new daughter. 'But if harry thinks
my cooking will taste as it used to do, ho will
be mistaken, I guess. Now that he's lived so
long in the city, and fed on its dainty fair,
mother's homely meals won't relish well.'
'Yes they will, mother,' said her son, em
phatically. 'And I want while I am here
uow, you should cook just as you used to; I
want the old fashioned taste.'
'Well, 1,11 try and suit you, my boy, but go
now and find father; he's somewhere about
the farm, and be spry, too, for dinner will
soon be ready,' and she bustled about to com
plete her preparations.
Mrs. Lawrence watched her intently. Thu
cloth was soon laid, any neatly,too,'but iti
the same style which had been prevailent
when the now aged woman came a blooming
bride to her home. The linnen was hiltless
white, tut it was home made, and not as
fine-even as that which her son used for his
servant. The dishes were free from dint and
'fairly shone.' but they were common!blue
edged white ware, such us her son used mere•
ly for baking upon, while the cutlery, though
polished with labor, was of such an nue - 61'1°-
1y shmlie that it seemed to the observer Eh o
could' Hover handle it, and she looked in vain
for silver.
But when the old lady prepared to dish up
her dinner, she watched her closer than ever,
and a michievous smile lurked in the dimples
that nestled so cosily on her soft cheeks,—
Would Harry, could Harry relish now such
victuals as those ? A huge platter was brought
up from the buttery to the broad old hearth,
and then the iron cover removed from a pot of
ample dimensions. First the old lady took
from it a piebe of salt pork all dripping wi h
fat;
. then followed a mass of boiled cibbago ;
beets. ruddy and so pliant); carrots, golden 'as
sunshine, and potatues bursting from their
brown skins as though' in a .basto to be eaten'
and all like the moat dripping with grease,
Mrs. Lawrence expected, of course, each
would be placed on a separate dish, the water
pressed frOm the cabbage and it moulded into
a comely form, the beets and carrots-sliced
and seasoned, and the skins removed from the
potatoes: Nit not so. Proudly as though it
were, the dish of "four and twenty blackbirds,"
and 'fit to set before a king,' tho good mother
carried it to tho table and depositing it in the
centre, said pleasantly—
'There Is a real old fashioned diuuor, and I
hope it will taste to harry as it used to' and
she turned and went again to the buttery to
fill out the unoccupied spaeo. There was a large
plate of bread, which her daughter thought.
must be some . of that rye bread of which she
had an often heard her husband speak in such
high terms, for it was certainly different from
any bread she had-over seen, then there were
Pickles and apple saOce, and some late cumuli
hers sliced in vinegar with onions, and stewed
pears, and sage cheese and doughnuts, and
lastly fresh from the cellar, a ball of sweet.
golden butter,
havn't it bit of pie or pudding in the
house,' said the good mother, 'but I only
yesterday fried up a great pan of doughnuts,
Fin . dreadful glad on't now, for Harry,
Wheii-he-was -a-boy_use_d_to_say be could eat
half a peed any time.
'Harry's wife compared the musses of fried
dough, each one as large na a farmer's fist
and as brown, 'with the delicate, fairy like
crullers she had been wont to set before him
at tea, and wondered mentally, if Harry, now
that the was a man, would not prefer. a half
peck of hers. But she said nothing, about
the dinner we mean, and waited patiently till
he should return, to see how he could manage
to dispose' of the hearty and bountiful meal.
He dame in shortly — and with him the dear
old father, his wrinkled face merry with
smiles. Very tenderly.did he draw the gentle,
young wife to his heart, and . fervent and
solemn was the blessing he invoked on her
head. 'You've come to an humble home, but
you're welcome; child, and glad, indeed, we
are to see you. But come, yliu mute be hungry,
I know; yit by and take a farmer's fare. Are
the men culled, wife?'
'They are here,' and as she spoke there was
heard the stamping of heavy bouts, and soon
the splashing of water in the shed, and in a
few momenta the three hired men entered,
dividing their glances between the beautiful
young wife and the Smoking platter. Without
any ceremony they all drew their chairs to the
table.
