EE a Ee
—
THE GOLDEN ROD.
There's gold in the mis er’s chest
Fast locked with a golden key ;
Anda gold most rare in a woman's hair
And a gold in the sands at sea ; :
There's a sway goldon the wheat's lithe
len
Whos ts breeze tossed billows nod,
But never a gold so full and free,
Ah, me—
None, none like the goldenrod.
There's gold on the maple’s branch
That gleams on an autumn leaf, :
And a golden crown when the sun dies
down
While the shadows turn and flee ; ;
There's a wealth of gold in the pointed
leaves
Where the willow strews the sod,
But no such feathery filagree,
Ah, me—
None, none like the goldenrod.
There's gold in the dawn’s faint streaks
That glint on the poplar tree,
There's gold in the mine, and in lees of
wine,
And gold on the humble bee.
But by the plumes of its knightly crest,
Where the wild wind rides roughshod,
There is never a gold so fair to see,
Ah, me—
._ None, none like the goldenrod.
“ew Ernest McGaffey in Arkansaw Traveler.
————————————————"
TROT'S MOTHER.
“Well, my boy, I'll try and tell you
all about it from the beginning. Help
ourself to a cigar first, and pass the
ox to me. I knew you would want to
hear the particulars, and I—I have been
trying to put off the evil moment. I'm
_ getting an old man now, Harry, and all
this shook me a good deal at the time.
“Come here, Trot, and sit on my
knee. There, that's better. Seems
odd, Harry, don’t it, to see an old bach-
elor like me nursing a tiny bit of a girl
like Trot? Four years old to-day,
aren’t you, Trot? How the time flies!
“You see, my dear lad, you ought to
have told her before you went away.
She never guessed that you thought of
her in that way. It might have saved
her—who knows?
“It must be nine years since your
Uncle Will died and left Violet in my
care. She was only 15 then. Don't
you think Trot is very like her? The
game large brown eyesand long lashes,
the same loving little ways.
“She came to me one morning soon
after you started for Cuba, with a letter
in her hand.
“ ‘Look here uncle,’ she said, kneel-
ing beside me, and holding the rote
where I could read : ‘It’s from the Golds
and they invite me to go and stay with
them at Ventnor. May I accept?’
“Do you want to go, Violet?
asked.
“if course I do, she answered,
laughing. ‘We are so quiet here at
home, and this would be such a delight-
ful change. Please let me, Uncle, I'll
write you long letters, and tell you
about everything!
“I did not want to part with her even
for a little time, for the three years she
had been with me then had made my
life quite a different matter; but it
seemed selfish to keep the bright, mer-
.ry girl always shut up with a crusty
old man. 1 gave her leave to go, and
then, when after a fortnight she wrote
begging to be allowed to stay longer,
as her friends wished, I had not the
heart to refuse. She was there five
weeks and then she came home.
“The very day after her return he
came—that contemptible scoundrel
whom in those few weeks she had
learned to regard as a hero. How he
found out at first that she had a little
fortune ot her own I don’t know. He
asked for me, and told me that he wan-
ted my permission to address my niece.
“He was a good-locking young fel-
low, and had a frank open manuer that
was sure to win a girl's favor; but I
thought of you, Harry, and determined
to prevent the matter going further if I
could. I took a strong and apparent-
ly unreasonable dislike to him. and
made many inquiries, hoping to find
out something that would justify me in
forbidding him the house, but entirely
in vain. But I studied ; observed every
little act and word until at last I was
convinced that I knew him through;
and that he was no fit husband for my
little Violet.
“By this time it had become a kind
of tacit eogagement, and I knew I
should seem almost brutal for interfer-
ing, but I couldn't bear theidea of giv-
ing Violet into his care. I vowed, to
myself that nothing on earth should in-
duce me to dose, and I told him to dis-
continue his visits.
“The result of that was that he came
to a definite understanding with Violet,
and she promised to marry him with
or without my consent.
“Don’t look at meso reproachfully
Harry.’ It may be that I acted un-
wisely all through; but if so I have
been severely punished for my folly.
