insertions depends on the size of the trees operated upon. The bigger limbs will take from three to six buds, the smaller one or two each. A fair sized young tree will take from fifty to sixty buds. The trees when budded look like Irishmen with their wounds bound with sticking plaster after a faction fight. Towards the Easter following the insertion of the buds, the man goes his rounds again, and, in the case of any that have "taken holt," cuts off the bough some four inches above the bud. The scale of remuneration is peculiar. You "take a penny and leave a penny;" in other words, a penny a bud is paid at the time of insertion, and another penny for such buds as, at the following Easter, prove to be alive and vigorous. The great sight of the year in our parish is the spectacle of the cherrytrees and the gorse in bloom together on our common. Let us imagine a stranger, from some cherryless region, approaching the spot from the lowlands. His attention is caught by what, at the first glance, he fancies to be wreaths of bluish-grey vapor floating across a dark background of beech woods and fir coppices. But presently he finds that these mist-like blurs are stationary, and, as the road winds nearer, other grey cloud-like masses rise to view. They are his first glimpses of our cherry-trees in their pride! Soon he reaches a point whence the full beauty of the scene bursts upon him. The common is as a sea of glory, whose golden billows surge over the green velvety turf up to the very stems of the cherry-trees in the foreground; while, in the mid-distance, and at the further edge of the common, the pyramids of milk-white cherry-blossom show like snowy-sailed yachts upon the yellow ocean of the gorse. Close to him is a group of cherry-trees, each of some eight feet girth, covered with bloom save where the later opening buds dash the pearly white with irregular lines of pink, merging into russet, like streaks of strawberry juice in cream. Just crossing the horizon-line and dipping into the dark hollow between the common and the woods beyond is a dense myriad-winged flock of woodpigeons-no infrequent sight in this region of beech plantations. Against the sky they showed dark, but instantaneously change into light brown flecked with white when they have behind them the dark curtain of the distant trees. The lowing of far-away cattle on an upland farm blends with the musical monotone,-subtle mixture of countless sounds,-which thrills ceaselessly upon the ear, save when punctuated by the clear double note of the cuckoo, the whistle of the thrush, and the deep mellow call of the blackbird, or drowned for a moment in the sudden rush of melody from the throat of an uprising lark. Where the line of the common's surface trends downwards into the valley, it is broken by three slim young cherrytrees, thrown into such strong relief by the dark blue shadows beyond, that they look like sheeted ghosts of trees; while, lower still, the line is crested by a ragged edge of flame where the gorse bushes pour over it down the slope. We will suppose our stranger to be one to whom the only aspect of cherrytree life hitherto has been in its capacity of a wall fruit tree with its spreading arms pinned tightly against the brickwork of a garden wall. Let him look on this picture and on that! Why, our cherry-trees are, many of them, luxuriant forest-trees of quite respectable girth, yet bearing, owing to the thoughtful care of the forefathers of our hamlet, as delicious fruit as their prim captive sisters. Yet, though our trees grow in untrammelled freedom on an open common, they are in reality as jealously guarded as though they were enclosed in a tenfoot wall with a coping of broken bottles. The fact is, our cherry-trees, though The air is full of fragrance and the "situate," in legal phrase, on open ugliness, one would have thought, was sufficient to put to flight any thrush or blackbird of taste. ground, are not common property, but | unique They are more than trees-they are old family friends, even known in some instances by pet names. They pay the cottager's rent, or help towards it. They are his pride and glory, nearer to him even than his cow, dearer even than his pig. Whatever other pranks the urchins of our parish may play, climb a cherrytree they dare not. To hurl a stone even into its sacred boughs never enters into their wildest dreams. Yea! to cut their initials on its bark-it were suicide! True, such deeds have been done; but only by the rash hands of irreverent strangers. And were the offending aliens caught red-handed, woes many would betide them. I do not mean the reader to infer that there are no cherry-trees in our parish save those on the common. Far from it! All the cottagers' gardens have at least one or two well-grown trees, and the freeholders and farmers have frequently whole orchards of them, and they grow in every hedgerow. When the fruit begins to ripen, then are the cherry-trees as great an anxiety to their owners as ever a flock of ewes in the lambing season to the careful shepherd. An incessant din pervades the air. Constant firing of guns, incessant yells and howls of boys, and beating of tin cans combine in a jumble of discordant sounds which renders