Around the room are mottoes formed of sim
ilar letters. They are as follows:
“ Remember the sick and wounded soldiers.”
“ Stand by the Flag.”
“ In God is our trust.”
“ Freedom for all.”
“ All for our Country.”
“ Little but Plucky.”
The point of the last motto is in the fact that
a couple of tiny specimens of the Stars and
Stripes are the subject of the pithy remark.
At the book stand in the Children’s Depart
ment there are some excellent works offered
for sale. Among them is a beautiful little
volume, printed on fine tinted paper, and
handsomely illustrated, which is entitled the
“Children’s Hour.” The entire book is a
contribution to the cause, and among the con
tributors to the work, in the various depart
ments, of paper, printing, binding, &c., are
Messrs. J. B. Lippincott & Co., Chas. J. Pe
terson, Ciias. Maoaroe, Copper & Fry, Ed
ward Gaskill, J. A. Speed, Midler & Bur
dock, William Ruteer, and Paws on & Nich
olson.
HRS. MCDONALD.
Yesterday, a rustic gentleman, while stroll
ing through the Fair, with his intended hang
ing upon his arm, stopped to gaze at the dis
play made at one of the tables. Pointing to a
fine picture upon the wall, he inquired who it
was. “The Madonna,” was the reply of the
polite attendant.
“Oh!” replied the gentleman from the agri
cultural districts; and remarked to his com
panion as he moved off, that “ Mrs. McDon
ald must be a plaguy pretty woman!”
From the Children’s Department visitors can
proceed direct to the Children’s Exhibition
Room, where Signor Blitz, and other kind
hearted performers, are ready to entertain
them; and to the “ Skating Pond” and “ Ball
Room.”
“THE DAYS OP SIXTY-THREE.”
This agreeable poem, written and published
for the benefit of the Sanitary Commission,
was written by a lady of this city, who has
derived her inspiration from the highest source
—her patriotism and sympathy with the trials
and perils of the soldiers. The subject is as
follows:
A veteran of the days of sixty-three is
seated beneath the shade of his orchard, before
the door of his ancestral home. Half a cen
tury has passed away since he fought with
the conquerors at Gettysburg, and it is now
the eve of the 4th of July, 1913. All around
is peace and plenty; the sun is setting and the
flocks returning home. But, as the shadows
lengthen, and the stillness of evening descends,
the force of contrast brings back to the mind
of the old soldier the struggle through which
he passed, and the friends and comrades who
fought by his side. His grand-children, who
see the change, soothe him with their caresses,
Otjb Dailt !F_A.:Ea:e.
and beg the story of the war. This is told in
spirited and melodious words, vividly depict
ing many of the striking scenes through which
we have passed. The whole closes with a just
and grateful tribute to the Sanitary Commis
sion. We trust that this little work, which
costs only fifty cents, and can be found on
many of the more important stalls in the Fair,
will meet with a ready sale, and, by adding to
the funds of the Commission, answer the only
purpose the writer had in view.
As it is said that two of a trade never
agree, we take pleasure in refuting the calum
ny by stating that several gentlemen of the
pharmaceutical profession have agreed admi
rably in aiding the Sanitary. We are request
ed by several ladies to return thanks to Mr.
Wyeth, of Walnut above Broad, for very libe
ral gifts in great variety, of perfumery and
fancy wares, and also to Mr. Alfred Tatem,
of Locust and Fifteenth, for the zeal mani
fested, not only in giving to, but in laboring
for the cause. We would ourselves acknowl
edge indebtedness to Messrs. Estlack & Roh
rer, of Eighteenth and Market streets, for
their zeal in collecting subscriptions for Out
Daily Fare, and their kindness in supplying us
in the hour of need, with needful “furniture”
for our table.
Gentlemen and ladies writing notices
of goods for exhibitions, for our Gossip, are re
quested to study brevity We are requested to
state that the celebrated Genoa ivory crucifix,
brought to this country by C. Edwards Les
ter, subsequently sold for ten thousand dol
lars to the Cosmopolitan Art Association, and
now in possession of “Right Reverend Bishop
Neuman,” is on exhibition at the west end of
Union avenue A gentleman who has been
“provided for,” thus tells us the tale of his
sorrows: “ Lately, while strolling through the
Fair, a black-eyed damsel, of the Floral de
partment, was very much too clever for me.
She said, ‘You will find a letter, Mr. ,
in the post-office.’ I got it—found much point
in it, and went back to my floral friend. I
taxed her with having written it, but it was
not her handiwork. ‘lf you will find out who
who wrote the letter, I will buy a bouquet from
you,’ said I; ‘ Agreed,’ said she. A half-hour
after I heard a voice, ‘l’ve found out who
wrote the letter.’ ‘Ah, I’m delighted to buy
the flowers; who wrote it?’ but the tender
bud answered, ‘ I only promised to find out
the name, not to tell it to you.’ I sadly paid
my money for the bouquet; but was’nt it a
good ‘ sell’ of the flowers ? The lassie promises,
however, that if I buy another bouquet to
morrow, she will tell me whether or Hot she
will give the name of the fair writer of the
clever letter.”
Our restaurant, capitally as every-thing is
done there, cannot offer anything so rich as
the following exact copy of a card sent The
Daily Fare, from Havana;
TIIE BOTH WORLD HOTEL
Num 80 San Ignacio Street
PLAZA VIEJA.
In this establishment set as the Euro
pean style receives lodgers wbicli will
find an splendid assistance so in eating
as in habitation therefore the master
count with the elements necessary.
One who has “gone in on the Indians four
times,” as he expresses it in his note, desires
us to call the attention of the public to their
exhibition, and declares that for ab-originality
it is unequalled. They have not as yet given
the great stamp-on-your-friend’s-foot-Zea
maize, or Green Corn dance, but as soon as
Ne-na-no-kim-me-na-no-now, or Tobacco
made-of-pot-herbs has recovered from the last
roast pig he devoured, we may look for the
event; during his convalescence, the following
lines are recommended to his attention:
Oh, rod man of the forest,
How queer you make mo fool,
To think your dinner, howe’er cooked
Is always Indian Meal!
Chorus—in Choctaw —
Ota leyn urt imem'ss Lucy!
Ota keyo urt imemissltmg 1
Ota keyo urt imemiss Lucy dear 1
Andk eepl heba bywar m /
“Modern English poetry, the third speci
men,” reaches us in the following form :
IN BOSEAM.
Dusk glamouring browns tho evening sheen
But if Fates’ colors tell no lie,
All tills unto myself is I,
And I myself smarngdinc green.
But am I truly to bo damned
In the wild whirls of fibrous fate?
And a voice cried—with desolate
Dry souls th» bag of Heaven is ernmmed.
If I myself woro only I,
Or Self were something more Myself,
Still reaching to tho Inner Shelf
Where tho Soul’s wash is put to dry.
So would I weep—but weeping still
I wander in tho eventide,
And see the boy his donkey ride,
Whilo sparrows lounge athwart tho mill.
And so the answer wendeth far
A shimmering out-word o’er the down,
Through the grailed splorcs of that dun town,
In-heavening yon violet star.
The remaining thousand verses are omitted
by universal and agonized request. It is
easily made, this poetry—one ounoc of Pre-
Raphaelite art to a peck of I’s and Me’s—the
whole flavored with some extremely slender
metaphysics and gasps over predestination.
At the West Philadelphia table there
is a very beautiful object, which we commend
to the attention of the publio, the most ele
gent fabric of beads and embroidery ever
worked by woman’s fingers. It is to be given
to the unfailing friend of America, Mr. Bright
of England.