You have let your cigar go out. Here
are the matches.
“You want me to tell you all she said
and did—her very words, as well as I
can remember. That's a hard matter,
for my memory’s not as good as it used
to be.
“] was silting here one evening,
when Violet came in slowly, and sitting
down where vou are, looked at me very
sadly for some minutes,
“%Uncle, dear,’ she said at last, ‘I
cannot understand you. I never be-
lieved that you could be so hard and
cruel.’
“I did not speak.
& ‘It is not like you to be so unjust,
go arbitrary,’ she went on. ‘It seems
to me, uncle, that in the matter of mar-
riage a woman should choose for her-
self and not be influenced by any one.
I have made my choice and given my
word ; but oh! I should be so much
happier if you were not angry. Do for-
give me and be your own kind self
again.”
“ ‘Yes, when you yield to my wish-
es, I answered, coldly. ‘You are a
. mere gitl, Violet, and have had no ex-
perience of men. If you were ten years
older I should leave you to take the
consequences of your rashness, but as
iy ig—'
I
“tag it is—whatthen? Oh! uncle,
and she slipped from her chair and
kneeled here on the rng at my feet,
‘pray—pray be your oid self again.
You were never angry with me before,
and it seems so strange and unnatural
to see you turn your lead away from
me without a smile. Do you love me
only if I have no voice, no will of my
own?’
# ¢Iigten to me, child,’ I eaid look-
ing her in the face. ‘I have striven to
be a father to you since I brought you
here; I have loved you, heaven only
knows how dearly! In return I only
ask you to let me prevent your making
a complete wreck of your life. I want
tosave you from a sad fate, and you
think me a tyrant.’
“She took my hand in both her’s and
pressed her face on it, then looked up
with a smile.
“(J wish Harry was here,’ she said.
‘He would help me to convince you.
He always took my side.’
“J ought not to have told you that,
my dear boy, but it was so fresh in
my mind, as it struck me forcibly at
the time, knowing as I did your love
for her. Forgive me my want of tact.
“She was not giving to
tears like some women, orshe would
have cried then. Her cheeks were hot
and burning as they touched my hand,
while her eyes were feverishly bright.
She used every argument shecould find |
to induce me to consent to her engage-
ment, and as I remained silent she
drew nearer and gazed up eagerly in
my face.
« «You relent, uncle 2 she whispered,
in an agitated way. ‘You will let me
be happy ?’
“pn “that way, never,’ I told her,
sadly and sternly, and I tried to draw
away my flngers ; but she clung to them
tightly, while her lips quivered.
“(Don’t say that, dear uncle! she
cried hoarsely. ‘Dear uncle, oh, what
can I say—what can say to move you!
“You think I was very hard, Harry,
1 see; but I thought it best.
«Hush, child, I said. ‘Nothing
will influence me. I am resolved.’
“ ¢And so am I, she said, sorrowful
ly, dropping my hand and rising to her
feet. ‘I should always wished to please
you ; but now that you are harsh and
unjust, and will not listen to reason,
what can I do?’
“She waited for me to speak, but I
had no words at hand. I was too hurt
and angry. She went toward the door,
then came back and stood behind me,
resting her handlightly upon my shoul-
der.
“ «Try and forgive me, uncle, I love
him so—I love his fauits that make
| you despise him, and his virtues that
you do not know. Won’c you kiss me,
uncle ?’
_“I was half inclined to take her in
my arms and tell her she conld do as
she would, but I did not. After a few
moments of dead silence I heard her
catch her breath in ahalf sob, and then
the door closed upon her and I was
alone. :
“The next day she did not come
down before I went to the city, and
when I came home she was gone. I
have forgiven her now, Harry; but it
was a cruel blow. After all my love
and care I did not think she could
have left me like that!
“Why, Trot, you look quite fright
ened | 1’m not cross my pet.
