28.6
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Bellefonte, Pa., May 19, 1893
DREAMING AND WAKING.
LUCY LARCOM'S LAST POEM.
Beside the road I dreamed of Heaven;
1 heard its far-off fcuntains play ;
1 heard the song of souls forgiven,
Like birds that chant the birth of day.
I dreamed I saw an angle come
Down from those hights and lead me home.
His eyes were kind ; his robes dropped dew
And fragrance of that unknown land.
He spoke, but in no tongue 1 knew—
No language I could understand ;
And with a glarce of plugins pain
He turned him back to Heaven again.
A pilgrim passed. “And didst thou hear,”
Late im, '‘what the angel said n
Whispered the traveler in my ear,
Ere onward into light he sped ;
4] head the angel sigh, ‘Not yet!
This soul knows not love’s alphatet.’
“Qh, comrade mine, thou dreamest in vain
Of Heaven, if here thou hast not found,
In soothing human grief and pain,
1 hat earth itselfis holy ground,
Unpracticed in love’s idioms now,
A foreigner to heaven art thou.
«Cold wouldst thou walk, and blind, and
um
Among those flaming hosts above,
A homesielz allen ; for the sum
Of all their thoughts and deeds is love.
And they who leave not self behind
No Heaven in Heaven itself can find.
“Rejoice that with the sons of men
A littl while thou lingerest yet.
Go read thy Book of Life again ;
Go back and learn love's alphabet
Of Christ the Master. He will teach,
Thy lips to shape the heavenly speech.”
Ilooked within ; a dreary scroll
Of loveless, dull, self-blinded days,
I saw my humbled Past unroll,
Not even my feilow-pilgrim’s gaze
Could I uplift my eyes to meet,
Such glory played around his feet.
He went his way. I turned again,
Ashamed and weeping, to the road
Thronged by the suffering sons of men ;
A beckoning Face among them glowed ;
Sweeter thanall the harps of Heaven
1 heard a voice : “Thou art forgiven!
“Come follow Me, and learn of Me,
And I will teach thee how to love.”
My Master ! now I turn to Thee :
1 sigh not for a Heaven above
These human souls are angels bright ;
Thy Presence here is Heaven’s own light!
A———————
THE WITCH'S STRONG BOX.
BY EVA WILDER MCGLASEON.
Henneker had not enjoyed it. The
Christmas-eve merrymaking was near
its end, and he had not joined in the
dancing at all, but with a brooding eye
and & heavy heart had lounged about
the long bare hallway in company with
a young widower {rom Ways Store,
whose notions of propriety kept him
from taking active part.
A weed of crape still ‘wrapped the
young widower’s hat, its hue tempered
by half a year’s changes of weather.
His affliction forbade him bread to the
full, but it permitted him any crumbs
that might fall from the table where
joy sat feasting.
“I don’t know as they'd be any real
harm in my footing a round or two,”
he informed Henneker, “but I won’t
hev it narrated about that I didn’t pay
proper respect. Her cousin is here,
too. I reckon I done just as well not
to take part tonight.’ He added:
“Say, Clint, I 'preciate your keeping
me comp’ny, but you oughtn’t to hev
done it. You ought to hev gone in
the room and hed a good time, Thar's
one dance yet. You better go and
take it in.”
Henneker,
frowned a little.
dance,” he said.
The other man regarded him with
growing speculation. *Youand Boon-
ie Card,” he suggested—*ain’t you and
her friendly as you was?”
Henneker laughed coldly. He was
a slim young fellow with a blond head,
a big mouth, and gray eyes which sat
deep and had a dreamy kind of humor
in their depths.
“It doesn’t look much like it,” he
exclaimed, casting off the last rag of
reserve which had helped to mask his
unhappiness.
A vague enlightenment stoleinto the
other’s face. His lips pursed into a si-
lent whistle of comprehension.
