_Apple Méringue Pies._—Stew and sweeten ripe, juicy apples, when you have pared and sliced them. Mash smooth and season with nutmeg. If you like the flavor, stew some lemon peel with the apple, and remove when cold. Fill your crust and bake until just done. Spread over the apple a thick méringue,[1] made by whipping to a stiff froth the whites of three eggs for each pie, sweetening with a tablespoonful of powdered sugar for each egg. Flavor this with rose-water or vanilla; beat until it will stand alone, and cover the pie three-quarters of an inch thick. Set back in the oven until the méringue is well “set.” Should it color too darkly, sift powdered sugar over it when cold. Eat cold. Peach pies are even more delicious made in this manner. _Apple Snow_ requires six apples, whites of two eggs and three tablespoonfuls of powdered sugar. Peel and grate the apples into the whites, which must have been whipped to a stiff froth. Beat in the sugar with a few light sweeps of the egg; whip and set in a cold place until wanted. Eat with crackers or cake.—_Marion Harland._ _Apple Fritters._—Pare some fine apples, and with an apple-corer cut out the core from the center of each; now cut them across in slices, about one-third of an inch thick, having the round opening in the center, dip these in a fritter batter and fry in boiling lard; sprinkle over sugar. Fresh or canned peaches may be used in the same way.—_Mrs. Henderson, in “Practical Cooking.”_ PUTTING UP FRUIT.—One of the most satisfactory operations which is carried on in the household is the annual putting up of fruit. To be sure, it has its disadvantages, like everything else. The fruit generally gets ripe a week or two earlier than you expect it will, and is brought to you on a day for which you have planned other work; but, after all, there is to the well-regulated mind a rare pleasure in being confronted with a basket of luscious fruit which may be preserved for enjoyment in the winter; and I maintain that the pleasure we receive in midwinter from a dish of peaches, cherries, or plums on the table is not wholly of the senses, but the mind itself enjoys the contrasting picture which inevitably comes before it. Something of the brightness of the long summer days in which it grew and ripened is felt again, and just as chopped pickle in June will suggest a November day when the tomatoes no longer ripen, the cucumbers have gone to seed, and the frost has covered the tangled vines in the garden with a fairy-like network, so red raspberries and pears in December and March minister to other wants than those of the palate. Half the trouble of putting up fruit—the broken cans, the scalded fingers and stained dresses—might be done away with if a woman could enter upon the work in the right spirit. If, instead of complaining in May because the trees are full of blossoms, and exhausting ourselves mentally by putting up the fruit and having it spoil long