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Bellefonte, Pa., Feb. 10, 1893.
NOBODY KNOWS BUT MOTHER.
Nobody knows of the work it makes
To keep the home together,
Nobody knows of the steps it takes,
Nobody knows—but mother.
Nobody listens to childish woes,
Which kisses only smother ;
Nobody’s pained by naughty blows,
Nobody —ouly mother.
Nobody knows of the sleepiess.eare
Bestowed on baby brother;
Nobody knows of the tender prayer,
Nobody—only mother.
Nobody knows of the lessons taught
Of loving one another ;
Nobody knows of the patience sought,
Nobody-—only mother.
Nobody knows of the anxious fears,
Lesi darlings may not weather
The storm of life in after years,
Nobody knows—but mother-
Nobody kneels et the throne above
To thank the Heavenly Father
For that sweetest gift— a mother’s love !
Nobody can—but mother,
— Fireside.
A ———
ROMEO AND JULIET.
“Where are you going, Letitia ?"' de-
mands Miss Bainbridge severely, gaz-
ing at the trembling Letitia over a pair
of gold-rimmed glasses.
“Just out fora little walk, auntie,
The day is so delicious,” says Letitia,
with her most engaging smile. She is
thinking what an awful thing it
would be if auntie forbids her to go out
to-day of all days, and Jack waiting for
her at the top of the meadow.
“Now once for all, Letitia, let this
be understood between us,” says Miss
Bainbridge ; “there isto be no inter-
course between this house and that
of the Court. You inay think I am
too old to hear things, but there you
are wrong. I have heard a good deal
lately about young Harding, who has
returned to the Court after his father’s
death; heard, too, with deep regret,
Letitia, that you so far forgot yourself
as to dance with him a fortnight ago at
the Mainwarings’ little—"
“Hop,” suggests Letitia, who is
too frightened by her aunt’s allusion to
the young master of the Court to re-
member her society manners.
“Hop! How dare you use such a
word ?”’ cries Miss Bainbridge. “Good
heavens! The manners of this present
day! Now, Letitia, hear me. It
seems you did dance with thie objec-
tionable young man at the Mainwar-
mngs’ball. Perhaps you could not help
that. But knowing as you do of the
feud that has lasted for fifty years be-
tween their house and ours, I trust you
have too much respect for me—for
your name—to recognize a Harding:
anywhere.”
“But what has he—er—"" nervously,
“what have they all done?” asks Leti-
tia, her eyes on the marble pavement
of the hall. her heart at the top of the
meadow,
Good gracious! if auntie only knew
that she had been meeting Jack every
day for the past fortnight—ever since
that long dauce. indeed, when—when
—well, he wouldn’t dance with anyone
but her. And itis all such nonsense,
too. A rubbishy old stery about a
right of way that happened fifty years
ago—and Jack the dearest, dearest fel-
low!
“I refuse to go into it,” says Miss Ban-
bridge with dignity. “Itsufficesto say
that this young man’s grandtather once
bebaved in the grossest fashion te your
grandfather—my,” with a sigh, “sain.
ied father. It you are going out, I
‘trast that if you meet the present own-
er of The Court” you will not so much
as acknowledge his presence.”
“I sha’n’t bow to bim, auntie,” says
Letitia in a very small voice.
Detestation ot herself and her .du-
.plicity is still raging in her heart when
she meets Jack Harding in the wold
trysting-place. She had certainly
. promised her annt not to bow to him.
"Well, she doesn’t ; she only flings her-
-gelf into bis arms—glad young arms,
that close fondly round her!
“Oh, Jack, she’s getting worse thay
ever. She was simply raging about!
you as I came out. I really thought;
-8he was going to forbid we to come at!
-all. She says you're an objectionable :
young man |"
“Oh? 1 say,” says Harding.
“What bave I doe to be called names
like that 2”
“Nothing, nothing I” esied Letitia,
Alinging ber arms about in despairing
protest, except that your grandfather
once punched my grandfather's nose.’
“Well, I'm awtully sorry,” said Har-
ding, and they both laugh. “Would
it do any good, do you think, if T were
to go down now and apologize for my
‘exceedingly rude old forbear #”’
“I shouldn’t advise you try it,” says
Letitia.
