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2 loops, 7 long, 2 chain, 1 long into 3rd loop, 2 chain, 1 long into 3rd loop, 1 chain, miss 1 loop, 12 long, 1 chain, miss 1 loop, 1 long, 2 chain, repeat from beginning.
13th Sow 1 long, 2 chain, miss 2 loops, 1 long on long, 2
14<A Row.—The same as last row. Crochet the ends of the Stripe.
15(A Row.—A row of long stitches in bright Emerald Green each side of the stripe, working 1 long stitch into every chain.
3 White stripes will be sufficient for any ordinary chair, and 10 leaves in each stripe. The width of the stripe including the Green at the sides should be about 3£ inches.
With the 2nd lightest shade of Pink Wool, make a tight chain of 11 stitches, unite the ends and work a row of Dc, draw the Wool to the back, tie it securely, and cut it off. This must be done at every row.
Same shade, work 1 long into every chain, making 2 chain between each long stitch. There should be 11 long stitches.
Next shade, De under the 2 chain, 5 chain, repeat.
Next shade, Dc into the centre stitch of the 5 chain, 6 chain, repeat.
Next shade, Dc under the centre of the 6 chain, 7 chain, repeat.
Next shade, Dc on Dc, 3 chain, 3 long under the 7 chain, 3 chain, repeat.
iEtyis forms ene €ivdt.
There should be 10 circles, the diameter of each being about 2J inches.
Then make 8 circles with the same shades omitting the darkest, consequently the 2 last rows are to be worked with the same shade.
Then take the lightest Pink and 3 next shades and work 6 circles, the 2 last rows are worked with the same shade.
Draw a thread of Wool through the open work at the end of the 6th leaf, this will divide the back from the front, so as more readily to sew on the circle. Take the centre stripe, place it on a table the wrong side up, and with the leaves running upwards, then join the circles all on the wrong side, thus, commencing from the bottom of the leaves, sew 3 of the darkest circles together with the same color wool, then sew them to the green edge of the stripe, then sew 2 of the next shade, then 2 of the next, this should reach to the top of the chair, even with the thread of Wool inserted above the 6th leaf, then continue, sewing 1 of the lightest circles, 2 of the next shade, and 2 of the darkest.
On the other side of the stripe join the circles exactly the same.
Then on each side the circles join the other stripes, work some chain stitches from one Green edge, to the other catching up the points of the circles, about 24 stitches will be found sufficient, fasten in the ends securely into the White stripe. This must be done at both ends of the circles. Then with the Green Wool work a row of long stitches, 1 into every loop to correspond with the sides.
Take the darkest shade and 2 next, and with the darkest work 5 chain, Dc into every 4 th loop along both ends, then turn back and with the same shade Dc into centre of 5, 5 chain, repeat, work 2 rows more with each of the other shades making in all 6 rows, then with the last used shade of Pink commence at the Green band at the same end and work up the side till the open part between the 4th and 5th leaf, which will be where the Wool was previously inserted, thus, 1 long, 2 chain, 1 long into 3rd loop, repeat. In turning back work Dc till the 2nd long, when work 1 long on long, 2 chain, repeat, draw out the Wool that was inserted for a mark, run in all the ends, damp and pull the work well and lay it very even between folded linen, place a weight upon the top, and let it remain all night, afterwards sew up the sides with the same color Wool. Cut a skein of Pink and 1 of Green once, then double, and cut again, and tie the Wool in at the side as in engraving. It will require 2 skeins for each side.
YOUTH AND AGE.
A COLLOQUY BY H. G. ADAMS.
"Oh, pilgrim, weary pilgrim, whose journeying is slow,
The sky is bright above thee, and soft beneath thy feet
Then why art thou so woe begone, when round thee all things smile,
"Oh questioner, gay questioner—when thou hast toil'd like me,
Up the steep hill of life and sailed upon its stormy sea,
When thou hast journeyed o'er the waste, and through the vale of tears,
When thou art dead to earthly hopes, but not to earthly fears;
Thou wilt not ask why mournest thou, why walkest thou so sad,
Unto the sad, all things are sad; unto the gay, all gay;
A SIDE GLANCE AT JENNY LIND.
I Feel quite sure, my dear readers, of your approbation in the choice of the subject upon which I mean to engage your attention for a few minutes. No spur is necessary to awaken an interest in anything concerning Jenny Lind. No effort of memory required to cause you to remember the Lind fever, of which we have all heard, and from which some of us have suffered more or less. Yes, I know it, that magical name once mentioned, it is your curiosity that I have to allay. Your eyes are wide awake on this page—but, let them not wander in unlawful search of what I can have to say. There is a chastisement for wandering eye as for listening ear. You will not get a sight of the name of her Lord that is to be, after skipping over twenty lines, neither will you by turning the page be the sooner apprized of the shape and color of her morning dress. You must relinquish the hope of hearing whether her waist be long or short—her pocket-handkerchief with or without lace, although you may silence the troublesome enquiries of your little sister, by converting into an arithmetical question the mishap of the poor lad, who lately in a paroxysm of the Lind-fever, pledged her pocket-handkerchief (confided to the bleaching care of his parent) to secure a seat amidst her admiring audience. The
Question would stand thus—What may be the probable value of enny Lind's mouchoirs, ten of them having been temporarily disposed of for five-and-sixpence?
Now, if you are sufficiently prepared to give up all hopes of hearing of Jenny Lind in the more insignificant manifestations of her lesser self, I think it time to avow that I cannot offer you any such information. I could not for the world tell you the shape of her night-cap, nor where you might get one of her flowers somewhat under twenty pounds, but I want you quietly, (being myself a soberly minded person) to accompany me to the Opera—back to that eventful 5th of May, when I was to see her for the first time.
Oh! I think I hear you say, "why was not your offer a bona fide one?" How gladly should I have taken indeed the seat in your box you now so kindly hold out in words prating about the Opera; just as the papers have done for these three months with no other good to us than to fan the already raging Lindfever.
To this, my dear young friends, I can only give the unwilling reply I received most days—one bringing with it additional meaning every succeeding year of your life, and tinged with a pleasant ever-varying light according to the degree of sincerity in the individual that utters it—
"I wish I could!"
Helena in Shakespere says—
I wish it had —for then the expression above quoted would not so often remind me of its equally benevolent and sincere parallel, expressed with so much fervor on all occasions by the juvenile branches of democratic society, who beset our path with the kindest wishes that " we may get all we want."
But I must not forget that my purpose is not to expound the physiology of wishes, but to invite you to share in the fulfilment of that very keen one, which I dare say we had in common—going to hear Jenny Lind.
It is over—we have looked, listened, and seen her only in the representation of "La Figlia del Reggimento." Now we awake to the power of remembrance. Comparison is the next very natural step, but this we will not take. We think that neither Grisi now, nor Malibran formerly, in their respective individualities are as artistes inferior to Jenny Lind, and when the fascinations of novelty and fashion, born in rumour and ending in noise, shall have yielded to an impartial estimate of the rights of each, we shall hear no more of " Lind-fevers" and " Nightingales," but still and long of the Lind charm. An emanation from, not a manifestation of, herself—a harmony of the reality with the representation; knit together by simplicity and truth. Need I say how rare to find, since it so completely takes us by surprise—overcomes us, and we acknowledge that as the novelty of the day, which ought to have been about our path and familiar to us from childhood—the spirit of truthfulness.
How much I admire her for failing in the representations of Norma or of Lucrezia Borgia—it may be an artistical fault in her, ignorance in me—I care not, it is a feeling, and feeling is