"And what comes next?" "A little town, And a towering hill again; More hills and valleys, up and down, And a river now and then." "And what comes next?" "A lonely moor Without a beaten way; And gray clouds sailing slow before "And then?" "Dark rocks and yellow sand, And a moaning sea beside." "And then?" "More sea, more sea, more land, And rivers deep and wide." "And then?" "O, rock and mount and vale, Rivers and fields and men, Over and over-a weary tale And round to your home again." "And is that all? Have you told the best?" "No, neither the best nor the end, On summer eves, away in the west, You will see a stair ascend, "Built of all colors of lovely stones, A stair up into the sky, Where no one is weary, and no one moans, Or wants to be laid by." "I will go." "But the steps are very steep; If you would climb up there, You must lie at the foot as still as sleep, A very step of the stair."-George Macdonald. "NOT TO THYSELF ALONE." Editor of GOOD HOUSEKEEPING: I notice in GOOD HOUSEKEEPING of September 28 "Inquisitive" of Lancaster, Pa., makes an inquiry concerning a poem concluding with the lines, "Live to thy neighbor, live unto thy God, Not to thyself alone." This having been a favorite poem of mine in my school-days, I have copied it from my "Fifth Reader," and will forward it with this, hoping not only to gratify the inquirer but others also of your readers who are interested in the selections of "Fugitive" poems published from time to time in your magazine. As the authors' names are attached to nearly all the selections contained in the reader, the author of this poem I judge to be unknown, no name being given. Several years ago I cut from a newspaper a little poem, intending to transfer it to a scrap-book, but lent it to a neighbor for the entertainment of a child, and have never seen the poem since. The rhyme, which I thought cute, purported to represent the ineffectual attempts of the wind to "blow out" the moon. I have the impression that it was written by “ Susan Coolidge,” but may be mistaken. Any reader familiar with the lines, who will bring them to my notice through the column of "Home Correspondence," will confer a favor upon an INQUIRING TROJAN. TROY, N. Y. The little opening flower transported cries; The butterfly within my cup doth hide "Not to myself alone," The circling star with honest pride doth boast; "Not to myself alone I rise and set; I write upon night's coronal of jet His power and skill who formed our myriad host; That man might ne'er forget, in every fate, DEATH OF "CATHERINE OWEN." While the last pages of this issue of GOOD HOUSEKEEPING are being put to press, a telegram comes to the Editor, with the sad announcement of the death of Mrs. Helen A. Nitsch (Catherine Owen), at her home in Plainfield, New Jersey, on Tuesday, October 29. Our readers who have so much enjoyed her writings in these pages, and have benefited by them, will read this announcement with regret and sorrow and await with interest a tribute to her memory, in GOOD HOUSEKEEPING, where her contributions on household subjects first appeared and where her best papers have had place. PEOPLE THAT ENTER WITHOUT KNOCKING. Save us from the neighbor who thinks herself intimate enough to be privileged to enter our house without knocking. You can never forsee when she will be down upon you. Do you stand before your mirror, razor in hand, in shirt sleeves, with face covered with lather? Then it is that she glanced in with a smirk "Just to say good-morning," and ruffles your temper, and demolishes your sense of dignity. Is your wife without a cook or maid, and is she in the kitchen flushed, and perspiring, and untidy, getting up a hasty meal? The intimate neighbor is dead sure to rush in unannounced and when you beg her to step into the sittingroom, coolly passes you, and surprises the mistress of the house over the hot stove. Then to see the wretched efforts the latter makes to appear at ease, and to make the vulgar visitor feel that it is delightful for one to be surprised with her hands in dishwater and a soot spot on her cheek, is enough to give one the lock-jaw. And as for the miserable man who tried in vain to stop the lady in the parlor-his actions in the privacy of the bed-chamber are those of a wild and desperate creature. Is there no remedy for this most intolerable of all small nuisances?