In the low-ceiled room beyond them
the carpet had been taken np. and the
feet ot the dancers clattering on the
boards confused the votes of the banjo
and violin. Now and again in changes
of the dance Heoneker caught a
glimpse of the musicians, two black
boys, whose faces, relieved by the
whitewashed wall, had the distinction
of a charcoal sketch, the high lights
softly taken from cheek and chin and
flat nostril. Candles were burning low
along the mantel, threading out in
smoky red and swaying crazily in cross
currents of air. Under them, making
their light sick, a big log flamed.
Some prickly branches of holly, gleam-
ing black and white, were stuck be-
hind a high-hung picture representing
a long-haired woman firmly clinging
to a cheerful-looking blue cross deco-
rated with red and yellow roses.
Henneker's friend, slowly and labor-
iously putting two and two together,
turned on the young man a look of
sympathy. “She came over from
Ways Store to-night with—let’s see—
with Will Hinkle, dido’t she ?”’ he re-
marked. ‘Come to think of it, she’s
ben dancin’ with him sori of steady:
comp'ny like and settled. But, pleg it
all, Clint, you're a better man than
Hinkle! Why don’t you he'p your-
self out of this?’ He lifted his voice
to a loud pitch of cordial expostulation.
“Maybe you've hurted her feelings
some way?” Inclining himself confi-
dentially, he added : “They're easy to
handle once you git the hang of ’em,
women ie. Being married now, a man
gits to know a heap. If I could give
you a few points—"'
But Henueker only said, “They're
breaking up, ain’t they? I thought
Tucker’d be the last.”
He moved away as a throng of girls
came trooping into the ball, getting
their wraps from a pile on a chest.
A sharpness of night air cut in as
some one opened the door. Men were
lighting lanterns outside, In the un-
certain light Henneker saw the double
team which had brought over a dozen
or more guests from Ways Store, six
his hands pocketed,
“I haven’t wanted to
A girl tying a three cornered white |
thing over her head, stepped up to Hen- |
neker. He was lurching into a rough |
overcoat, and he kept on stolidly ad-
justing his shoulders, A
“Clint,” she paid gently. + = = |
He set his lips tight, looking into
her face as if hesaw itat a long dis-
tance. 5 le gy 2S
There was no coquetry in the girl's
brown-lashed eyes. Their expression
was of a_sort easily to be defined as
sweet. Her cheeks were soltly. inden-
ted with dimples, and there was a cer-
tain childlike abstraction in the lines
of her parted lips.
Heoneker’s braced chin underwent a
suspicion of movement. She kept on
looking at him, her white dress show-
ing in a stiff rufile below the blue frin-
ges of her shawl.
“You didn’t ask me to dance to-
night,” she said. : i
#1 reckon you didn’t care much,”
Henneker muttered. 3
- A pretty pinkness pulsed her cheek.
“Yes I did so. Ijust hate to have
you mad at me.”
“Mad—I]—"
“Because it ain’t my fault, Clint.
Paw and them just went on so I had to
say I'd quit going with you.”
“I presume they find Mr.
more to their taste.”
“Paw says he’s steady and saving.
You see—you’ve ben real wild, Clint.”
He dropped his head. ‘And you've
never laid nothing by, and paw says a
girl’s a goose to think of marrying a
man that hasn't even a box-house to
take her to. You see’-— she stam-
mered a little—* you see Hinkle owns
that lot next to the church. He's go-
ing to put up a two-story house on it
with a porch, and paw says—"
Henneker turned on her with a white
cheek and a glittering eye. “You're
going to marry him, then?”
“I—I ain’t promised for sure.” She
breathed hurriedly, shivering away
from him just as Hinkle’s face showed
in the doorway.
“Team’s waiting,” he called out,
smiling, his cheeks freshened with
frosty air. “You ready, Miss Boonie ?
Come on, then. ' I got a warm corner
fixed for you.”
Henneker watched him help the girl
into the wagon. Others were climbing
over the low sides, scrambling for seats
on the rough cross-boards, burying
their feet in the hay bedding.
“Why, there's no place left for Hen-
neker !” shouted some one.
There was a general moving up, and
Henneker, just aware of standing!
gloomily unconscious of being left be- |
hind, found a place on the back seat
as the horses dashed into the night.