“Y eg, yes, my boy, I'm going on;
but you are so impatient. Well, some
time after—a year or two years, per-
haps, I can’t remember exactly—as I
was coming howe at dusk, in the
Strand, I thiuk it was, I met a woman
in a shabby black dress, with a child
on her arm, our eyes met, and then
somehow or other we were the cen-
tre of a crowd, and I was raising Vio-
let’s head from the hard pavement. She
had fainted on seeing me, and I had
just contrived to save her and the little
one trom a severe fall.
“I brought her home in a cab, and
my housekeeper helped her into bed.
Harry, she was next door to starva
tion, when that accidental meeting gave
her back to me—for only three days.
I was too late to save her.
“+You have forgiven me? she asked
that evening, as I sat by her bed.
“I forgave you, my child, long
gince ; but not him who has brought
you to this. Where 18 he?’
“Dead,” said the poor girl, in a
faint whisper- ‘Don’t speak ill of him
—1I can’t bear it.’
“J asked her why she had not let me
know she was in distress—why she had
not come home.
“J was ashamed to come,’ she said;
‘I knew you would not turn from me,
but I was too much ashamed.’
“The next day but one the doctor
told me what to expect. I promised
the poor child that Trot should take
her place with me. I held the little
one for her to kiss, and had it taken
away ; and then—
“Trot. my darling, run up stairs to
nurse for awhile; I'll call you down
again by and by.
“And then, as Isaid, Violet bade me
good-bye. Her last words? They
were: Give my love to Harry.’
* * * »
“These incessant fogs havea very
bad effect on my throat I can’t talk for
any length of time without getting like
I did just now, so that I can’t croak
out a word.
“There isn’t much more to tell, fort:
unately, for I am getting as hoarse as
a raven.
“I was out with Trot by my side,
one day last autumn, when I came up-
on some one 1 thought had goue to
join the majority. He was walking
with a pretty stylish-looking girl, chat-
ting and laughing, but when he saw.
me his smile died on his lips and the
blood flew to his face. ;
“is gaze dwelt for an instant on th
child whose hand I held. He knew
those brown eyes and long lashes, and
he saw the black frock.
“There, that is all, Harry. I read
your thoughts! You must not! Leave
him to heaven. Promise me, boy—for
her sake.” ‘
The old age we are taught to rever-
ence never dyes its beard,
shedding |
| spent most of his time indoors,
Whittier No More.
The Quaker Poet Peavefully Passes Away in
the Granite State.
HamrroNn Faris, N. H. {John G.
Whittier, the world-famous Quaker
poet, died last Wednesday after an ill-
nesses of about one week.
Mr. Whittier passed away peacefully.
The nearest relatives and Dr. Douglass
were at his bedside when death came,
and he seemed to be conscious of his
surroundings to the last moment. The
funeral will take place at Amesbury,
Mass., at 2:30 p. m. on Saturday.
THE DEAD BARD’S BIRTHPLACE.
John Greenleaf Whittier’s birth-
place still stands, near Haverhill, Mass,
only a little altered from what it was in
1807, the date of his birth. A farmer’s
son born at a time when New England
farm life was more frugal than itis
nowadays, he had none of the opportun-
ities for culture which Holmes or Lowell
had in their youth. His parents were
intelligent and upright people of limited
means, who lived in all the simplicity
of the Quaker faith, and there was noth-
ing in his early surroundings to encour-
age and develop a literary taste. He
had to borrow books among the neigh-
bo:s, and thought nothing of walking
several miles for one volume. The only
instruction he received was at the dis-
trict school, and later on at the Hav-
erhill Academy, paying for his tuition
by work done in his spare hours.
Some of the earliest inspiration was
drawn from Burns, and hé tells us of
his joy when his schoolmaster loaned
him a copy of the poet’s work, “I be-
gan to make rhymes myself,” he says,
in his simple way, ‘“and to imagine
stories and adventures.” Indeed, he
did begin to rhyme almost as soon as he
knew how to read, but he kept his
verses secret, fearing that his father,
who was a prosaic man, might think he
was wasting his time. So Le wrote on-
ly on the sly, when the paternal back
was turned ; and, as pen and ink were
not always available, he sometimes used
chalk, and even charcoal.
HE SURPRISES HIS PRACTICAL FATHER.
