A salpicon of fruits is quite a different All through this luncheon pass lemonade thing, and a much better one, than the mixture

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BY MARGARET HAMILTON WELCH

WHEN reading advertisements of summer resorts during the spring months, while plans were yet unmade, many mothers were no doubt stirred to indignation by the frequent stipulation no children received." Now, however, many of these same women, as they suffer from the bad manners of ill-trained, undisciplined children, and see their own boys and girls rapidly deteriorating from exposure to bad example, realize that there is much excuse for the prohibition. The average American woman is clever, adaptable, and conscientious, and it is hard to see why she should in so many cases fail to bring up her children in the way they should go. Another peculiarity of the case is that each mother sees so plainly the faults in her neighbor's children, and remains in blissful ignorance of any shortcomings in her own. How often will Mrs. X., sitting on the piazza of a summer hotel, confide to an attentive audience how terribly Mrs. Y. brings up her children, and how sorry she is that her own little flock should be subjected to such bad influences. Her auditors listen politely, but, nine times out of ten, in their hearts they believe the little X.'s quite outclass the little Y.'s in mischief and bad manners! Careful parents are often much annoyed at hotels and boarding-houses by well-meaning but inconsiderate people who flatter children on their good looks or laugh at their little speeches until they become intolerably vain and pert. If mothers could realize that in public places children cannot be allowed the same liberty of action as in their own homes, much of the prejudice against them would be removed. "Peach butter" is among the less well-known ways of preparing this delicious and useful fruit. To make it you must have very ripe peaches-not cling-stones. Pare and stone the peaches, put them in a preserving-kettle, and mash lightly. Cook them thoroughly without sugar. When quite well cooked remove from the stove and measure. To each quart of the cooked peaches add one large cup of sugar. Replace on the stove and cook until the mixture looks clear. Put up in jelly-tumblers.

Every one knows about canned sweet corn, and its good flavor is justly esteemed, but though dried corn is little known, it is in reality much better. This rule for making it comes from Ohio: Pick the corn while still quite young. Cut the grains from the cob. Put, one layer deep, in shallow tins or pie-plates, and keep in a hot oven until it is dried. Care must be taken that it does not get scorched. Make good-sized bags of coarse, loosely woven cotton, put the dried corn in them, and hang in a dry, warm place. The ideal spot is an old-fashioned attic. After two or three weeks look the corn over. If it shows any signs of becoming musty, dry it over again. Thus prepared it will keep all winter. When ready to use it just cook as you would fresh corn. Do not soak it. There is no need to do this, and it injures the flavor of the corn.

Americans, as a rule, know the cucumber in but two forms-sliced as a salad or pickled. Abroad it is often cooked and eaten as a vegetable. Here is one of the favorite ways of preparing it on the Continent: Take a fairly ripe cucumber and slice lengthwise. Cook slowly with plenty of salt in the water. Serve with a cream sauce. Cucumbers may also be stuffed. To prepare the cucumber for stuffing cut it in half lengthwise and remove the seeds. Cook until tender in well-salted water. Be careful not to break the cucumber in taking it out of the water. For the filling take any delicate cold meat such as veal, chicken, or lamb, mince very fine and season with chopped red peppers and chives. Put this filling into the cucumbers. Place them in the oven and baste occasionally with a little soup stock while they bake. During the Middle Ages the "still-room" was one of the most important branches of housewifery, and old recipes are in existence showing how wide was the scope of the home distiller's art. Most of these decoctions are, fortunately for the human race, now obsolete, but a few still survive. Thus in England in old county families you will be treated to a glass of cowslip wine, and very good it is, too. On the Continent they yet make currant or gooseberry wines which are wholesome and much purer than the average wine of commerce. In New England thirty years ago elderberry wine was not uncommon, but it is doubtful if a gallon of it could be found high or low in these days. Two of the old cordials have alone survived, and they only because of their known and long-tested medicinal virtues. The most valuable of these is blackberry cordial, and here is a rule for making it that is not less than a hundred years old: Take the berries and crush slightly, put on a slow fire and simmer until all the juice is freed. Put into a flannel bag and squeeze out as you would currants in making jelly. Measure the juice, and for each pint add a heaping cup of granulated sugar. Put the kettle over the fire again and let its contents come to a hard boil; then skim. Repeat this until no more scum forms. Then add to each pint of juice a handful of cloves, three large sticks of cinnamon, three pieces of ginger root, and a little allspice. Let all boil up again. Then add to each pint of juice one-quarter pint best French brandy. Take off the stove, strain out the spices, and bottle while still hot. It will be seen that this rule was made long before prepared spices were ever heard of. The spices in ordinary use can be used, but it will be well worth the trouble to get the whole spices from a druggist and follow the rule exactly. This old remedy will be found invaluable for delicate and elderly persons who suffer from the common complaint of a slight but exhausting diarrhea in hot weather. A couple of tablespoonfuls of this cordial taken after each meal will often do more for such patients than ordinary medicines.