hideous both the night and the day. When a newcomer, I earnestly inquired the meaning of the babel, and was told that the "birds wos that troublesome as wos never the like knowed on afore." Some of the contrivances for scaring the feathered spoilers were amusingly ingenious. One aged man had suspended from the branches of his biggest tree festoons of those highly illustrated tin canisters which whilom were the receptacles of potted meat and lobster. Empty, battered, and fearsome, they hung on my friend's string, and their Mr. Grubbins, however, did not rely on this characteristic of his garland. He had a complicated arrangement of twine which enabled him to set his tins a-clanging in the grey dawn, with a twitch of his big toe, from his bed. He kindly set the machinery in motion on my behalf. A sound more like the an unquiet legendary clanking of spirit's chains I never heard. It was gruesome in the extreme, and I saw, from the twinkle in Mr. Grubbins' eye, that the would-be depredators thought so too. "Sims to me," said Mr. Grubbins reflectively, "that the birds as is now knows a sight more than un knowed in Sunce 'lectrick my grandfer's time. telegraffs and trains is come in, birds is more owdacious and Christian-like. Like enuff sich eritters goes with the times; and, wots more, they does." "Well, Mr. Grubbins, we must keep pace with them; and I must say your invention is likely to be some years yet ahead of their progress in wickedness." The self-satisfied smirk of a creative genius flickered for a moment on Mr. Grubbins's wooden countenance. "Now yer wouldn't 'ardly credit it." he went on, "but, when I wor a slip of a boy, one o' grannie's colored 'ankerchers wos enuff to scare un; but now, Lor' bless yer, Neebor Smith be rigged up a bogey wich he'd a-copied from Mistress Smith, and 'twas the wery himage of the ould leddy; but nex day a sparrer wor a-hopping about on top of un as bold as brass." Cherry-picking is a busy time for our people. I happened the other day to get into conversation on this topic with a woman of our parish who had had a severe illness, but was convalescent. Mrs. Castor is the mother of five, and was rather inclined to bemoan her inability to take her share in the cherry-picking. "But, Mrs. Castor, it must surely be trying work for a woman to mount those long ladders! And does it not give you a erick in your neck?” ""Tis all practis," said Mrs. Castor, and, as she leaned back on the pillow in her chair, a softened dreamy look crept into the careworn face. "I love it more nor any work I do. And, as for long ladders, why, lawks, they long uns is far the safest! Short uns, they be apt to wobble. But a long un, he straddles out broad at the foot, and his own weight keeps un steadylike. And, when I'm up a forty-round ladder 'mong the top boughs, 'tis grand, it is. P'raps a whisper o' wind comes and sets the branches a-moving, and then the ladder he sways back and fore gently as a rockin'-cheer. And I forgets all my worrits up there, and 'tis prime, 'tis so. And I never had no fear nor no giddiness or sich like, not from being on the ladder I haven't, not I." "But is it not dangerous, reaching out for the fruit?" "We does not stretch out to un more'n wot we can pull round to we. We uses mostly a hook to bring un round, and, if bough be stiff-like, we leave un till ladder be moved." "I suppose great care is required in plucking the cherries." "Tis so. Feckless pickers will spoil next year's cherryin'. For why? Cos o' breakin' the buds off. I've seen the grass strewn wi' buds after some. We hev to take un gently off by they's stalks. Some comes off quite easy. But there be cherries and cherries. Wi' some, do wot a body will, you split the bark, and 'tis bad, that." "And what is the usual rate of wages for women in this kind of work?" "Two shillin' a day, some gives. But that is good wage. Eighteenpence is wot I gets, and glad to. But there's this about it. The work is near home, and wi' they as we knows. Some has to tramp far afore they comes to their trees, and 'tis bad to tramp home miles and miles after your day's work." One word as to the autumnal aspect of the cherry-trees. It is well-nigh as beautiful as their spring array. The trees glow with various shades of red, from brightest scarlet to ruddy brown. Our common looks like a harbor crowded with craft all bedecked with bunting in honor of a royal visit, while the gorse bushes, now a dark olivegreen, resemble a swarm of boats plying upon its waters. R. PARDEPP. From The Hospital Review. CHINA MAKING AT WORCESTER. Silently, in its deep bed, the river Severn steals swiftly past the walls of the city of Worcester, bearing mute witness of the passing of time into eternity. Upon the banks of the stream rises the beautiful Cathedral, a monument built by human hands, a testimony of man's undying faith that one day he shall become immortal. For over a thousand years this spot has been the haunt of man. Roman, Briton, Saxon, Norman, and lastly that heterogeneous race the English have dwelt beside the river, and have had dim visions of the problems of life and death, of time and eternity, that are the common heritage of all men in all time. Close beside Worcester Cathedral are the ugly