William H. Rideing in his “Boyhood
of Living Authors,” tells us that the
surprise of the family was great when
some of these verses were unearthed
from under a heap of rubbish in the
garret. His father frowned upon these
efforts, not out of unkindness but be-
cause he doubted the efficiency of the
boy’s education for a literary life. His
sister, however, bad faith in him, and
without his knowledge sent his poems
to the Free Press, of Newburyport.
Young Whittier was helping his fath-
er repair a fence by the roadside when
the carrior handed a copy of the paper
to him ; and, unconscious that there
was anything of his own in it, he open-
ed it and was dazed tofind the verses
called “The Exile’s Departure :”’
It was his own poem, with his initial
at the foot of it, “*W., Haverhill, June
1, 1826; and, better still, this note:
«Jt “W.,” at Haverhill, will continue to
favor us with pieces beautiful as the one
inserted in our poetical department of
to-day, we shall esteem it a favor.” He
did so, and the editor was so struck with
the verses that followed that he resolved
to make the acquaintance of his new
contributor.
So he drove over to see him. Whit-
tier, then a lad of 18, was summoned
from the field where he was working,
and, having stepped in at the back door
so that he could putan his coat and
shoes, came into the room with
“shrinking diffidence, alwiost unable to
speak, and blushing like a maiden.”
The friendship that began with this vis-
it lasted until death ended it. The ed-
itor was quite a young man at the time
—not more than 23. His name was
William Loyd Garrison.
‘When the Abolitionists were actively
at work sowing the seeds of anti-slavery
they found in John Greenleaf Whittier
a willing and an active ally. He be-
came pronounced in his views, and in
1836 the American Anti-Slavery So-
ciety elected him in its Secretary. From
1838 to 1839 he lived in Philadelphia,
editing the Pennsylvania Freeman, the
most radical paper published at that
time. In those years the upholding of
such a standard and the publication of
such principles as the Freeman was
founded upon, required not only a moral
but a physical courage, and this Whit-
tier possessed in a great degree. So vio-
lent did the opposition become that the
printing office was sacked and burned
by & mob, and on more than one occa-
sion Whittier faced fanatics who would
gloried in the death of the young man
who poured hot shot into their de-
fenses.
MR. WHITTER'S PERSONAL APPEAR-
ANCE.
In appearance he was somewhat pa-
triarchal. His spare form was erect
though his hair and head were white as
slacked lime. and his kipdly, deep-set
eye, though slightly dimmed for read-
ing were still bright. His step was
slow, but not faltering, and his hand-
clasp was as firm and as hospitable as it
was a score of years ago. He did not
affect the regulation Quaker garb, being
too much of a poet to banish bright col-
crs altogether ; but he adhered religious-
ly to the quaint ‘thee and thou.” both
in speaking and writing and there was
a quiet sympathy in all he did. A gen-
tleman of the old school, courtecus, re-
fined and dignified, yet not distant-—
such was the host who welcomed to Oak
Knoll those who would pay a tribute of
respect to the Quaker poet.
His home life was a charming one,
and the cousins with whom he lived,
Mrs. Woodman and the Misses Johnson
did everything in their power to make
him happy. He was thoroughly fond
of pets, and his three magnificent dogs,
two cate, and three fine horses, were
great favorites of his. During the sum-
mer it was his habit to spend most of
his hours out of door, and then a young
Saint Bernard dog was his constant
companion ; but 1n cold weather he
writing
| in his study or in conversation with his
relatives or with visitors from the vil-
lage.
WHITTIER AS A MAN.
John G. Whittier, wide though his
fame as a poet is, was little known as a
man. Indeed, he never cared to be so
known ; for he was modest even to shy-
ness, shunning miscellaneous society
and seldom appearing on public occa-
sions or at public assembles unless they
were discussing principles to which he
ii
was devoted. He had no inclination to
travel, never having been abroad and
having made few journeys in his cwn
country not prompted by business or
duty.