“But what are we to do, then 9” says
Jack, his arm round her.
They are sitting on the grass, safely
hidden behind a clamp of young trees.
The sun is shining madly on their
‘heads, the birds are singing on every
branch. Tt ig May—delightful May,
the lover's month—and the hottest
May that has been known for years,
“I don’t know,” says Letitia, with
deep despondence.
“I's such beastly folly,” says Har-
ding presently, in ‘an impatient tone.
“If I were a fool or a poor man or a
reprobate; but I'm not—am I, now ?"
“Oh, no!" says Letitia. She creeps
[tittle black insects are rushing .over
—————
tia for all that is the apple of her eye)
“Oh, sir, how can .I.thavk you? The
gratitude of my life is yours—the pre-
server of my prety child.” Then the
old lady burst out crying. Half an
hour ago she would have died rather
than tell Letitia she was pretty, but
now she lays many offerings at her
feet. Poor feet. They might have
been burned. “It you will add one
more service to the immeasurable one
you have already done me,” says she
softly, “yon will help me to get my
collapsing into gloom, “what's the use
of it alt? Auntie will never let you
marry me.”
“We could marry without her per-
mission,” says he slowly. :
“No, we couldnt,” says Letitia with
decision. She looks at him earnestly.
“I wouldn't marry you without her
permission for anything. We would
have to. run away and thatwould break
her heart. I am 4ll she has in the
world, entl though she scolds me a
good deal I love her. .I wouldn't de-
sert. Jak.” poor ehild beck to the house.”
“You could come back again,” says | “Bat,” begins Harding. It seems
he, wrong to him, even at this supreme
moment, to deceive the old lad—to go
into her house under false pretenses,
If she knew his name. A little pres-
sure from the hand of Letitia decides
him. How can he have scruples when
she is so ill—so frightened ?
Silently he passes his.arm round her
and with her aunt takes her back to
the house. They lay her .on a sofa.
Miss Banbridge flings a rug over her
burnt dress.
“She must rest here a little before
going up stairs,” says she.
“Miss Banbridge,” says the young
man, now turning with determination
toward her. “I—I wish tosay—"
“Sir, it is what I have to say,” says
| Miss Banbridge with emation. “I have
not half thanked you. How can I?
If there is anything I can do--any way
in which I can show my gratitude to
you—pray, name it. In the meantime
pray tell me the name of the brave
man who has delivered my niece from
the very jaws of death.”
“Harding,” says he shortly.
“What!” Miss Banbridge has fallen
back in her chair, staring at him with
wild eyes.
“Yes, Harding,” says the young
man, steadily, if sorrowfully. He
pauses. ‘After all,” says he, “I can’¢
help my name.”
There is a pause; Letitia draws her
breath sharply. “That is true!” says
Miss Banbridge at last, in a severe un-
dertone.
“I can’t help having had a grand-
father, either,” says Harding, taking
another step.
*No; I suppose not,” most reluc-
tantly.
“Most fellows have grandfathers |”
“I cannot contradict you, sir.”
“Mies Banbridge,” says Harding,
going closer to her, and ‘gazing at her
with all his heart in his eyes, “you
asked me just now if there was any
way in which you could show your
gratitude to me—about—about this
thing. I want no gratitude. I would
have gladly died to save your niece a
pang. But—but you have given me
the opportunity to tell you that I want
—ber! I love her. She loves me.
give her to me.
“Letitia!” says Miss Banbridge in a
strange voice.
“Ob, yes! It is true,” says Letitia
bursting into tears. “I do love him, I
loved him that night at the Mainwar-
ings—and I have loved him better and
better every day since. He,” her sobs
increased, “he used to come and see,
me in the meadows where—where 1
“Of course, I know that. But then
she would always feel disappointed in
me and hurt and—No, no, I shall nev-
er do that. She trusts me so.”’
“Then I don’t know what's going to
be the end of it,” says he.