Several times in a certain woman's social experience she has been urged to subject herself to great inconvenience in order to accept pressing invitations where such scant entertainment of body or mind was afforded as roused wonder-candid, if secret—regarding her supposititious motives in acceptance. Once she and her husband were pressed to take a tiresome trip, involving some twelve dollars in expense, to spend two hours with another married couple. Once she travelled fifty miles to take luncheon, en famille, where, in a magnificent home, attended by liveried men, from silver platters and costly china, she ate mutton chops and custard pie. The family liked

simple fare, she was informed. That she did not was beside the mark. Again, she was requested to spend a holiday with a friend, regardless of the fact that such days belong peculiarly to one's own household and, likewise, that they are usually the occasion for feasting. She turned her back on a delicious home dinner to be seated, instead, before roast pork, potatoes, turnips, and mince pie. She is a dyspeptic, and all these dishes had been forbidden by her physician. Her hostess knew this, but she had forgotten.

Nor was the poor meal the outcome of poverty, though she was naïvely informed that "we are economizing this week, because we have been giving too many dinner parties of late." She had obviously been summoned at this particular time for a confidential talk on matters not relating to herself. Resentfully she demanded of her inner consciousness why she had not been bidden as well to those dinner parties, or why this meagre showing should be deemed "good enough" for her.

For, although most of us would choose niceties rather than discomforts, it is not the result for which one cares. It is the deference to one's personality, the love for one's self, that makes of preparation a pleasure, of service a deed of joy.

This season for picnics may be one of unmixed joy for the younger members of the family, but the housekeeper who is called on very frequently to provide the luncheon will find it a good deal of a task. Of course sandwiches and hard-boiled eggs will always hold their own as the mainstays of a picnic lunch. The sandwiches may be varied to almost any number of kinds. If the party contains many children the sandwiches for them should be made more with the object of satisfying their hearty appetites than of being pretty or dainty. For the children, for instance, use whole-wheat bread, do not cut it too thin, and leave on the crust. For the older members of the party cut the bread thinner and trim into dainty squares. The thicker sandwiches may have a filling of cold meat cut in thin slices. Fill the thinner ones with meat minced very fine and mixed lightly with mayonnaise dressing. Salads may be taken on a picnic with great success, provided a little care be exercised in the matter. If, for instance, you are going to have a chicken salad, prepare your meat, pack it in a glass jar with a screw top. Put your mayonnaise in a glass or china jar of some sort. Wash and pick over your lettuce carefully. Then put it in a wet cloth with a lump of ice, and wrap these in a woollen cloth. This seems a great deal more bother than to take your salad ready mixed, but when you come to eat it you will realize it was worth the trouble. If tea or coffee is to be taken cold, do not add the milk or cream, but take these separately. When it is possible to have a fire at a picnic, hot coffee can be made very easily. Take a tin coffee-pot, put in ground coffee as required, add a teacupful of water and one raw egg. Mix well. When you are ready to make the coffee add as many cups of cold water as you like, and put the pot on the fire. Let it boil for a couple of minutes, take it off and settle the coffee with half a cup of cold water. Fruit is always acceptable on a picnic, but it is not easy to eat it without getting it all over one's self. Cut-up peaches packed in glass jars, the sugar added when they are to be eaten, are delicious and more convenient than the whole fruit. Chicken or veal croquettes wrapped separately in paraffine paper will be found a good addition to the lunch menu.