After the civil war, when he was near
60. many of his friends urged him at
different times to go abroad. "They as-
sured him that he would enjoy Euro-
pean travel, with its classic scenes, his-
toric associations and treasures of art,
descanting largely on these and the in-
tellectual advantage they would be to
him. He usually gave his delicate
health as a reason for not going, but
when it had been made clear that he
could travel slowly and easily and with
every comfort he admitled that he
greatly preferred to remain athome ;
that he was never so contented as when
at Amesbury and under his own
roof.
Enterprising managers exhausted inge-
nuity after the close of the war to incite
him to lecture. "When he said that he
had no theme, they mentioned slavery,
in the abolition of which he had borne
so prominent a part; but he declared
that he had put into his verse whatever
he had thought and felt on the subject
and that his lecture would be but a
repetition in prose. He was wholly op-
posed to lecturing ; no amount of money
could tempt him, for he had been
offered repeatly as high as $1,000 a
night. ‘‘I can never understand,” was
one of his remarks, ‘how a modest man
can be willing to make an ex hibition of
himse If.”
HIS POEMS RAPIDLY RISE IN VALUE.
He has attended the little Friend's
Church, in Amesbury, Mass., where he
lived for over half a century ; but be
has never been known to ‘speak in
meeting.”” It is interesting to note, by
the way, that he once sold the copy-
right of his poems for $500 and after-
ward bought it back for $1,200. At his
death it netted the venerable poet any-
where from $1,000 to $1,500 a year.
He recently refused $2.000 for a short
Christmas poem.
«W hittier’s reputatian,” says Mr.
Mayo W Hazletine, “has grown like a
forest tree, and may reasonably
be expected to live the life of one.
In the evening of his days,a modest
singer, who seems never to have sought
prestige by cunning ways, and whose
merits were long eclipsed at home by
the transient glitter of other names, he
finds himself grown dear to a whole
country, and very generally accepted
as one of its truest lyric representa,
tives. Scarcely any poet of our time,
remarks the same accomplished critic-
has touched with more honest reverence
and loving tenderness the relations of
friendship, on marriage of parent and
child. Whittier, in brief, 1s truly, in
Sidney ’s sense a homilist.
WHITTIER’S POETRY.
Mr, Whittier’s best known works are.
“Legends of New England, in Prose
and Verse,” 1831; “Moll Pitcher,” a
poem 1833; “Mogg Magone,’”” a poem
1836; ‘ Ballads,” 1838; “Lays of My’
Home and Other Poems,” 1943 ; “The
Stranger in Lervill’”’ (prose essays) 1845
“Supernaturalism in New England,”
1847, “Leaves from Margaret Smith’s
Journal,” 1849 ; “The Voices of Free-
dom,” 1849 ; “Old Portraits and Mod-
ern Sketches,” 1850 ; “Songs of Labor
and Other Poems,” 1850 ; “The Chap-
el of the Hermits and* Other Poems,”
1853 ; “A Sabbath Verse,” 1853 ; ‘Lit-
erary Recreations and Miscellanies,’
1854 ; “The Panorama,” 1856 ; “Home
Ballads and Poems,” 1860; “In War
Time and Other Poems,” 1863; ‘“Na-
tional Lyrics,” two volumes 1865-66 ;
“Snowbound, a Winter Idyl,”” 1865 ;
«Maud Muller,” illustrated, 1866 ;
«The Tent on the Beach,’ 1867 ;
“Among the Hills and Other Poems,”
1868 ; “Ballads of New England,”
1870 ; “Miriam and Other Poems,”
1870 ; “Child Life, ’ 1871; “Th e Penn-
sylvania Pilgrim and Other Poems,”
1872.,
Lice on Fowls.
Body lice on fowls are hard to destroy
and must be kept down systematically.
Fanciers, Monthly says no single prep-
aration will entirely exterminate them
and advises the following:
Provide birds with good dust bath in
which tobbacco dust, ashes, sulphur,
etc have been mixed. Occasionly give
them a thorough powdering with puhach
The main point is to keep the roosts,
nest boxes and house entirely free from
vermin, and if then given a good dust
bath the fowls will keep themselves
comparatively free from lice.