—Texas Siftings. A PAGE OF FUGITIVE VERSE. ON THE SOUTH COAST. Hills and valleys where April rallies his radiant squadron of flowers and birds, Steep strange beaches and lustrous reaches of fluctuant sea that the land engirds, Fields and downs that the sunrise crowns with life diviner than lives in words, Day by day of resurgent May salute the sun with sublime acclaim, Change and brighten with hours that lighten and darken, girdled with cloud or flame; Earth's fair face in alternate grace beams, blooms, and lowers, and is yet the same. Twice each day the divine sea's play makes glad with glory that comes and goes Field and street that her waves keep sweet, when past the bounds of their old repose, Fast and fierce in renewed reverse, the foam-flecked estuary ebbs and flows. Broad and bold through the stays of old staked fast with trunks of the wildwood tree, Up from shoreward, impelled far forward, by marsh and meadow, by lawn and lea, Inland still at her own wild will swells, rolls, and revels the surging sea. Strong as time, and as faith sublime,-clothed round with shadows of hopes and fears, tears, Nights and morrows, and joys and sorrows, alive with passion of prayers and Aisle and nave that the whelming wave of time has whelmed not or touched or neared, Arch and vault without stain or fault, by hands of craftsmen we know not reared, Time beheld them, and time was quelled; and change passed by them as one that feared. Time that flies as a dream, and dies as dreams that die with the sleep they feed, Here alone in a garb of stone incarnate stands as a god indeed, Stern and fair, and of strength to bear all burdens mortal to man's frail seed. Men and years are as leaves or tears that storm or sorrow is fain to shed: Still the sun that beheld begun the work wrought here of unwearied hands Statelier still as the years fulfil their count, subserving her sacred state, Keen and far as the final star on souls that seek not for charms or signs; Yet more bright is the love-shown light of men's hands lighted in songs or shrines. Love and trust that the grave's deep dust can soil not, neither may fear put out, Witness yet that their record set stands fast, though years be as hosts in rout, Spent and slain; but the signs remain that beat back darkness and cast forth doubt. Men that wrought by the grace of thought and toil things goodlier than praise dare trace. Fair as all that the world may call most fair, save only the sea's own face, Shrines or songs that the world's change wrongs not, live by grace of their own gift's grace. Dead, their names that the night reclaims alive, their works that the day relumes Sink and stand, as in stone and sand engraven: none may behold their tombs: Nights and days shall record their praise while here this flower of their grafting blooms. Flower more fair than the sun-thrilled air bids laugh and lighten and wax and rise. Fruit more bright than the fervent light sustains with strength from the kindled skies, Flower and fruit that the deathless root of man's love rears though the man's name dies. Stately stands it, the work of hands unknown of: statelier, afar and near, Rise around it the heights that bound our landward gaze from the seaboard here; Downs that swerve and aspire, in curve and change of heights that the dawn holds dear. Dawn falls fair on the gray walls there confronting dawn, on the low green lea, Lone and sweet as for fairies' feet held sacred, silent and strange and free, Wild and wet with its rills; but yet more fair falls dawn on the fairer sea. Eastward, round by the high green bound of hills that fold the remote fields in, Strive and shine on the low sea-line fleet waves and beams when the days begin; Westward glow, when the days burn low, the sun that yields and the stars that win. Rose-red eve on the seas that heave sinks fair as dawn when the first ray peers; Winds are glancing from sunbright Lancing to Shoreham, crowned with the grace of years; Shoreham, clad with the sunset, glad and grave with glory that death reveres. Death, more proud than the kings' heads bowed before him, stronger than all things, bows Here his head: as if death were dead, and kingship plucked from his crownless brows, Life hath here such a face of cheer as change appals not and time avows. Skies fulfilled with the sundown, stilled and splendid,-spread as a flower that spreads, Pave with rarer device and fairer than heaven's the luminous oyster-beds, Grass-embanked, and in square plots ranked, inlaid with gems that the sundown sheds. Squares more bright and with lovelier light than heaven that kindled it shines with shine Warm and soft as the dome aloft, but heavenlier yet than the sun's own