“We must only wait,” says Letitia,
despondingly. ‘“And now, Jack. you
had better go. She is sure to come up
here presently to see how the men are
getting on with that fence. Youknow
what an excellent woman of business
she is. Xf she.caught you here—"
“There would be wigs on the green,”
says Jack, laughing. “Well, good-bye
—for awhile. I suppose if I come
back again this evening I shall :find
you here?”
“Yes—oh, yes! .Jack, da take care;
the men will see you!”
“Not they,” says Jack, kissing her
again. “And you—what are you go-
ing to do while I'm away?”
“Think of you,” with alitile saucy
glance at him from under her long
lashes. “By the bye, have you got a
match about you?”
“What on earth do you want it for?"
says he, giving her some wax lights out
of a little silver box as he speaks. “Go-
ing to have.a cigarette?’
“Nonsense! I feel as if I want to
set fre to some of those dry:little bunch-
es of grass; fairy tufts, we used to call
them long ago. They would burn
beautifully to-day, the sun is so hot.”
“Well don’t set fire to yourself, what-
ever you do,” says he thoughtlessly.
Once again they kiss and this time
really part.
Letitia stands watching him till he
is out of sight, standing ou tiptoe as he
gets over the wall to blow a last \kies
to him. Then coming out from the
shelter of her trysting-place she walks
into the old meadow, now beaten down
save where the tall, coarse ‘tufts of
grass are growing. Lighting one of
her matches she kneels down and sets
fire to the tult nearest her, It used to
be an amusement of hers in her child-
hood and she is not yet so tar removed
from those days as to have lost all
childish fancies. Sitting down on the
side of a tiny hillock at a distance, she
wathes the dancing flames—so small,
80 flickering, so hurmlees.
She leans back against the bank be
hind her and crosses her white arms
behind her head. What a day.it is —
most heavenly swaet—quite a drowsy
day. How lovely that light smoke is
climbing slowly aphill and fading away
among the young beech trees above,
And the little flames, like faries danc-!
ing. Perhaps they are fairies who | was nearly burned !”
dwell in those old dry tufts. No won-| Whether this allusion to the late
der they are dancing—with rage, evi- { catastrophe, that might have ended in a
dently. Their strongholds are seized, | tragedy, stills Miss Banbridge’s wrath,
destroyed, by the tyrant man! No— | or whether her old heart has been soft,
woman this time. Ah, ah! In this [ened by Harding's plain acknowledge-
case woman has come ito the front, at ment of his love for her niece, no one
all events. Ske had been reading |canftell. She turns to Harning with
about the emancipation.of women last/| a pale face but not wholly ankindly
night, and had laughed over.it. After] air.
all, she didn’t want to be emancipated; ‘I must have time to think,” 8ays
she only wanted Jack to love her al-|ehe. She hesitates and then Say:
ways—nothing mote. Perhaps the | “This is very painful to me, Mr.—
other.queer women only ment that, too, | Harding.” Its seems certainly pain-
only they hadn’t tound their.Jacks yer. | ful to ber to pronounce his name—the
Pout! How warm it is! name 80 long tabooed in her household.
Gradually her head sinks back upon | “I must have time—time.’, She grows
her arms, her eyelids droop over the | silent. The hearts of the lovers sink.
soft, cleor eyes. How delicious it is | Suddenly she looks up again,
here! How cozy! Again the eyes op- “Perhaps you will do me the honor
en, but wery lazily this time. See how | to.dine with me to-morrow night?" says
the little .insects run 0 and fro over |she. Her tone is icy, but the two lie
her whitefrock, hither and thither, all | tening to her feel their cause is won.
in search.of the great want—tood. A | To ask Mr- Harding to dine—to ac-
passing thought makes ber laugh in. | cept hospitality at her hands! Oh,
dolently. .She hopes they will not [surely the old feud is at an end.
make food.of ber. And then the eye- | WA little sound escapes from Letitia.
lids close resolutely ; she leans back.| ‘You are cold,” says Miss Ban-
Sleep has eanght her. bridge anxiously, who had thought
So sound, indeed, is her slumber | the sound a shiver.
that she doesnot know that new the “A little,” says Letitia, who, indeed,
is shivering from her late fear of what
her aunt might say.