IVhen all was still, the aged father reverent
ly bowed his head and asked a blessing upon
the food of-which they were now to partake,
and then returned thanks tofleaveathat once
again their first bora had bees permitted to
return to their lowly home. Tears were
s.reaming down his cheeks: as he concluded,
and so. solemnly and impressively had he
spoken that for a few moments, iths. Law
rence lnnked unon the table with a feeling of
awe! Its contents seemed all to have been
sitiitified. Bat the r apidl was broketrlwhe?l,
after her father in,law had sliced up:the him°,
piece of pork, ho said, pleasantly—
• Come, now, all help
• yourselves, country
fashiuti," and `she saw the hired men thrust
their ungainly forks into the dish and take
thence a portion of each and everything, and
thou added to the miscellaneous mass a spoon
ful of apple-sauce, another of cucumber and
onion, a stewed pear, a pickle and a piece of
cheese. Could she possibly swallow such a
mingled mass? She tried it and filled her
plate as did the others, wandering to herself
what her husband wouldtio, being iu his own
home always so partiotr about a change of
plate. Aud there was a merry twinklmg in
her bright blue eye, when, instead of helping
himself at, all, he said to his mother—
, I 1 you will give we a bowl of milk, it will
be all I want this noon—l can never eat pork
when I have the headache.'
•Does your head ache badly?' asked his wife,
mischievously, scarcely able to refrain from
laughing outright at this, his first get off from
mother's cooking
•Not very,' said ho, abut I am afraid it will,
and so shall keep on the safe side.'
By this time his mother had brought him
the milk, and it was a sight to gladden the
heart of a citizen, so pure, so sweet, and with
such thick, golden cream.
'This Is nice,' said ho, as he swallowed
about a spoonful; 'now I shall feast,' and he
reached for the bread, but his wife, who was
very attentive to his looks saw the happy ex
pression pass off, as ha slowly crumbled the
slice he had just taken.
am dreadful sorry,'-said his mother, pas
sing the plate to her daughter, 'dreadful sorry
about my bread. But 1 bad the worst of luck
with it; the 'ettiptyings took e'enmost all day
to come up, and thou I forgot the dough and
it stood till it soured a little, and the oven
somehow wasn't first rate. • Husband had a
mind that I should give it to the pigs, but I
said that it was hotter than none, but its most
gone now, and I'll try and have better to-
morrow.'
`Then you'do have bid luck once in a while
mother,' anid the younger Mrs. Lawrence.
'flurry thought you never did.'
'Harry has forgotten., Yes, I believe every
body dues, votnotituea.'
Harry's wife wondeied it he remembered
tolling her many times that tbeie was tut 0X•
Ouse fur poor bread.— But she forgave him all
the pain he had caused her by such remarks,
asids() saw with what wry facts he swallowed
the stale, sour rye bread.
•Wouldn't you sooner have a doUghnut?'
asked his mother, shorty, passing him tho dish
as she spoke. .They are the real old-fashion°
kinl.'
'I am going to get mother's recipe•for them,'
said the young wife, with seeming earnest
ness; 'they have a substantial look about them
which strikes my fancy.'
' But Harry declined taking any, saying thal'
he would confine himeolf for timt meal to
bread and milk,—tnilk, 6e ahould have acid,
for the bread he left mostly in the bottom of
the bowl. •
'I am so sorry I havn't a piece of pie for
you,' said the good mother, as they rose from
the table, 'you ain't eat enough to keep a
chicken alive.'
'Yes, I have,' slid her son, gaily, 'it was
all good, first rate, only a little too heavy for
a man with the headache. Come, Mar' ut
on yoty sunbonnet, and we'll be off to father's
orehard—there's a dessert there to feast thp.7,,i)..
veriest epicure.'
•I guess your hentlnehe is bettor," said
Nlnry, very demurely, ns her litfithind threw
aside the twelfth peach pit, 'how you do eat.'