shrine: Heaven is high, but the water-sky lit here seems deeper and more divine. Flowers on flowers, that the whole world's bowers may show not, here may the sunset show, Lightly graven in the waters paven w th ghostly gold by the clouds aglow: Rosy gray, or as fiery spray full-plumed, or greener than emerald, gleams Dreams that show what we fain would know, and know not save by the grace of sleep, Sleep whose hands have removed the bands that eyes long waking and fain to weep Feel fast bound on them-light around them strange, and darkness above them steep. Yet no vision that heals division of love from love, and renews awhile Life and breath in the lips where death has quenched the spirit of speech and smile, Shews on earth, or in heaven's mid mirth, where no fears enter or doubts defile, Aught more fair than the radiant air and water here by the twilight wed, There, when day is at hight of sway, men's eyes who stand, as we oft have stood, High where towers with its world of flowers the golden spinny that flanks the wood, See before and around them shore and seaboard glad as their gifts are good. Higher and higher to the north aspire the green smooth-swelling unending downs; East and west on the brave earth's breast glow girdle-jewels of gleaming towns; Southward shining, the lands declining subside in peace that the sea's light crowns. Westward wide in its fruitful pride the plain lies lordly with plenteous grace; Fair as dawn's when the fields and lawns desire her, glitters the glad land's face: Eastward yet is the sole sign set of elder days and a lordlier race. Down beneath us afar, where seethe in wilder weather the tides aflow, Hurled up hither and drawn down thither in quest of rest that they may not know, Still as dew on a flower the blue broad stream now sleeps in the fields below. Mild and bland in the fair green land it smiles, and takes to its heart the sky; Scarce the meads and the fens, the reeds and grasses, still as they stand or lie, Wear the palm of a statelier calm than rests on waters that pass them by. Yet shall these, when the winds and seas of equal days and coequal nights Lift their heart up, and take their part of triumph, swollen and strong with rage, Rage elate with desire and great with pride that tempest and storm assuage; So their chime in the ear of time has rung from age to rekindled age. Fair and dear is the land's face here, and fair man's work as a man's may be: Dear and fair as the sunbright air is here the record that speaks him free; Free by birth of a sacred earth, and regent ever of all the sea. Algernon Charles Swinburne in the English Illustrated Magazine. VOLUME IO A FORTNIGHTLY JOURNAL. Conducted in the Interests of the Higher Life of the Household. Title Copyright 1884. Contents Copyright 1889. SPRINGFIELD, MASS., NOVEMBER 23, 1889. WHOLE No. 119. Original in GOOD HOUSEKEEPING. OUR NATIONAL FEAST DAY. AN OLD-FASHIONED THANKSGIVING DINNER, "I have some rights of memory in this kingdom, beef each roasted to a turn. The chicken-pie big enough to last all winter. Yellow chickens boiled too tender for anything. Fresh pork-the "chine"-brown and juicy. Often a tiny pig roasted entire with his little legs tucked under him, tail curled up, and an ear of yellow corn in his mouth, convulses the children. Vegetables of all kinds: mashed potato and turnip; onions with cream dressing; squash; carrots boiled whole; beets cut in thin slices with a dressing of butter, salt, pepper and a little vinegar. Cranberry sauce, quince preserves, currant jelly. Bread, wheat and rye, with fresh, sweet butter. Coffee and tea; rich cream; a conicalshaped loaf of sugar, with shears to cut it. A generous help from all these viands heaps the large plate to overflowing. The short winter's day begins to wane ere the rice pudding filled with plums is brought from the side-table where, with four kinds of pie and the frosted loaf of Thanksgiving cake, they seem to have cast answering glances to those of the children so lovingly given from time to time. There is the cranberry-tart, with its particular fascination, produced by the gay color crossed by narrow strips of paste; and the yellow pumpkin, delicate apple, rich and toothsome mince. UR COUSIN HORACE will come for us to-morrow-perhaps good fortune will bring him to-night. To be sure the late storm-very apt to come just before Thanksgiving-has carried away the little bridge across the river, but that simply means a still longer ride over the sparkling snow, made gay by the bright moon, the