He sat, with his collar high, listening
to scraps of song and jest. The white
thing on Boonie Curd’s head fluttered
a long end mockingly over her shoul
der. She laughed gayly as Hinkle
bent to whisper something in her ear.
Watching it all, Henneker's heart
swelled with bitterness.
The horses’ feet clattered along the
stony road. Now and then a spark
flashed from their hoofs. To the left
a range of hills blackened the low sky,
across which, like a silk scart, a milky
light drifted. Far ahead, through a
net-work of bare boughs, a little red-
ness broke.
Some one said: “Look at that light,
will you? The witch is up early for
Christmas morning. Wonder what
she’s doing out of bed away past mid-
night 2’!
The light came nearer. In the flash
of the lanterns at the wagon’s front a
small way side house sprang suddenly
into view, its bleached walls appearing
to start back as if abashed at the unex-
pected noises.
It was the poorest sort of a house. A
rotting clapboarded roof slunk hollow-
ly over a floorless porch, its weight up-
held by three tree boles. These, rough
with bark and knots, stood bald and
black in the light, something crucifi-
cial in their grouping. On the middle
trunk an old vine contorted itself, its
leaefless tangles shrouded in lingering
snow to the vague semblance of an an-
guished human form.
A mutter of ru.oing water close at
hand lent the night a mourntul voice.
The man who was driving slackened
speed. “Let's give a big holler,” he
suggested. “Let's wish the old lady
merry Chris'mas. All together, now !”
Henneker, from his back seat, could
see straight into the scrap of a window,
its panes streaked with the flaming of
a few sticks on the stone hearth. He
could see, crouching over the fire, a
bent ancient figure with a crone’s cap
on its head. A whiff of smoke whit-
ened the pipe at its lips. Its hands
held a smallish box, black and heavy
looking, into which the seythe-like pro-
file peered.
As the shout of the wagon load went
up suddenly, shrilly, the old woman,
clutebing the box to ber breast, lifted
a face of alarm. Henneker caught her
startled gesture as the team jolted by,
going down the hill to a shallow ford
outlying Ways Store.
“Scared her out of a year’s growth,”
laughed Hinkle.
It was quite right that she should be
scared, this unaccountable old woman
who lived in the house by the branch.
She was entitled to no special cousid-
eration, having neither kinsfolk nor be-
longings. She could not even enter-
tain chance visitors with a fund of old
crony lore, for something was wrong
Hinkle
with her palate, it was said, and all
her efforts at speech were a mere inco-
herent babble.
Nor was she valuable in an occult
way as mixer of potions, a builder of
spells. Ounce a girl whohad quarrelled
with her sweetheart sought the old
house, beseeching some magic to right
matters. But while the speechless old
woman was called a witch, she could
only gabble out an unintelligible pity for
ber vigi-or, who went away indignant.
Having co glamour of black-art up-
on it, the witch's appearance was not
prepossessing. She was bent and brown |
and skinny, her black eyes like shin- |
ing seeds which burst out of withered |
yellow pods. Her nose was a rusty
miles south,
hook. Her lips sucked in. Over her
holes of temples a film of gray hair
| spread like ashes.
Ways Store had a primitive ideal of
{ old age, and she was not cast on the
i nes of its conception.
What was more fatally against her
even than her looks was the fact that
no one knew who she was, or where she
come from, or what she lived on.
The cabin had been desertee for years.
One morning its chimney gasped with
smoke, and there was the old woman.
Ways Store grew accustomed to her.
She did bits of work as she could get it.
If any village wife, moved with cheap
heuevelence, gave her scraps of bread.
andcold bacon, she took the offering
with a gratetul mutter.
“She don’t hev to ask nothin’ off no
person,” observed a hamlet philosopher.
“I wouldn’t wonder ii she hed a-plenty
laid by. My boy Bud ’lows she’s got
a pot-metal box hid away that she priz-
es high. He see her put it onder the
harf-stones. Nobody knows what she’s
got laid by. Aman from up yender
that was passin’ through here claimed
to know who she was. He claimed
she hed a only son that made her sign
over all her proputty, and then laid
ont to put her in the poor-farm ter
hev the town provide fer her. This
man said she got wind of it and put
out He said he bet she took away
money her son hadn’t got his hands on-
Well, you can’t tell. She lives mighty
poor-folksy, but I’ve heerd tell of mis-
ers that starved rather than touch
their pile.”