For lice on the heads of the chickens
powder them well with tobacco
dust; puhach or any good insect powder
Some breeders use oil or grease, but we
consider such a remedy worse than the
disease—a dry powder is the only thing
that should be applied to very small
chickens. Large gray lice come from
the hens. If you once rid the chickens
of such vermin and thereafter pay proper
attention to the coops you will exper-
ience no further trouble from that souree.
EO HET ARBRE TS
A Prominent Republican’s Opinion.
From the Atlanta Journal.
It has not been many years since Gen.
John A. Logan bore this testimony to
the righteousness of the Democratic
doctrine of tariff reform: ‘We want
reduction of the tariff. We are taxed
on every interest; blood is not only ex-
tracted from the larger veins of the
body politic, but it is bound hand and
foot and covered with gallinippers which
are allowed to suck blood from every
vein.”
TC
His Little Paradox.
“You are a sailor, you say ?"’ inquir-
ed the lawyer.
“Yes sir,”
“How long have you been a sail-
or 7?
“Always,” replied the witness proud-
ly. “I’ve been on water ever since I’ve
been on earth,”
——1I wish I was a widow.
Why ?
So that I could speak of my late
husband.
Oh, I can do that now.
How ?
My husband is always late.
er gets home before midnight.
He nev-
On the Choice of Books,
If people were as careless about what |
they eat as about what they read, dys-
pepsia would be much more common |
than it is now. It is a good deal a mat-
ter of luck what falls into their hands
to read. The facilities for distribution
of literature are very imperfect. They
have improved with the introduction of
railways and railway book-stands, but
the choice of the reading thus offered is
not left to the intelligent public, but is
much governed by purely commercial
reasons, and little by any sound literary
taste. The majority of the people are
notin the habit of frequenting book-
stores, as they do dry-goods and provi-
sion stores, to see what is new, suited to
their tastes, and wholesome. A large
portion of the country districts have no
means of knowing about books or of |
buying them except from the traveling
canvassers, whose prime motive is not to
raise the intelligence of the counisy by
what they distribute. A book-shop in
the small cities as well as the large, and
in villages, used to be an intellectual
centra where readers met, not only to
keep the run of the thought of the
world but to exchange ideas about it.
Few are so now. Book-shops generally
throughout the country have changed
their character. The booksellers say it
does not pay to keep a stock of standard |
literature, nor to put on their counters
the pick of the best books that are pub-
lished every week. Their bobk’ stalls
have become shops of “notions” wf sta-
tionery, of artist's materials, of various
bric-a-brac, of games, of newspapers
and periodicals, of the cheap and flimsy
temporary product of a commercial di-
rected press, with only an occasional
real book that has attained exceptional
noteriety. A new article of diet comes
into general use usually through per-
sistent and extensive advertising. Books
are advertised liberally—for books—
and more than they were formerly, be-
cause there are more newspapers, but
the advertising is not as effective asit is
in the case of things to wear and to eat.
A good book rarely reaches its due au-
dience. It is put forth by a 2ood house,
and has a distribution, which can be
pretty accurately predicted, in certain
limited channels. In the case of any
good book there is no doubt that it
would have ten readers where it now has
one, if it were brought to the attention
of those who would like it. The proof of
this 1s the fact that the sale of a novel
in book form is not injured, but often is
aided, by its first appearance as a serial
in some periodical or newspaper. There
are many publics. The serial will have
a certain audience ; the book will find
another (partly because the serial publi-
cation has advertised it); it might then
go into a newspaper, or into many news-
papers, and search out other aadiences,
and the chance is that a worthy book
might run for a long time in various
channels, and in several forms and styles
cheap and dear, without loosing its
strength of circulation Many a vol-
ume of high character has a success
within a limited circle, and is praised by
the critics, and then drops out of notice
when not a tenth of the people have
ever heard of it who would be as likely
to buy it as the few who did read it
when it was first launched. There 18
somehow a defect in distribution. A
good book ought to have a long life.