keen, frosty air, the merry sleighbells,-six miles lengthened to eight by the kindness of the Storm King. How glad we are over the very thought of being on hand the night before to witness the plucking of the chickens-the fat four-pounders for boiling and stewing and the poor little unfortunates of the late summer hatching, which, Everything lends to the perfection of this day. We may like the "four-and-twenty blackbirds," are doomed to a pie, to well say, "We would rather go without the best that has ever fold their poor little wings at rest under a puff-paste blanket. come to us to know of than never to have known anything Cannibals that we are, this thought is something more than about it "-the real Thanksgiving Day of our grandmother's restful to our childish fancy. We dodge for a sly peep into the time. It is said "some men do indeed suggest their cooks "buttery," where rows of shelves are laden with the product of and their tailors in a certain way they have of regarding and many hours' preparation and labor. We taste beforehand, in speaking of life." It is certain those people who were fortuimagination, the golden custards, the rosy jellies, the number- nate enough to experience all this lavishness of the ancient less kinds of pie. We sniff the odor of Thanksgiving cake Thanksgiving must have attained a freedom and large-heartredolent with spices and flavors innumerable--oh, delicious! edness very suggestive of the fact. We are not disappointed, for once. Here we are, safe and sound, so muffled we can scarcely walk or breathe. The little square foot-stove, which does duty at church as well as upon sleigh-rides, is brought in and deposited safely to be ready for future use; somebody may be ill to-morrow evening or next day-who knows?-and will need its friendly warmth and comfort. Here is the very small piece of soapstone, no larger than my lady's prayer-book; heated hot it has served to keep one's fingers warm. To have this pleasure as a child, keenly alive to the romance attached to the environment produced by a great, open fire in a large, old-fashioned fire-place, wax candles everywhere, cousins of all ages and sizes to chat and frolic with, while the elders and betters are having their good time in the "front room;" to be allowed that much coveted privilege of sitting up a "little longer"-this is a "looking backward" in very truth, a strong reality to many a man and woman of to-day. There is nothing like an open fire to lend enchantment to every nook and corner of a room. The mystic influence of the flicker and sheen of firelight dancing upon the wall, the glow of the ruddy ember, each have a warmth and brightness incomparable. Faces and scenes touched with this glow have a radiance which the lapse of years can not dim. The "youngsters" are finally tucked up in bed, elders follow suit, the fire dies down and the calm of Thanksgiving eve has settled upon the house. The hours speed away and the day is upon us, so full of pleasure and delight. All but the mother go to church, and the heated brick oven silently but surely does its work. The dinner-hour arrives. Cousin Horace takes his place, gay, delightful, hospitable man that he is; he bids us welcome. All draw near. Oysters, the first and only "course" and a rarity in those days, tasting as no other oysters can ever taste again, are disposed of quickly amid great chattering and laughing. Everything is arranged upon the table. The turkey and If everything moves in a circle in the progress of the world it is not compatible with our present environment to make one hundred pies at a time, ten loaves of cake, or load the table with such an abundance of richness. Enjoyment rests upon memory for those who have lived it, upon description for those who have not. As a dissolving view it fades gently from sight. What is this fair picture slowly rising to view? The modern Thanksgiving! The delicate cooking held intact, divided, subdivided and surrounded by the wondrous setting of the growth of skill with which this nineteenth century is teeming, a negative ready to produce a scene even more delightrui, enhanced by all that genius, intelligence and the rapid communication with all parts of the great world bring to us. The magnificent dining-room! The china, glass and silver of the grandmother stand bright and shining upon the ancient sideboard laden also with the choice productions of modern art, each delightfully attractive in the way of richness and beauty. Indian reds abound subdued and glowing by