No one paid much attention to these
reports. The witch caused only two
ripples in the social pool of Ways Store
—at her coming and at her going.
For, late Chistmas morning, as
Henneker came down to breakfast, red-
eved and wretched, his mother, on her
kuees at the oven door basting a tur-
key, said, “Did you hear John Beasley
just now talking at the gate, Clint?
Seems the old woman in the log house
yender is dead. Beasley went to fetch
her a Christmas basket his wife hed
fixed up, and he pounded around and
couldn’t raise no one, so he jest busted
the button off the door, and there she
was layin’ on the shuck mattress I
give her, right stiff. Seems real sad,
dyin’ alone that way. Oldage, I reck-
on.”
Henneker forgot his troubles for a
moment to recall the withered shale of
a figure he had seen so few hours be:
tore, far spent in its humanity, but still
alive.
A tooting of holiday horns enlivened
the village. Occasionally a package
of fire-crackers went off, its noice
drowned in boys’ ehouts.
Overhead was a stretch of sky gray
and rough as a cobble-stone road. Old
weeds and grasses speared through a
slight sheet cf snow, augmented later
on by a straggling fall of flaccid flakes
which struck Henneker's cheek as he
came from the barn with a touch as of
dead fingers.
He stopped to stare at the lot on
which Hinkle was going to put up his
house. It would make something of a
figure among the other town houses,
most of them low and old, the few new
ones unambitious shells of lavender
and green with peaked roofs and hood:
ed front doors. Henneker could see
the stores with their shuttered win-
dows, the white church running upto a
point in front, the brown roof of the
mill in which he worked, and beyond
a'l, on a hillside, the long front of the
house where Boonie Curd lived.
A blanketed saddle-horse pranced at
the gate, and Henneker turned away
with a groan.
. He was paying dear for those expe-
riences which had won him the name
of being wild. ;
Yet Henneker felt that there was
nothing in his lite so black but that
Boonie's father would have overlooked
it had Henneker’s possession warrant-
ed a charitable eye.
Some one called bim. A man pass
ing in the road came lounging toward
the fence.
Henneker approached him,
dy, Beasly, be said.
The otler man, leaning on the fence,
went over his morning adventure. “My
nervee ain’ right steady yet,” be de:
clared. “Well, I reckon we done all
we could. The women went in and
stra‘ghtened things neighborlike. Can’t
do nothing about the burying till Stark
gits back trom Pineyville. Bein’ jus.
tice of the peace, it’s his place to see to
things. I'm kind of played out, traip-
sin’around huntin’ someone to set up
to-night. Look like it ain’t Christian
to leave the pore old soul layin’ thar
by herself. She was ugly as howe-
made sin, and smoked terbacker and
dipped snufl; but I say this, some one
ought to be willin’ to set up to-night
Most of the young crowd’s goin’ to a
doin’s over at Hank Sherrill’s. Bein’
Christmas night, every one’s got some-
thing on hand.” He shook several
snowflakes from his sleeve.
“You're goin’ to Shernll’s [ reckon?”
Henneker said no, adding, “I'll put
in about ten hours sleep to night.”
Beasley came nearer. “Say,” he
said, persuasively, “now, honest, Clint,
do you think it looks right to leave
that pore old thing alone to-night ?”
“Oh!” said Henneker, catching at
the other's meaning, “you want me to
—Well, it isn’t a pleasant job. But
some oue’ll have to do it for me some
time.”
He added mentally, with the safe
recklessness of warm pulses, that he
did not care how soon his friends were
called on for this office.
Beasly's face diftused alook of relief,
“Ot course I'll git some one to keep
your comp’ny,” he assured Henneker.
“You go over about dark—hunh ?—
and if I don't raise nobody else, Ill
“How-
come myself just as soon as I can git |
away. We got folks asked to supper.”