If it is liked this year, there is no rea-
son why it should not be liked ton years
later, for meantime the reading public
has changed ; that which pleased the
man at thirty will please the man who
was only twenty when the book was
published. TItis difficut to say whether
this imperfect distribution and this
haste and waste in the treatment of the
brain product are due to the method of
publication, or to the rage of the public
for something new. Its true that the
literary taste changes in a generation or
two, but we believe that it is the exper-
ience of publihers that a real book,
which was popular a generation ago,
will have, if properly revived, as large
an audience with the new public as it
had with the old. Books in this respect
are like pictures, thereis always a public
for the best, when the public has an op-
portunity of seeing them. We believe
that the publication of good literature,
adhered to, pushed, and advertised,
would be more profitable than the con-
stant experiments with ephemeral trash;
but it is useless to moralize about this in
an age when there is such a pressure
for publication of new things, and there
are such vast manufactories which feel
it a necessity to keep their hoppers full
of the grain of the new crop. It may
be said, however, that if there was any-
where a controlling desire to distribute
good literature, rather than a manufac-
turer’s notion of turning out any sort of
product of paper, type, and ink, the
public would be the gainer. And per-
haps the publishers would find their ac-
count 1n a better educated public taste.
The analogy does not hold 2ll along the
line, but usually the houses of merchan-
dise are more prosperous and permanent
that deal in the staples of life than those
that merely experiment with ephemeral
novelties. The problem is how to
bring books of value, or even books
having an element of popularity, to the
notice of the majority of possible buy-
ers. In any other trade the profit is in
pushing a good article to the limit of
its circulation, rather than in being
content with the local and small circu-
lation of half a dozen inferior articles,—
Oharles Dudley Warner, in the Edi-
tor’s Study, in Harper's Magazine for
September.
Some Big Western Farms.
Large farms are not uncommon in
the west. In fact, in some sections
they are the rules rather than the ex-
ception. Senator Casey, of North De-
kota, has 5,000 acres under cultivation.
The Dalrymple farm in Dakota contain
30,000 acres. It is under perfect culti-
vation, and yields a heavy income. In
| the Red River valley lies the great
Grandin farm. Here are found 15,000
acres under cultivation, and in the last
ten years it has yielded a profit of $480,
000. Senator Casey boasts that he can
plant 250 acres of wheat per day with
his drilling machines, and the Dalrym-
ples have a machine which threshes
from 1.200 to 2,000 bushels of wheat a
day.
——Now that the avaricious hairs of
the late Father Mollinger bave institu-
ted a scramble for his $10,000,000 estate
the important fact has come to the
surface that it is really worth only |
$100,000.
The World of Women.
'
i Dark blue cloth jackets display pearl
grey garnitures and bone buttons.
i The light summer toilettes which be-
| gin to show signs of wear, or of which
| the wearer has become tired, can be al-
| most revolutionizes by dainty flaring
| jackets of lace, which are.easily slipped
‘on and off. These are most effective in
black, or black outlined with gold
| thread.
| The popular serge suits made with
Eaton jackets, and displaying a pretty
silk blouse und jabot or close vest of
white linen or serge, will be worn till
late in the season. Many, however,
will exchange the blouse or cotton vest
for,a vest of chamois opening slightly
at the neck, with short revers, on a
white linen plastron with collar.
Ella S. Knowles, the People’s party
candidate for Attorney General, is only
28 years old. She was born in New
Hampshire, and after graduating from
Bates College, Maine, she returned to
her native State and took up the study
of law. As her heslth gave away she
took a latin professorshipin a Western
college and thence went to Helena,
Mont., where she completedy her legal
studies. She succeeded in getting a bill
passed by the Territorial Legislature
permitting women to practice law and
took out her license in 1890. She has
built up an excellent practice.
Just look here girls! The last census
shows that there are a million and a
half fewer girls than men in the United
States. Perhaps you have spent three
or four week at the sea shore, where six
or seven of you had to be content with
one fellow, and he. probably not over
seventeen years old, and . you will be
ready to declare that I am not telling
the truth, but here are the figure for it,
just as they come from a census bulletin
which say: “The whole number of
males ir the United States in 1890 is
32,670,880, and the whole number of
females, 80,554,870. For the United
States as a whole, therefore, there are
for every 100,000 males 95,280 females.