workshops and tall chimneys of the Royal Porcelain Works. . . . When we watch the thrower moulding on his magic wheel the plastic clay, we are filled with wonder at his skill, and ask ourselves whence came the clay which takes so readily any form the potter wills. The flint boulders found upon the plains of Brittany in France, feld-spar from Cornwall and Sweden, bones from America, besides other things, all pay tribute. These unlikely constituents are calcined and then ground exceedingly fine in mills. The grinding takes from twelve hours to six days. It is a sight worth seeing those powerful mills racing round the deep trough (made out of stone from Derbyshire) weighted with heavy blocks, churning each material, for each is ground separately, into a thick white cream. When finished, the liquids are strained through fine hair sieves, and all particles of iron withdrawn by means of magnets. The different in gredients are then mixed together in proper proportions and kneaded into the required consistency, and then the clay is ready for the thrower. The art of moulding clay has become much more exact since the employment of plaster of Paris moulds. After the thrower, with the help of his wheel, has roughly shaped the clay into what is termed the "lining," it is taken off the wheel and put into a plaster of Paris cast, which in turn is placed upon the whirling wheel, and the "lining" is then deftly moulded to the exact shape. As plaster of Paris absorbs moisture quickly, the lining is soon firm enough to be handled. It is then "turned" like ordinary wood or metal, and has handles, which have been moulded in plaster of Paris, fixed by the same clay. It was always a puzzle to our minds how the handles were induced, not only to stick on to the jugs and cups, but to bear the weights of the same cups and jugs when full of liquid. This, how ever, is explained when it is understood that in spite of being made separately, the handles and vessels to which they belong are practically one piece when burnt. The porcelain is then ready to be baked. For this it is packed in fireproof baking dishes called "seggars" and supported on every side by powdered calcined flint. These seggars are made to fit exactly one upon another, although they are of different sizes and depths, and they are arranged in columns side by side in the oven. The oven is then bricked up and eight fires are lighted and kept burning for fortyeight hours, night and day. The oven takes four days to cool and then the contents are unpacked and are ready for a variety of processes. Most of the China is glazed, an operation requiring care and skill. The articles are bathed in the liquid glaze a muddy-looking broth—and the greater part of the superfluous glaze shaken off. But it is impossible to free them perfectly; besides the fingers leave marks, | which have to be removed after the glaze has been dried in a hot room. Women and girls are employed for this work. The ivory glaze is a delicate salmon pink before it is baked, the white a dark drab. After it is glazed, the pottery, for the second time, is packed in seggars and baked. After this the colored china is painted and baked again. The gold is also baked in. Few people know that the gilt on china is the purest gold that can be bought. It is ground with mercury and turpentine into a black-looking paint and applied with a fine camel's-hair pencil. Boys are trained for this work from fourteen years of age, it being nearly impossible for older people to acquire the accuracy of eye and hand necessary. It is a great drawback to the production of artistic pottery that the coloring is totally different in the paint, from the result after burning. For instance, gold paint is black before, and dull gold afterwards; the brightness is produced by polishing it with an agate. Other colors are obtained from metallic oxides: iron gives red, cobalt, blue, etc. A delightful room is given up to modelling the quaint figures of which the shepherds and shepherdesses, the treasured ornaments of the cottage mantlepiece, are the humble progenitors. The plaster moulds are filled with clay, the consistency of cream. When the plaster has absorbed sufficient moisture to leave a firm shell of the clay inside, the rest of the clay is poured out, leaving the inside hollow, the mould is then opened, the little ridges left on the figure where the mould joined is washed off with a camel's-hair pencil, and the figures are packed to bake. The most expensive specimen of Worcester porcelains, but not by any means the most beautiful, in our opinion, was an enamelled dish and ewer; the latter was only about ten inches high and the dish was of a corresponding size, and the price was £150. For SIX DOLLARS remitted directly to the Publishers, the LIVING AGE will be punctually for warded for a year, free of postage. Remittances should be made by bank draft or check, or by post-office money-order, if possible. If neither of these can be procured, the money should be sent in a registered letter. All postmasters are obliged to register letters when requested to do so. Drafts, checks, and money-orders should be made payable to the order of LITTELL & CO. Single copies of the LIVING AGE, 15 cents. |