the soft light of wax candles held in sconces duplicating their beauteous light. The fire upon the wide and ample hearth is of summer drift-wood, a mimic rainbow of flame. The rug, the skin of a Nubian lion, stretched before it, and couches low beside it, invite to ease. Portières, screens, pictures upon the walls, statues in quiet corners, rich bric-à-brac, all are here lending brightness and vividness. No cold, dreary, stately dining-room as you often see. Warmth, gay color and comfort always follow the mistress of the feast. Draw nigh to the table, a work of art in itself, covered with snowy linen, the very cloth woven by the great-grandmother having been carefully treasured. For the center a large, low basket of maiden-hair fern and Maréchal Niel roses. Tall, straight, plain Venetian glass vases are filled with pink and cardinal carnations, their long stems adding grace to beauty. Wreaths of smilax deftly fastened to the cloth encircle the table, leaving ample room for each plate, beside which lie gay roses. Low, fanciful dishes of silver, glass and china contain bon-bons, olives, tiny pickles and salted almonds. A rare old cut-glass dish has, resting upon its bosom, a red rose of cranberry jelly, in imitation a very "Jack" gleaming bright from surrounding green. The oysters are ready to be served, accompanied by bread cut in scallops and toasted a delicate brown. This course is followed by the grand turk placed before the head of the household. Swarthy as a Moor of the Desert he looks to be as he lies in state, but he seems covered with a young snow storm. Surrounded by delicate green leaves of celery, with here and there a white rose of the same, fringed and crisp, we can scarcely see the handsome platter upon which he reposes. Upon a veritable bed of parsley, just see those elegant California pears! How strange to have them for dinner! But no, they are potato croquettes! What is this looking like gold eagles? Carrots in cream, delicious! How nice the turnip looks mashed so finely and molded so prettily in that green dish! the squash so golden in another to match. How tiny and white the onions are, and in such a delicate pink dish, with cream also lest they be jealous of the carrots. See the glass dish filled with ruby beets to balance the jelly. How we chatter, how we laugh, just as they did long ago! How mother is blushing! What is father saying to her sub rosa? We children know, indeed we do! Did not Aunt Jenny tell us father fell in love with mother at a Thanksgiving dinner? They were distant cousins. This is a dinner in memoriam in more ways than one. The chicken-pie follows in course. We are trying to live like the ancients. Next in order are the four kinds of pie we have been promised. How can we eat it all! The elders settle their dinner with after-dinner coffee. Let us lie down before the fire, play games, tell stories and laugh heartily as an aid to digestion. Mother has given each of us a blank-book containing directions in full for preparing this dinner, with this text as a watch-word, "It is a trite remark that having the choicest tools, an unskillful artisan will botch his work; and bad teachers will fail even with the best methods." As she gives us a cooking lesson every Saturday we expect to excel even this when our turn comes. Mother is the most practical, the most artistic woman, kept from running to either extreme by a good, solid wedge of common sense. In her this union of the artistic and the practical is complete. She is the good genius who conceives and brings forth the beauty of the house; her taste, her thought, her presence, enter into, invest and pervade everything with a life-giving charm as rare as enjoyable. Keenly alive to beauty in every form, knowing that "nothing created at its worst but hath the dregs of loveliness," she discovers it. She makes pictures of all our food. She puts her very self into it. It tastes like no other cooking; we should recognize it anywhere with our eyes closed. Bridget and Mary have been with mother so many years they have grown like her. They are always ready to give their strength and muscle to aid her plans. They understand her ability to cook the entire dinner as beautifully as to arrange the table. A quick and ready buyer, with rare judgment and skill, she is able to select everything. Doing all her own marketing, her choice selections are complemented by the most delicate, refined cooking. TO PREPARE AND COOK THE TURKEY. The turkey must be cooked a long time and basted very, very