‘I shall fetch anather rug,” cried
the o'd lady, running out of the room.
‘An opportunity once lost is never
to be regained,” suys the ancient copy:
books. Harding and Letitia make up
their minds not to lose theirs. His
arms areround her in an instant, her
cheek is pressed against his.
“Itis all right. She will give in.
feel as if I loved her; says Hard-
Inge.
*! Jack,” says Letitia; ‘wasn’t it a
good thing I was nearly burned to
death?"
“Oh! hush, darling—hush, Letty !
I can’t bear to think of this day,”
“Well, I can,’ says she, laughing
“I shall think of it always.
her, not in search of food, but .et safe
dy—salety érom the tiny hot lames
that are creeping every moment closer
te the thin whice frock. Now they
have touched her foot and have so far
penetrated the thin slipper as 10 make
her.unpleasantly warm, but not enough
to waken her. She only turns a litle
and sighs; but now—!
Now she springs to her feet with an
affrighted scream. Smoke! Smoke
everywhere! Aad awhat is this ereep-
up the front of her gown ? A thread of
fire. {ft blows upon her tace. She re-
coils fram it, but it follows ner. Madly
she lifts her hands and tries to beat it
it back. The menl—the men at the
fence! Where are they! Alas! they!
have all gone to dinner. Once again a | feebly.
frantic ery bursts from her lips,
It is answered. At this moment |
Harding reaches her, and flinging off
bis coat he catches her init. Folding
it round her, he holds ber asit 1 a
vice.
What brought him back (beyoud the
mercy of God) he never kaew, except
that those last words of his, “Don’t set
fire to yourself, at all events,” had
seemed to haunt him after he left her.
Moore's Greatest Poem.
“Lalla Rookh’ was read universally
and translated into several Eurgpean
languages.
tonic Hights—no hall of Eblis reaching
the height of the sublime--but it is cal.
of the mind. |
and uneducated, comprehend its lux
closer to him and encircles his waist
with her arm; or, at all events, tries
bravely to do so. It doesn’t go half
way round, but that doesn’t matter.
A foolish fear about the words had
touched his lover's heart and compell-
ed him to mount a wall and look back.
In a moment he had seen.
rious imagery, sweet passages, fascinat-
ing deseriptions and gorgeous voluptu-
ousness ; hence the uncomenon popular. |
ity of the poem. Those who have hearts |
She grasps a bit of his coat and holds
on to him so, “Don’t you know what |
you are, Jack?” The dearest old boy |
on earth.”
“And you—do you kuow what you |
are?” says Harding, pressing her ‘fin. |
gers to his lips.
“No,” cays she. !
“Well, I can’t tell you,” says he, be- I
cause there is nothing on earth fit to |
compare you with. You are you, and
that’s all I”
“What a lovely speech! No wonder MY darling child!" (She spends her
{ She has been toiling up the hill. She
fer the deeper things of humanity what |
enjoyments come not from external col-
or, orient hues and Tyrian purple? — |
will prefer the heart which is shown in |
many of Moore's other produetions.— |
Westminister Review.
Preparatory)Discipline.
“No, I'll not marry. I think I'l be-
come a Sister of Charity."
“You don’t know what that means.”
“Don’t I? Haven't Isat up with you
every night from 8 to 1 for three
He quenched the flames in a miraca-
lously short time. Lettia is able to
stand np and answer faintly his pas
sionate questions to her safety, when
suddenly a voice strikes npon them
that renders both dumb,
It is the voice of Miss Banbridge.
looks almost distraught.
“Oh, sir,” cries she, catching Leti-
tia in her arms, “I saw all. I thought
I should have died. Ob, my girl f—
I'love you,” says Letitia naively ; “but,” Whole life tormenting Letitia, but Leti. | months?"
{ It has given us 0 each other forever,"
The poem has no lofty Mil- { conjunctions.
| an earthquake.
GRAPES AND THORNS,
BY ALICE CARY.
We must not hope to be mowers,
And gather the ripe gold ears,
Until we have first been sowers,
And watered the furrows with tears.
