A PLEASANT feature of domestic life which is done away with by the late dinner is the family tea. This meal, always an informal one, used to give play to the housekeeper's fancy in the concoction of dainty dishes with which to render the repast more appetizing to the tired and hungry master of the home. Now, to be sure, she has lunches upon which to expend her culinary ingenuity; but then the person for whom she best loves to cater, her husband, is rarely at home.

In some families it is the custom to have tea one night in the week. It may be on Saturday, when there is no school and the children can all be at home to an early dinner, or on Sunday, when many people dine in the middle of the day. Still other households prefer a noon dinner and a simple tea in summer, pleading the advantage of getting the heavy cookery out of the way in the morning, instead of being obliged to stand over a cook-stove through the long blazing afternoon.

In one way or another, then, there are few families where the tea-table is not spread at least once a week, while in many homes it is a daily institution. It only ceases to be delightful when it is, through carelessness, allowed to slip into a groove, and when the suggestion of making it attractive is put aside with the excuse, "Oh, anything will do for tea!"

Some years ago a party of city people spent a charming summer in a farm-house high up among the Berkshire hills. The accommodations of the roomy old-fashioned dwelling were good, the breakfasts and dinners excellent, well cooked, and liberal in provision. But the teas! Night after night the guests gathered about a tea-table adorned with plates of cold bread, of butter, and of cake, pitchers of milk, and occasionally a dish of berries or of stewed fruit. Tea there was, as a matter of course, but never a bit of meat or fish, or an egg in any form, boiled, poached, or in an omelet; not even a pat of pot-cheese or a few slices of dairy cheese. Warm biscuit, muffins, and waffles were likewise conspicuous by their absence.

It was all very well for those who ate bread and milk and were fond of cake, but for a party of ravenous young people, who had spent a long afternoon playing tennis, fishing or driving, or tramping over the hills in the hunger-provoking air, the sight of the table was not inspiriting; nor did it become more popular as the season advanced and the early frosty evenings improved appetites that had never been poor. Yet, in spite of loudly expressed hints, it never seemed to occur to the farmer's good wife that her tea-table was not supplied with every viand the most exacting eater could desire.

Naturally, when a hearty meal has been served in the middle of the day, there should be no thought of having to prepare a second dinner for the evening. But there should be, at least, some relish to vary the monotony of plain bread and butter, something to give the meal an aspect other than that of a perfunctory "feed," where every one eats on the principle upon which Nicholas Nickleby "distended his stomach with a bowl of porridge" the morning after his arrival at Dotheboys Hall—not that he wanted it then, but lest he should be inconveniently hungry when there was nothing to eat.

There are many delicious supper dishes which are made with little difficulty. In winter, oysters, clams, scallops, broiled ham, fried, broiled, or stewed chicken, chicken scallop or mince, sausages, bacon and eggs, with any of the large varieties of griddle-cakes or warm breads, will make a meal to satisfy any one; while in summer, salads of eggs, fish, lobsters, chicken, cold lamb or veal, shrimp, cheese, beet leaves, lettuce, cabbage, potato, string-beans, and of many other kinds, may be relied upon. Omelets and other preparations of eggs are inexpensive, easily cooked, and generally popular, while cold meat goes well on a summer evening, especially when accompanied by bannocks, scones, butter-cakes, toasted crackers, wafers, or some light bread that is easily made and not hard to digest. Then there are galantines, potted meats, jellied fish, pickled salmon, cottage-cheese, and numerous other little delicacies that are not costly and yet are good.

The table for tea should be set much as it is for breakfast, with the exception of the oatmeal sets. All the dishes may be placed upon the table at once, as they would be at lunch, and the family may do much of the passing of plates. The tea is served with the first course, and the cups and tray may be removed to make room for the dish of fruit or simple sweets that generally concludes the meal. The saucers in which these are served should stand on plates, on which each guest may lay the cake which is usually passed at the same time. Hot puddings are out of place at tea, but instead there may be, in winter, apple-sauce, stewed prunes, preserved ginger, brandied and preserved peaches, pears or plums, jams or marmalades, custards, blanc-manges, jellies, or anything of that sort; while in summer it is rarely impossible to procure berries of some kind, or other fruit. A dish of "bonny-clabber"—better known, perhaps, as "loppered milk"—of junket, or of syllabub is always delicious, and is usually easily obtained where milk and cream are plentiful.

No domestic sight is pleasanter in its way than a tea-table on a cold winter night, spread with a bright cloth and set out with dainty china and shining silver, and with all the cheer-inspiring appurtenances of the tea-tray; with the plate of hot bread, the savory dish of hot meat, and the little relishes that housekeepers know well how to supply. And in summer its counterpart is seen in the table laid in the room brightened by the level sun's rays, where a crisp salad, piles of white and brown bread, and a plate of rusk or tea-biscuit, pitchers of milk, and a dish of berries with cream in abundance revive the fainting appetites and spirits of those who have borne the heat and burden of the day.

In summer a tea on the lawn is an agreeable variety to introduce occasionally. A medium-sized table may be carried out under the trees, and spread with a white cloth. On this are placed the principal dishes—the bread-and-butter, which may sometimes have its place taken by sandwiches; the salad or cold meat, or both; the cake and fruit. The tea-tray and kettle may be here too, or the tea may be made in the house. Iced tea and coffee make a pleasant change once in a while.

A rug or two may be laid on the grass if any of the party have a nervous dread of colds, and a few little tables will provide a space upon which to rest a cup of tea or a glass of milk when the lap is occupied by the plate containing the more solid viands. Low chairs should stand here and there, and the whole scene will present a charmingly festal appearance at a trifling outlay of time and trouble.

A certain family who possess a delightful country place make their Sunday evening al fresco tea one of the pleasantest spots in the week. No one is present but the family and any guests who may be staying in the house. The pretty, simple meal is served out on the grassy lawn, which slopes down to the water. When the eating is over, the maid comes out, gathers the dishes into a tray, and carries them back to the house, happy in the thought that there is no supper-table to be cleared and no dining-room to be brushed up.

Long after the vestiges of the feast have been removed the family sit there, chatting pleasantly, watching the sunset and the stars coming out or the moon rising. By and by some voice begins a hymn, the others take it up, and the singing goes on until the early bedtime comes, and the party turns towards the house with a restful happiness that is none the less deep and true because it is hard to describe or to analyze.