Ten vears before there were 96,554 fe-
males. to every 100,000 males, while in
1870 there were 97,801 females to every
100,000 males. The females exceed the
males in the District of Columbia, Mass-
achusetts and Rhode Island.
Watteau pleats are universally used
on house dresses. The newest are sim-
ply brought up in a point between the
shoulders, and not caught down at the
waist. Others have this same point of
material fastened between the apparent
slashing of a Senorita jacket. Some
form two box pleats on either shoulder,
pleat from the neck. They are general-
ly becoming, and it isa style that has
added a great deal to the picturesque
element in the dress this year.
Young girls especially favor bust
bows; these are introduced in both
morning and evening dresses. They
are about six inches long, according to
the figure, and three to four ‘deep:
They consist of a couple of loops, with
a small tie in the centre, and in the
evening serve as the foundation for the
display of jewels. In the morning they
are made in crepe or crepcn of some
bright contrast color and are extremely
useful, if in delicate tints, to brighten
costumes of black or sombre colors.
“0h, yes,” said the unsophisticated
little maiden with light hair and blue
eyes. “I always wear pale blue. In
fact it is the only shade I feel perfectly
at home in.”
She evidently still clung, this confi-
dent young blonde, to the exploded
maxim, “blue for blondes and red for
the brunette,” and had not yet wakened
up to modern color reform which de-
crees that “crimson should be charily
indulged in by the brunette, while
blonds should avoid light shades of blue
which are apt to give the complexion
an ashy hue.” Blue in dark velvety
tones may be claimed by the fair haired
girl, this offering an accommodating
background for skin and hair, and vivid
scarlets are the especial property of
blonde beauties.
The Olive of a brune skin is rendered
adorable by being brought into conjunc-
tion with yellow, which gives it a rich,
creamy tint that is exquisitely contract-
ed with dark eyes and hair. But it is
the middle-eged woman, the woman
with while hairs in her head, who must
choose carefully her tints, so that gar-
ish coloring will have no place in her
toilet. Soft, silvery tones with the
sheen of sunlight are harmonious ac-
companiments to whitening locks, and
a dash of pink, a glance of crimson, and
a stately blending of black and pearl
produce elegant effects in gowning.
Stripes are certainly passe, for in all
materials and in every conceivable color
plaids are all the rage. And what love-
ly plaids they are, too—silk and wool
ottoman in the Tartan colors, the stylish
gown being made up ot this charming
material ; camel’s hair plaid., in fully
six-inch square blocks, with great shag-
gy fringes that were rich as well as de-
cidedly unique in appearance, and the
smoother but no less effective Zeblines.
One of these in ecru and pale blue
brought before the mind a vision of
such a stylish gown, combined, of
course, with plain cloth of either tone.
The plaids are almost two large for en-
tire costumes, but nothing could be
more distingue than their use with
plain materials in happily contrasting
or harmonizing colors. The plaid diag-
onals with an astrakhan bar running
through them came in four delightful
tones of blue, red, gray and sage. The
Bourette cloths with just the faintest
suspicion ofan astrakhan stripe were
very elegant and serviceable as well, a
very rare combination.
For tailor gowns the tiny checks in
lady’s cassimeres are especially pretty,
and will undoubtedly be worn as al-
ways by people who do not desire such
extreme novelties as the larger plaids.
These great blocked cloths, however,
are simply delightful in makicrg up
those picturesque frocks mothers love to
fashion for their little ones. Those ex-
pensive and elegant novelties, the iri-
descent velours, will be sure to be prime
favorites, as they come in such delight-
ful tones, and in their pretty sort of
shaded effects are so enticing that no
woman’s wardrobe will be complete
without one. Beside all these are cra-
quelles. excelsior, bengalines, camel’s
hair mixtures, traineau serges, whip
cords and printed cassimeres, the latter
just the thing for house and dainty tea
gowns.
while some come in a heavy double box’