It is not just as we like it—
This mystical world of ours ;
Life’s field will yield as we think it,
A harvest of thorns and flowers.
ee ————
“My Country! 'Tis of Thee.”
Siz Canadian States for Uncle Sam and the Gos-
pel of Division and Partition.
The Canadians bent on annexing the
Dominion to the United States have
part of their scheme laid out, and it is
realy very fine.
The heart of the Dominion is the two
Provinces of Quebec and Ontario, hav-
ing an aggregate area of 331,280 square
miles. The scheme is to cut these up
into three, which, when admitted into
the Union as States, will each have a
larger area than Oregon by more than
15,000 square miles, and be more than
twice as large as Pennsylvania, which
has an area of 43,000 square miles. The
capitals will be Toronto, Ottawa and
Quebec, which, as may be seen on the
map, lie in & row not far from the pre-
sent American boundary. Another
State could be made out of Nova Scotia
and New Brunswick, their combined
ares being 45,707 square miles, or larger
than that of Pennsylvania.
The Dominion was formed July 1,
1867, and provision made for admission
into it of British Columbia, Prince Ed-
ward Islands, the Northwest Territor-
ies and Newfoundland. Two years lat-
er the Territories were acquired by pur-
chase from the Hudson Bay Company,
and Manitoba was cut out of them,
erected into a Province and admitted in
July, 1870. The next July British
Columbia was admitted and in July of
1878, Prince Edward Island.
Manitoba has an area of 16,000 square
miles; equal, say, to that of a few tiers
of the counties of Western Pennsylva-
nia. Its one of the greatest wheat re-
gions on the face of the earth. Because
of contiguity it could be joined to either
North Dakota or Minnesota. Joined to
either the combined area would be big
enough for two States. In either case
Winnipeg would be centrally stinated
as the capital.
Prince Edward Island would do to
keep Rhode Island in countenance, if
she should not excite her envy. Prince
Edward has 2,178 square miles and
Rhode 1siand only 1,306. The two is-
lands would make a pretty pair of little
States, two for a cent, in which a work-
ing politician could make the acquain-
tance of all the voters in either in a day.
Charlottetown as the capital of an
American Commonwealth would brisk
up ard perhaps become a lively sum-
mer resort,
Newfoundland has stoutly refused to
enter the Dominion and has remained a
self-governing Crown colony. It is
about the size of Pennsylvania, having
an area of 42,200 square miles, and has
a population of about 200,000. Labra-
dor 18 1ts dependency, but that may be
left to the natives who like to freeze.
Theres little doubt that Newfoundland
would come into the Union without
much coaxing, if it were only to be rid
of the pestiferous French fishing rights
on the French shore. The United
States would make the frog-eaters know
their place.
Out of the two provinces first named
there might be made the States of Que-
bec, Ontario and, say, Huron, the last
having Toronto as its capital. The
State of Nova Scotia, say, out of New
Brunswick and Nova Scotia. A fourth
State would be of Prince Edward Is-
land, which would have to bear some
other name as one of the Common-
wealths of a republic; a fifth out of the
Province of British Columbia and a
sixth would be the State of Newfound-
land. This would do to begin with.
Other States could be formed as people
were found willing to venture into the
icy North.
In six States there are not a few fat
offices. and doubtless the annexationists
across the border are reveling in the de-
lights of them by anticipation as they
ponder the scheme of lugging their fel-
low Canucks into the Union head and
shoulders. as Don Quixote said Sancho
Panza introduced his jokes into conver-
sation. It isa fine scheme, and we pay
the anrexationists the tribute of our ad-
mization. And it touches our national
pride. Uncle Sam will not have to take
theearth, which is belived to be his in.
baritance. He has only to wait and the
aations thereof will bring it to him.
St, ’ Valentine's Day.
St. ¥alentine’s Day talls February
14. St. Valentine was a priest and mar-
tyr. Helived about the year 276 A. D.
He had nothing to do with lovemaking
or lovers. He was a devout man—too
good in fact for the times in which he
lived. He was beaten nearly to death
and then beheaded. His dust is preserv-
ed in the church of St. Praxede’s at
Rome. The Romans had a lovers’ feast
called the Luperealia, and in order to
eradicate objectionable customs connec-
ted with it, the feast of St. Valentine
was instituted. The outline of the an-
cient ceremonies only was preserved.
