Clayton's Quaker Cook-Book Part 12

Mildew.

An old time and effectual remedy for mildew is to dip the stained cloth in b.u.t.ter-milk and lay in the sun.

Oysters Roasted on Chafing-Dish.

Take largest oysters, and put in a chafing-dish in their own liquor.

Season with red or black pepper, adding plenty of good b.u.t.ter, with a little Worcestershire sauce or walnut catsup. After roasting--taking care not to roast too much--serve on b.u.t.tered toast.

Codfish, Family Style.

After the fish has been soaked twelve hours, boil slowly for twenty-five or thirty minutes, or until it will break up nicely. Then pick all the bones out, but do not pick the fish too fine. Have ready three hard-boiled eggs; rub the yolks in plenty of good b.u.t.ter; put into the kettle enough milk to heat the fish; when hot stir in the b.u.t.ter, with the fish. At the same time have potatoes peeled and boiled. Cut, not too small, with the whites of the eggs cut small; season with pepper. Serve hot with b.u.t.tered toast at the bottom of the dish.

Codfish in Philadelphia Style.

After soaking and boiling the fish, break up small, and picking out all the bones, have ready potatoes, peeled and boiled, equal to the amount of fish. Put them in a wooden bowl or tray. Pound or mash well with a potato masher. Work to soft dough, with b.u.t.ter and well-beaten eggs, and milk or cream. Season with pepper and salt, if salt is required. Put it in a dish suitable to set on the table, and bake a few minutes, or until light brown.

The Parting Hour.

There's something in the parting hour Will chill the warmest heart, Yet kindred, comrades, lovers, friends, Are fated all to part.

But, this I've seen, and many a pang has pressed it on my mind, The one who goes is happier than those he leaves behind.

No matter what the journey be, Adventurous, dangerous, far; To the wild bleak or deep frontier, To solitude or war; Still fortune cheers the heart that dares, in all of human kind, And those who go are happier than those they leave behind.

The bride goes to the bridegroom's home With doubtings and with tears, But, does not Hope her rainbow spread Across her cloudy fears?

Alas! the mother who remains, what comfort can she find, but this: The one that's gone is happier than the one she leaves behind.

Have you a friend, a comrade dear, An old and valued friend?

Be sure your term of sweet concourse At length must have an end; And when you part, as part you will, oh! take it not unkind, If he, who goes, is happier than you he leaves behind.

G.o.d wills it so! and so it is; The Pilgrims on their way, Though weak and worn, more cheerful are Than all the rest who stay.

And when at last, poor man, subdued, lies down to death resigned, May he not still be happier far than those he leaves behind?

In School Days.

Still sits the school-house by the road, A ragged beggar sunning; Around it still the sumachs grow, And blackberry vines are running.

Within the master's desk is seen, Deep scarred by raps official; The warping floor, the battered seats, The jack-knife's carved initial.

Long years ago, one winter's sun Shone over it at setting; Lit up the western window pane, And low eaves icy fretting.

It shone upon the tangled curls, And brown eyes full of grieving, Of one who still her steps delayed, While all the school were leaving.

For near her stood the little boy Her childish favor singled; His cap was pulled low on his brow, Where pride and shame were mingled.

With restless foot he pushed the snow To right and left; he lingered; As restlessly her tiny hands The blue checked ap.r.o.n fingered.

He saw her lift her eyes, He felt the soft hand's light caressing, He heard the trembling of her voice, As if a fault confessing.

"I'm sorry that I spelt the word, I hate to go above you,"

"Because"--the brown eyes lower fell-- "Because, you see, I love you."

Still, memory to a gray-haired man, That sweet child face is showing; Dear girl, the gra.s.ses o'er her grave Have forty years been growing;

He lives to learn in Life's hard school How few who pa.s.s above him, Lament their triumph and his loss, Like her, because she loves him.

Let fate do her worst! there are relics of joy, Bright dreams of a past, which she cannot destroy; Which came in the night-time of sorrow and care, And bring back the features that joy used to wear.

Long be my heart with such memories filled, Like the vase in which roses have once been distilled; You may break, you may shatter that vase, if you will, But the scent of the roses will hang round it still!

Thomas Moore.

JERSEY FARM DAIRY,

SAN BRUNO, CAL.

City Depot, 837 Howard Street.

_The Milk from this Dairy is delivered to consumers =absolutely pure and free from any adulteration whatever=, and has been for over eight years.

The Cows are largely Jersey Blood, and the milk will run on an average 14 per cent. in cream, and is becoming richer every year, by the increase of the Jersey Blood. About five hundred cows are milked daily, which ranks this Dairy the =largest in the world.=_

_The demand for this milk is larger than the supply, and has been for two years past._

R. G. SNEATH,

_Proprietor._

ROYAL BAKING POWDER.

Absolutely Pure.

This powder never varies. A marvel of purity, strength and wholesomeness. More economical than the ordinary kinds, and cannot be sold in compet.i.tion with the mult.i.tude of low test, short weight, alum or phosphate powders. Sold only in cans. ROYAL BAKING POWDER CO., 106 Wall St., New York.

WM. T. COLEMAN & CO., Agents, San Francisco.