Ribbon plays an important part in decoration. A bow on the corner of
mamma's sewing-chair, on the dressing-glass which hangs over the table,
on the little birthday package you send your friend, gives each a sort
of gala look. The plainest furniture in the plainest bedroom may be
brightened and made attractive by good taste, a few yards of cheap
netting or lace, and the judicious use of ribbon. Clever fingers can
accomplish wonders with very little money.

A girl showed me one day a beautiful sewing-chair, white and gold as to
frame-work, and cushioned with a lovely chintz, a white ground thickly
sprinkled with daisies.

"There!" she said. "Mamma gave me permission to use anything I could
find in our attic, and I hunted around till I came across this chair.
Such a fright! It was dingy and broken, and fit for nothing but
firewood. Look at it now. Two coats of white paint, some gilding, and
this lovely cushion, and then this ravishing frill and box of yellow
satin ribbon! Isn't it a triumph?"

I said, very sincerely, that I thought it was.

Bertha wishes me to tell her why lemonade is not always the rich
refreshing drink it should be. Well, Bertha, everybody does not know how
to make lemonade. I squeeze my lemons in a glass lemon-squeezer, mix in
my granulated sugar with a lavish hand, and add the thinly pared rind of
a lemon, dropping it in in circular strips. On this I pour boiling
water, setting it by to cool, and, when cold, putting it away in the
refrigerator. Then when served I add a strawberry, or a bit of sliced
orange or banana, and some pounded ice, and the lemonade is delicious.

[Illustration: Signature]

WHIPPOORWILL.

Unseen in the thicket a lone little bird
Cries over and over the sorrowful word,
Till the children, whose sweet lisping prayers have been said,
Turn over, half waking, and call from their bed,
"Do make that bird stop calling down from the hill
His mournful old story, Whip, whip, oh! poor Will."

What could Will have done in the days long ago
That this bird's great-grandfather hated him so?
Did he rifle a nest, did he climb up a tree,
Did he meddle where he had no business to be?--
When we find out, dear children, what 'twas Katy did,
The secret with those funny wood gossips hid,
We are likely, and not before then, to discover
The rune that the poor little songster runs over,
Who, hour by hour, up there on the hill,
Calls mournfully, urgent