It is almost superfluous to note that
Washington's birthday falls upon the
THE HEAVENS FOR FEBRUARY.
| nights of Febouary. The principal astro-
| nomical events of the month will be the
| junction with Veaus on the 14th and
the | with Mercury om the 16th. On the
culated to suit toe taste of every order | 20th ang 21st Jupiterand Mars will be in
Young aad old, educated | proximity to the moon, and the celestia,
spectacle will be even finer than the re.
sent galuxy of the moon and these two
planets. Mars and Jupiter ave still the
evening stars, and Venus, Mercury and
Uranus are morning stars.
Earthquake in Zante.
ATHENS, San. 81.--The island of
Zante was shaken early thie morning by
In the towa of Zante
many houses were wrecked and the oc-
i cupants ran in their night clothes into
the streete. Many dead bodies have
been found in the ruins and a hundred
or more are reported to be injured se-
verely. It has been impossible to get
further details. The governor Las gent
his troops with tents and provisions for
the relief of the homeless,
The moon will be in con- |
| went out.
| nicely, and did look very tempting.
The winter eonstellations will stil be '
{in their glory during the shortened |
Mary E. Wilkins.
Mary E. Wilkins, whose ‘‘Jane
Field” surprised the critics and pleased
the public, is little more than a child in
years in appearance. Small and deli-
cate she has astonished the literary
world with her short stories. which con-
tain some of the best character sketches
that have ever been written.
Her first literary attempts were al-
most entirely tor children, but at the
urgent solicitation of friends she soon
began to take up a deeper kind of work,
and sent her first story for older readers to
Miss Mary L. Booth, then editor of
Harper's Bazar. Miss Booth thought
that tuch cramped and unformed hand-
writing promised little and that she was
the victim of some ambitious but ‘“‘un-
avallable’’ child. With her usual con-
scientiousness, ho vever, she looked the
little piece carefully over.
It was Miss Booth’s habit, when at-
tracted by a story, to read it through
three times, on different days and in
different moods, before accepting it.
Ske paid this compliment to “Two Old
Lovers,” the contribution which Miss
Wilkins had submitted to her. Two
days latter the “ambitious child’ re-
ceived a handsome check for it.
There are few writers who have been
the recipients of such unreserved and
spontancous tributes of appreciation
from famous men and women as the
modest subject of this sketch. Dr.
Philips Brooks pronounced her ¢‘Hum-
ble Romance” “the best shortstory that
was ever written.”
Two volumes of Miss Wilkins, stories
have been collected. The first called
“A Humble Romance,” was brought
out three years ago. It has had a large
sale, and has been translated into sever-
al languages. The second, “A New
England Nun,” is enjoying an even
wider popularity than its predecessor,
while her first novel “Jane Field” has
just been published.
It must not be imagined by those who
long for the skill and the fame of this
fortunate writer that she has won her
place without a struggle. She has toil-
ed faithfully and incessantly, often dis-
couraged, but never giving up. The
remarkable evenness of her work is due
to her ‘capacity for taking pains.”
She thinks her stories out until they are
perfectly clear, before putting her pen
to paper.
Miss Wilkins has known much of
sorrow. The pathos which she infuses
into her stories could not be genuine un-
less she herself had suffered. One after
another, during the first years of her
writing, her father mother and only
sister died. She lived with them in the
beautiful village of Battleboro, Vt., but
she has resided since their death in Ran-
dolph, Mass., with friends, whose love
and devotion could scarcely be greater
if they were connected with her by ties
of blood.
Her two pretty rooms in the simple
white house in which shelives, in Ran-
dolph, are full of ber own quaint per-
sonalty. The first is furnish in terra
cotta. The second, in which is a wide,
old-fashioned hearth before an open fire,
isin old blue. Near the hearth stands
a desk in colonial style, with brass
hinges and locks ; also a couch, with a
Bagdad rug thrown over it. A Mada-
gascar rug forms the portiere between
the two departments. Old decanters,
candlesticks, pewter plate: Sand other
memorabilia of ‘ye olden tir.e,” nearly
all of which have come down to Miss
Wilkins by inheritr.uce, abound on
every side. In the terra cotta room
stands a pretty desk of hog-wood, sur-
rounded by Hindoo relics. There are
fur rugs on the ? or, and all the furni-
ture is antique. having belonged to the
owners graudmother.