Henneker telt a gloomy sense ot fit.
ness in the enterprise before him. His
mother. a languid woman with bans of
yellow-white hair, fretted a little.
“Some older person ought to offer.
You givin’ up the party and all!
"Tain’t right. You're always givin’ up
and doin’ things for people and gittin’
no thanks. Makes me right mad, soit
does. You're too easy, Clint; yes,
you are. You give up too quick,
Boonie Curd liked you a heap.
Needu’t tell me! You ought to've
kept right on goin’ to see her. Her
paw 'll leave her well off when ke
dies.”
The door shut on her son's
She heard his feet on the road..
Opening the door, she eried : “Clint!
Aw, Clint ! Come back and iet me do
you up a little snack ot lunch.”
But there was no reply. Henneker,
going at a sinart pace, was already out
of ear-shot.
It seemed to him that a peculiar
gloominess thralled the night. The
sky. was like an overturned silver bowl
and the tree tops about it were a woful
tracery in black of flying forms and
winged pursuers with uplifted spears.
Now aud then in an open space of the
horizon it was as if hunters and hunted
had fallen in a heap, some stray sap-
ng straining up like an arm of ap-
eal.
A bell boomed faiat and far, perhaps
from the church or school-house in the
hamlet beyond, where, as at Ways
Store, Christmas jollity was forward
for the many, while the ill-starred few
sat alone, or like Henneker trudged on
some errand of sorrow. He could see
moving lights in cross lanes and out-
lying fields— the lanterns of those who
fared to the frolic at Sherrill’s. Occa-
gionally these were near enough for
Henneker to catch an echoing voice
One hight lanced the dusk just ahead of
him. The figures of a man and a girl
came in view. They regarded him
curiously as he swung by, his eyes
down.
“I believe it was Clint Henneker,”
said the man, with a laugh. “That's
just who it was, Miss Boonie. He's
going over to sit up at the cabin.
Beasely tried to work me in for it, but
I said, ‘Not any, thank you kindly.’
Holidays only come once a year,”
The girl shuddered. “It'sawful—to
be there alone with—with—"'
“Oh, Clint won’t mind it.”
Henneker went on down the jagged
slope leading to the creek’s edge, at
which an icy gleam nibbled. Across
the low water a plank stretched a dark
arm. Straight ahead the log house
made a grayish spot upon the dark
bill. Some one had left a lantern at
the door. It stood hard by the middle
porch tree, staining the snow garb of
the twisted vine to a pale crimson.
Icicles: hanging from the grasping
branches had a strange effect of move-
ment and color, like a dripping of
something red and thick.
Henneker, his lantern held ahead,
pushed the door open. He had a cer-
tain qualm at the idea of entering, but
there was nothing in the poor roo= to
alarm a man, unless he feared some
power in the restful figure on the high
bed. The hearth was swept. Two
wood chairs decorously sat against the
wall. Everything was in order. A
bunch of dried herbs hung in a corner
over the witch's few cooking things.
Hoping Beasley would come soon,
Henneker put his lantern down. It
was very cold, but he was not sure it
would be right to build a fire. As he
sat there looking toward the sheeted
figure, he grew less timorous of its
peaks and stiffness and straight lines.
This was the inevitable ending of the
human story unhackneyed by repeti-
tion. The tale of what we are was
happily finished for one who had been
poor and old and alone, whose heart:
stirring days were so far past that even
their memory must have had a ' grave-
yard savor.
Henneker pictured the old creature
as he had seen her the night before
crouching over the niggard cheer of her
spare fire, hugging her box. A sudden
remembrance flashed on him.
Of late years village gossip had dealt
little with the subject of the old wo-
man’s wealth. In the face of her
meagre living the idea of hoarded gold
under the hearth-stones had long since
ceased to invite discussion; but the
vivid interest these once current tales
had had for his boyhood recurred to
Heuneker, and he wondered if the box
he bad seen was the treasure-box.