often; four hours and longer for a turkey weighing twelve pounds. The basting and length of time are the true secret of the richness which will melt in one's mouth. Wash as little as possible, wipe very dry; pepper and salt inside. Take a stale loaf of baker's bread, and a slice of salt-pork chopped fine; crumble the bread and add; chop fine and dry. Add onion, sage, marjoram, salt and pepper (parsley if you like). Fill lightly with the dressing, sew up the openings, tie the wings and legs down close to the body and the neck. back under the wing. Place breast side down upon a trivet in the dripping-pan, after having salted and peppered it well upon every side. Do not have much water in the pan at any time. Allow it to almost scorch, dredging in flour at that stage, then adding more water. Have a little water in a separate pan to baste with, which should be as often as fifteen minutes. Turn from time to time as it browns. At the last it should be laid upon its back and basted with butter, and at the very last moment dredged with flour to froth it. You will find at the end you have plenty of brown gravy all ready for straining. The gizzard, liver and heart can be cooked very slowly on the back of the stove until tender, and placed upon the platter, as many people are fond of them. TO PREPARE AND COOK A CHICKEN-PIE. four or five pounds. Joint and simmer slowly in a pint and a If possible procure a chicken from the country, weighing half of water until tender enough for the meat to slip from the bones in as large pieces as possible, removing every par ticle of gristle. Line a white earthen dish with common paste, adding a rim of puff-paste; cover the bottom of this with a layer of chicken. Split a few Boston crackers and soak in milk until soft. Place a layer of them closely upon the chicken, putting a small piece of butter in the center of each. Alternate the chicken and cracker, using plenty of chicken, until the dish is filled. Strain the chicken gravy, heat it to boiling point. Beat up two eggs with a fork until light. Stir a tablespoonful of flour into a pint of cream, add this to the gravy, boil up, and pour upon the beaten egg, allowing it to cook a second only; salt and pepper well. Pour this over the chicken; then break in four eggs upon the top of all. Cover with puff-paste, making a large slit in the crust. Bake very slowly in an oven which has been heated hot. Stewed Oysters. Two quarts of Fair Haven oysters, which are small and the only kind suitable. Place in a porcelain kettle over the fire, simply in their own liquor. Add salt, which is necessary to raise the scum which should be carefully removed. When this has ceased to rise and the oysters begin to shrivel, add a pint of thick cream, a very small piece of butter just to flavor, and salt and pepper to taste. A small grating of nutmeg adds to the general satisfaction. Serve hot with slices of bread toasted a beautiful brown. These oysters should boil five minutes after adding the cream to gain taste and flavor. Cranberries. Wash one quart of berries, drain them, add one pint of cold water, boil (closely covered) just ten minutes. Add one pint of granulated sugar, boil just ten minutes longer, keeping them covered. This will jelly perfectly when cold, strained or otherwise. Cook in porcelain and stir with a wooden spoon, as metal destroys the bright color of the berries. The cranberry tart can be made of this, with strips of puff-paste laid across forming a diamond. It should be thick and the cranberry should be strained. Potato Croquettes. Take six common-sized potatoes, pare, and allow them to remain in cold water several hours; change the water once or twice. Boil and drain well. Sprinkle over salt and allow them to steam a moment or two, in order to insure perfect dryness. They should be cooked in a porcelain-lined kettle and mashed in the same. Set the kettle upon the stove. Use a common wooden masher. Add sufficient salt, the yolk of one egg and a piece of butter the size of the same. Mash until entirely smooth, working until, as you use sides of the kettle. Form at once while hot into pear-shaped croa rotary motion, the potato will cleave from the masher and the quettes, the natural size. When cold dredge with flour. Beat the yolks of two eggs with a teaspoonful of milk; dip the croquettes into this and then into finely-sifted bread-crumbs well seasoned with pepper and salt. Fry in a wire basket in fresh sweet lard until a golden brown. Cover a china platter entirely with fresh |