“I suppose,” wrote Miss Wilkins to
a friend when she was just settled in her
new home, ‘that my blue room is one
of the queerest looking places that you
ever saw. You should see the people
when they come to call. They look
doubtful in the front room but say it is
‘pretty’; when they get out here they
say the rooms look “ust like me’ and I
don’t know when I shall ever find out
it that is a compliment.”
Miss Wilkins is thought by many to
bear a striking resemblance to Mrs.
Frances Hodgson Buraett, though her
features are smaller, She looks best in
children’s hats, and her clothes are
mcst becoming when made after chil-
dren’s patterns.
Miss Wilkins thinks out the details
of her stories much more completely
than most writers before putting pen to
paper. Like all skillful raconteurs, she
appreciates the value of the opening
and closing portions, and these are of-
ten the first parts of the work that she
does. The last sentence she considers
more important than any other. Once
at her desk, with her matter well in
mind, she composes easily and seldom
recopies, unles an odd page here and
there. She calls one thousand words a
day ker “stent’” though she often goes a
week or more without writing a line,
while she sometimes writes three or four
thousand words between breakfast and
sunset. Hvening work she seldom un-
dertakes unless pressed for time.
EO —————
“But God Did.
Harry and Lucy were playing in the
dining-room, when their mother set a
basket of cakes on the tea-table and
They were ull frosted so
“How nice they look,” said Harry,
reaching cut his hand to take one.
“No, no, you must not,” said Lucy.
“Mamma did not say we could have
any.”
“But she won’t know,” said Harry ;
“she did not count them.”
“But God did,” answered Lucy.
This made Harry look sober He
drew back his hand, and went and sat
down in his own little chair. He looked
as if he was thinking over something.
“Yes, yes, Lucy, I guess you are
right. God must count things, for don’t
you know teacher told us in Sunday-
school that the Bible says ‘the hairs of
our head are all numbered.’ "— Water
Lily.
————————
——-You inherited quite a nice little
fortune,” said the lawyer.
Yes," replied the fortunate youth,
“I suppose you will pay a lot of your
debts now ?”
“I bad thought of it, but I conclud-
ed to make no change in my manner of
living, I don’t want to be accused of
vulgal display.'’ — Judge.
The World of Women.
For an ordinary cold «dd a teaspoon-
ful of syrup of ipeeac to a cup of cold
water. Give a teaspoonful every hour.
If the throat is very sore, ring a cloth
out of cold salt water and bind it on the
throat when going to bed; cover it
with a dry towel.
Silk scarfs tied in loose bows are
much used with sealskin coats, and it in
dainty tints are quite pretty, though
colored bows are nearly alway sugges-
tive of the country get-up.
There is great medical virtue in on-
ions, eaten raw at the very beginning
of an attack of cold or malama. They
bave a dedided tendency to check it and
act advantageously in kidney and stom-
ach troubles.
The going-away gown was in green
cloth, trimmed with shot bronze velvet,
with a little figure of pink, blue, green
and bronze, wolverine fur was used
around the skirt and throat and on the
hat and muff.
An appropriate cover for the dining
table when not in use is made of denim,
and ornamented with a border of fruits
and leaves in embroidery and plush ap-
plique. A border of oak leaves would
be also very effective.
Early in the winter the mink and sa-
ble boas were the fad,now they are as
antiquated as though introduced in the
time of Noah. The correct out. door
neck wear is now the pleited collarette
of fur. Persian lamb and sealskin are
tke furs used for this stylish arrange-
ment, and it is certainly far prettier
than either the cape or "boa of former
seasons.
A pretty cushion that covers the seat
of a rocker 1n a young girl’s room is of
blue and white pillow ticking, divided
into large squares by crossing lines of
feather stitching done in black wool.