He thought of its bulky look. Ifit
held coin, it seemed likely that the
contents might be considerable. Hen-
neker pondered as to its probable dis-
position. It would go to the State, no
doubt, the money which the old woman
had hoarded—miserable money destin-
ed never to make any one happy. For
to Henneker's mind the State was sim-
ply an abstraction. He thought of
dungeons lined with iron-bound safes
full to the doors of bags of bullion,
available only for those sacred govern-
ment uses which he respected without
seeking to understand.
The witch’s savings could scarcely
be of much use to the State, a mere
drop in that sea of gold which he
fancied.
Heuneker glanced toward the hearth
Reaching out his foot, he tried a stone
that looked loose. It tilted, grating on
something metallic.
At the sound Henneker drew back,
shaking a little. The gray shade of
an intention slipped furtively upon
him. If he had money enough to
build a house, even a very little house,
how different life would look !
The face of Boonie Curd glimpsed up-
on him, as sweet and fresh among the
dark tangles of his thoughts as a wild
roe that buds in a thorny hedge.
Just as she looked at him in this
fleeting vision she was perhaps looking
at Hinkle in the reality, all a bewild-
ering mixture of white muslin and
blue ribbons and brown soft curls.
Henneker started to his feet, fired to
action. As he kneeled on the hearth-
stone he felt the presence of a lean old
shape which menaced him with a
vanishing finger.
The witch’s eyes gloomed on him
from every shadow. The wisp of dry
herbs, stirring in a draught, crackled
with boding noises. Whisperings and
chill breaths filled the place, but Hen.
neker’s face had in it a purpose which
put out fear. His lips were locked
and white. He felt like one who had
gained some unearthly power through
a covenant with hell.
torm,
The stone came easily up. In an in-
stant Henneker had dragged a rusty
iron box out.
Heunneker, fumbling with this,
felt it yield in his hand.
It seemed to him suddenly that he
caught a sound outside, a sound blend.
ed of footsteps and voices softly rising
and falling. Stumbling up, he held
himself to listen. y
There was a little faltering, half-scar-
ed tap at the door. Henneker stood
nerveless, his eyes on the shaking pan-
A girl's voice rung out, calling
Then the latchlese door
svung in, showing a pale small face
els,
his name.
under a blue shawl.
“Why Clint, you didn’t hear me,
did you ? T knocked twice. Oh, good- |
[I'm afraid to!
Why, say, [ heard you was |
ness, is that fer?
come in.
here, and T just couldn’t stand it—you
poor thing!”
At her tones Henneker had an odd
sense of lucidity, as of one coming to
himself after a delirinm. He seemed
to see the iron box for the first time.
The girl stepped tremulously over
the threshold.
“Cousin Ed come along with me—
We run off
I reckon every one’s
we're |
he’s waiting out yonder.
trom Sherrill’s.
wondering. Come on, Clint,
going to take you back with us-"” Then
at the wildness in his face, which she
saw on nearer view, her fear and em-
barrassment seemed to depart.
“Clint, yon—you’re not mad at me?
Why, say, I—1'm not going to marry
Hinkle- I can’t help what paw says.”
She stole closer, holding out her
hands.
Henneker drew a catching breath.
A sob rose to his dry lips, a sob of such
thankfulvess as blotted out even the
little appealing figure before him.
The blue shawl had slipped down,
and Boonie stood all in white, her
childlike face prefizuring to Henneker’s
wet eyes the countenances which an-
gels have.
Stepping toward her, his heel caught
and there was a small clatter on the
bare floor. The box had turned over
on the stones of the hearth, its lid gap-
ing.
“Was that the witch’s box 27 breath-
ed Boonie.
Standing close, they cast toward it a
fearful glance.
Nothing had spilled out.
in the dim lantern rays this seemed to
be a child’s worn shoe of some by-gone
vogue, and a handful of yellow curls,
such as might have grown on a child’s
head.
A New Scheme for Fairs.
Among the new devices for making
money at church fairs and other charit-
able entertainments is one which its
originators term “TheLiving Library.”
A certain number of books are chosen
beforehand, and each one is represented
by some young woman who is dressed
appropriately to indicate either the title
of the book or some leading character
therein. Each impersonator must also
be thoroughly acquainted with the vol-
umn she represents, and her action and
behavior must be in accord with the
character chosen.
