The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. VIII: No. 353, October 2, 1886.Various
General
The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. VIII: No. 353, October 2, 1886.
Various
Children's literature -- Periodicals
COMING THRO' THE RYE.--You form your letters fairly well, but reverse
the heavy and light strokes. The down strokes should be heavy, and the
up strokes light. Also, if you did not make the ends of your final
letters in every word turn up like pig-tails, your writing would be
improved. Perhaps your handwriting may be formed, or begin to be so, at
sixteen. No children write running hands.
ROSE.--No "gentlemen" presume to speak to girls in their own rank of
life without an introduction; it would be an insult. And as to proposing
to walk with you, as a stranger, if you have no father, brother, nor
uncle to warn him away, he deserves to be handed over to the police. But
men do not usually take such liberties unless they have had some
encouragement. Beware of looking at strange men in passing them. Look
away when they come near.
EDITH.--Sage tea is good for cooling the face and healing the skin when
much sunburnt; but it should be used the same day. Lie on a sofa, and
lay the wet leaves over your face.
AUTUMN.
[Illustration]
BY HELEN MARION BURNSIDE.
The chestnut burrs are falling
On the shining dew-steeped lawn,
Where the swallows have been calling
To each other since the dawn;
For again the forest leaves,
And the upland's crown of sheaves,
Wear the fair pathetic glory, which so quickly is withdrawn.
And a youthful pair goes straying,
As we used to do of old,
With the sunlight on them playing,
Through the elm trees' paling gold;
And I wonder as they go,
Pacing slowly to and fro,
Are they telling one another just such secrets as we told?
In the cool and fragrant dunlight
Of the woodlands, wet with dew,
Looking out towards the sunlight
Here I stand--but where are you?
Where are summer's lusty leaves,
Where the swallows from the eaves,
And the hopes, and dreams, and longings that in those old days we knew?
Many a spring has blossomed brightly
On the grave of a dead past,
Many a summer has tossed lightly
Her cast leaves upon the blast;
And as autumn fades away
Into winter's quiet grey,
Comes the hope: eternal springtide will give back my friend at last!
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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