•Eat,' said he, 'why, I'm almost starved
Such a greasy pig's
. mess as we had when I
expected a chicken pie—it turns my stomach
now to thinks of it.'
!But it. was mother's cooking.' , Mary felt
the roving, but she was a prudent woman, and
felt the time was not yet come.
About four o'clock in the afternoon, the
good mother, having knit to the middle of the
seam-needle, carefully rolled up the thick
blue woolen sock, and replenishing the fire
in the store, set about making preparations
for supper
Does Harry love custard pies as well as
ever?' said she to Harry's wife, as she tied on
tier baking a ron.
•Yes,.iroleed, lie does—there is no pie of
which he is fonder.'
'Then I will make some for tea ' •
'Let Inc see you—do, mother, said Mary,
following her into the buttery; I want to learn
all your ways.' And she carefully watched
the process. But she could not help mentally
drawing n comparison between her own cus
tards, with their rich puff paste, their sweet
ening of refined loaf sugar, and flavoring of
rose, vanilla or lemon, with the substantial
_looking ones the mother prepared l with the
crust of rye , flour wet up with butter milk,
maple sugar for sweetening, and allspice f
seasoning, and she could not help wondering
how - Marry could_ prefer them to hers, ani in
her heart she didn't believe he would. But
-•^re they were made and set in
AU ,La a* i LAS Hr. - ,
the oven, and_ then the-good mutber said sue
would nmko some cream- biscuits These
Mary said it was no use for her to look at, as
she never should have any cream to use, and
so she ran out into the fields to meet her hus
band and to gladden his appetite with the fact
that he was to sup on custard pie and cream
buiscu it. '
'Cream biscuit,' said he; 'well I am glad of
that, for I wanted you to eat biscuit that is
biscuit. You will hardly dare to offer me your
soda ones again. Do you remember how
streaked they were the last tim ?'
`Yes, indeed do I, and the 'nifty cry I had
over them. I wonder if any one else ever
had such troubles in cooking as I.'
'No need of such troubles,' said ho, with
that oracular look which husbands always as-
sume when discoursing of household affairs.
'A woman who has the happiness of: her
family at stake, will never place upon the
table a dish that is not properly cooked.' Ho
hul forgotten his .mothePs poor bread; but
Mary was generous yet, and did not remind
him' of it. She thought of the custard pie tint'
triumphed at heart.
She fancied as she entered the Lewitt, that
her mother's countenance wore s troubled
look, and sought an explanatior.. With tears
in her eyes the old lady bewailed a failure in
her biscuits; they were not streaked with,
saleratus, but green all through. '1 must have .
made a mistake, and put in two spoeufulls in
stead of one. lam so sorry.'
flurry worried down half a biscuit and three
mouthfuls of pie, and then asking for a by
of milk, ho sliced up some peaches in it, att
made as he said, 'a luscious meal.'
'l've brought you a hat full of eggs, mother,'
said he, as he came from the barn about half
an hour after supper, 'and I want as many its
I can oat cooked for my breakfas•. Fresh
eggs are a luxury we seldom enjoy in the city.
I want some fried and some boiled.'
When be went out to breakfast ho found hit
mother had cooked 'a lot of them'—but how?
In the centre of the table stood a huge, deel
platter, fijlod almost to the brim with Elides
fat pork, swimming in gravy, the sight o•
which would have siokened a Jew, and scat•
t ered all through 'the •mess' wore a goodl;
poition of the fresh eggs ho had desired b
eat. Diary remembered' once cooking, whet
her girl was absent, a dish of ham and egg('
and sending it to the table in the old-fashions
way--hate, eggs and gravy altogether, set
she wondered if Harry would lecture his mo
they as he bad her for 'such a greasy dish.'—
But lie simply declined any of the fried ones '
and saying he was hungry for boiled ones,
bowl full of Which Stood by him. .Now Mar
CONTINUED ON ENTENTE PEON.
10