A catalogue is prepared and turnished
on application, and whenever a book is
called for, a curtain is drawn aside, and
the living copy stands revealed. The
regulations usually governing ‘The
Living Library” are that: first, all
books must be secured from the libra-
rian ; second, the fee for each book
shall be ten cents for ten minutes’ use,
payable in advance ; third, books can-
not be called for twice in succession ;
fourth, persons having called for and
oblained the books must relinguish
them upon notice from the librarian
that the time paid for has reached its
limit, or, failing to do so, shall pay at
the rate of two cents a minute for over-
time ; and finally that no book can be
retained for a longer period than twen-
ty minutes.
The rules do not provide for it, but it
is understood, of course, that during the
busy hours of the fair no book shall be
taken off on a parade through the enter-
tainment room, and the books them-
selves are forbidden by the unwritten
laws to drink lemonade and eat ice-
cream between the hours of eight and
ten at night.
Altogether this living library seems
destined to prove a great success.—
From Harper's Young People.
A Sympathetic Girl,
It isn’t fair to give a Detroit girl away,
possibly, but truth will out, even in a
newspaper. Detroit has one among its
countless pretty girls who was in the
country in February and one day she
happened out toward the cow lot about
milking time and was asking the man
several questions.
“Why don’t you milk that cow?”
she asked pointing to one in an adjoin-
ing lot.
“Because she’s dry, miss.”
“Dry
“Yes, miss. she’s been dry for two
weeks.”
“You cruel wretch,” she exclaimed,
“why don’t you give her some water ?”’
and the man turned his face to the cow-
house and shook with emotions he could
not suppress.
His First Thought.
In a smal! village in Maine there
lives an old soldier who has for many
years received a pension from the gov-
ernment, which, with his small earn-
ings by occasional jobs, makes him com-
fortable. ‘Oneday, while at work in the
house of a neighbor, he slipped at the
top ot a flight of stairs and fell to the
bottom. The lady hurried to learn the
cause.
«Why, Ambrose,” she said, “is that
you ? Did you fall down stairs ?”?
“Yes, marm, I did,” answered the old
man, “and for about a couple of min-
utes I thought 1'd lost my pension.”
TESA ———
——Qlerk—1I want to get off for a few
days Mr. Hardscrable. My grandmoth-
"er is dead.
Employer—Hicks, this is the fifth
time your grandmother has died.
Clerk— Yes ; grandmother was an ex-
traordinary woman.
The lid had a ‘tongue
which fitted overa kpob.in the front
edge.
It held
safe as ever the witch's treasure, and
For and About Women,
The sailor bat again presents itself
for favor among the many pepular
spring shapes.
Sleeves are running to extremes.
The wider they are and the farther they
project out from the shouldzrs the bet-
ter the wearer seems to like it.
Mrs. Surah B. Cooper, of San Frax-
cisco, has a Sunday school classof mere
than 300 intelligent men and women.
She has taught a Bible class for more
than 40 years.
The chief amusement of Mrs. Hetty
Green, the richest woman in America,
reminds one of ihe nursery rhyme of
“The King of Hearts”— counting out
her money, She spends hours sitting
in the vault which holds her securities.
Kuhne Beverage, at the age of 17
‘ years not only has the distinction of be-
ing the most talked of woman sculptor
of the day, bat of her an eminent sculp-
| tor has said that in all the essentials of
| her art she is more largely endowed than
| any other woman who has ever lived.
1
Young girls are wearing their hair in
| one heavy braid down the back. For-
| tunate is the young madamoiselle whose
hair will reach to her waist. In front
| it may be parted in the middle and
| waved back to the braid or capped
in the old way, the small braid from the
front hair being broughtdown and wov-
en in with the larger braid.
The braid of hair is seen at its pret-
tiest when worn with the hats that have
clusters of flowers drooping at the back,
red roses resting on a black braid or 4
or a handtul of green oats falling off of
a lace hat upon a thick braid of blonde
hair.