Within ih each square 1s worked a con-
ventional field daisy in white and yel-
low, the petals of the flower consisting
of single stitches of rather coarse white
wool. Each dower is large enough to
fill the entire square.
For the coming season satinette,
moleskin and satin sheeting will be used
for scarfs, table covers and portieres.
These are stained on light grounds 1n
delicate flowers and leaves,or large bold
designs in scroll work, or discs in the
old Persian colors. This is worked
around in filo flosses or heavy raw silk,
in the corresponding colors. ~ These pat-
terns cover the article all over and give
it a very Oriental look. The finish to
scarf or portiere should be heavy Per-
sian fringe.
Black silks and satins are again very
fashionable and a very efficient way of
freshening dresses of this description
that have been for a time laid aside is
to introduce vest, sleeve puffs and panel
of mauve, ecru or cream white Benga-
line or ottoman silk, striped with fine,
narrow cut-jet gimp. This gimp can
be put on either in horizontal or diag-
onal lines, as best suit a tall or short
figure. Green velvet sleeves and revers
is another popular mode of freshening a
black dress. “Another still more gener-
al is the introduction of some richly
striped or plaided surah. This is a very
popular English mixture, and French
dresses of the most recherche description
show elegant Directoire waistcoats of
Persian-patterned satin with exquisite
blending of the deepest and most bril-
liant colors, mostly in small matelasse
designs.
NEW YORK’S WOMEN AUTHORS.
Among the exhibits presented at Chi-
cago by the women managers will be a
compilation of the names ot all the wo-
men authors who are natives of New
York state or hold residence therein.
The list already embraces over 200 au-
thors of either books, artlcles or pam-
phlets of acknowledged merit. In the
list thus far collected are to be found
the names of Mrs. Isabella MacDonald
Alden (Pansy), Mrs. Mary Clemmer
Ames, Mrs. Amelia Barr, Mrs. Lillie
Devereux Blake, Rose Elizabeth Cleve-
land, Susan Fenimore Cooper, Mrs,
Croly (Jenny June), Mary KE. Mapes
Dodge, Mary J. Holmes,” Mrs. Sarah
Jane Lippincott, Mrs. Anna Katherine
Green Roblfs, Mrs. E. D. E. N. South-
worth, Mrs. Elizabeth Cady Stanton,
Susan Warner, Mrs. Ella Wheeler Wil-
cox, Mrs. Julia Wright, Ella Ann
Youmans and more equally familiar
names.— Albany Letter.
IT IS THE CORRECT THING :
To use perfectly plain visiting cards,
of fine pusteboard, engraved in plain
script.
In an emergency, if obliged to use a
written visiting card, to write one’s
name with pencil, rather than with pen
and ink, since the use of the latter would
seem to imply deliberate purpose.
For a gentleman to prefix “Mr.” to
his name on a visiting card.
For aa officer 1n the army or navy, a
physician, a judge or a minister of the
Gospel to use bis title on a visiting
card,
To use the full name on a visiting
card, as “Mrs, Joel Cotton Smith,”
“Miss Clara Howard Jameson.”
For a lady to prefix “Mrs.” or
¢‘Miss'’ as the case may be, to her name
on a visiting card.
For a married lady to use her hus-
band’s full name or last name and ini-
tials.
For the oldest single woman belong-
ing to the oldest branch of a family to
use ‘‘ Miss Esmond’’ on her card, or for
the oldest daughier of a younger branch
to do so, where there are no single wo-
men in the older branch.
For alady to leave her husband's
cards, and those of her sons and daugh-
ters, in making the first call of the sea-
son.
For a lady to leave her husband’s
cards, as well as her own, after a dinner
party.
For a lady to leave two cards in call-
ing upon a mother with several grown-
up daughter--one for the mother and
one for the daughters.
When calling for the first time upon
several ladies (who are not mother and
daughters), to leave a card for each.
For a lady, if admitted to make a call
to leave ihe cards of the gentlemen of
her family on the hall table.
For a lady, if admitted to make a call
to leave her card on the hall table, and
send her name up by the servant.
For a lady to send up her card when
calling upon a stranger.
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