Hats for young girls are particularly
pretty this summer. Large flats have
leghorn crowns in crepe brims, the
crepe is shirred on cords an inch or so
apart. Pink crepe is used with good
effect. Rosettes of the crepe form a
part of the trimming. The brim has a
ruffled edge. A lovely example shows a
broad brim drooping at the sides, with
rosettes beneath, and others holding
pink tips at the left. Three little tips
are set against the crown, nodding out-
wards, three incline forward, and are
graduated in height, standing taller to-
ward the front.
Short skirts are the style in children’s
frocks. As a matter of fact, declares
the New York Times, these short skirts
are much prettier and more sensible
than the long gowns which some moth-
ers still cling to for their baby women,
Big puff sleeves and little Empire puff
waists make the dresses very quaint.
One sty le of gown has two ruflles falling
over a baby waist and over the top of
the sleeves. These voluminous waists
are cat out round at the neck and a
shirred gamp of thin white goods insert-
ed. This gamp is scarcely more than a
throat piece, so little of it shows.
A silky batiste dress tor a young wo-
man, either blonde or brunette, is of
pale lemon yellow. The Loie Fuller
skirt is trimmed with two bands of Val-
enciennes insertion, edged on either side
with black satin ribbcn an inch wide,
the lower trimmings placed slightly
above the foot, the second band above
the knee. The fully gathered baby
waist has an Empire effect given by a
band of the insertion edged with ribbons
passing around just under the arms. A
collar and belt of plain wide black satin
ribbon meet in the back with shirred
ruffles The large puffed sleeves have
also a band of the lace and ribbon sur-
rounding them near the top, and are
gathered below the elbow in a ribbon
band with a chou on the inner side.
As the days flit by one notices a de-
cided reaction. Frills, a craze for a
time are losing prestige excepting for
the airiest of airy robes. Even the
waist of the softest and flimsiest gown
inclines to surpiice effects. Over the
shoulder the flounce of lace or dress
fabric still droops or flares according to
the whim of the wearer, but here and
here alone is it placed. Sleeves grow
bigger and puffier, while the front of
the waist to which they belong boasts of
a severe rever, a few modest folds or a
plain surface fastened under the arm.
One thing is certain, when once you are
gowned this part of the costume should
defy detection so far as its fastenings are
concerned. You are smuggled into
your bodice these days, but how is a
poser.
Crepons in mauve and pale gray are
brightened with color, and black silk
crepons have a deep square yoke of
white guipure, with strands of jet beads
of graduated sizes swinging below in a
half circle, or festooned from the shoul-
ders in front and back. The black toil-
ettes are among the bandsomest seen,
those of black satin with circular
fiounce trimmed with jet galioon, and
others of figured grenadine for the skirt
and its spanish flounce, the waist and
sleeves of chiffon gathered very full and
banded with ecru guipure insertions.
The latter dress, worn as light mourning
by one ot the most beautiful women of
the season, a tall brunette with brilliant
color iu lips and cheek, is completed by
a tall bonnet of branching jets, and a
short cape, scarcely reaching to the el-
bow, of black satin fully gathered and
overlaid with a ruffle of Chartilly lace.
Straw hats are vivid pink, grass green
and bright purple, and no matter which
color is chosen all the others can be
added in the trimming. It seems as if
woman is to top herself with a kaliedo-
scope. Hats, too, were never so big.
Leghorns are bigger than ever and so
trimmed that their size is increased.
For instance, one bas a great flare made
on one side toward the back, and in the
niche of this flare stand three plumes,
thick and wide at the top, as the Prince
of Wales’ style decrees, and set apart
from their very stems. One is a soft
pink, one is a delicate green, and the
third is yellow. Under the crown of
the hat, just is front, to lift it a little is
single delicate pink rose-bud. There is
no other trimming. It is bard to see
how the feathers are made to stand up
that way, for there is no buckle or bow
to hide the method. Apparently they
grow there. The brim is very wide and
lops, asin the way of the correctly
made hat, in just the right place, and
nowhare else. In other places it stands
up beautifully. How do these milliner
folk doit? They must bave a fairy
wand while they are trimming.
|