Ye
Deworraic atcha
‘Bellefonte, Pa., July i4, 1893.
E—
THE WAY WE WALKED.
1 met a woman on life's way,
A woman fair to see ;
Or caught up with her, I should tay,
Or she caught up with ‘ie,
The way is long when one’s alone,”
I said, “and dangerous, too ;
Tl help you by each stumbling stone,
If 1 may walk with you?’
I saw her hang her head and blush,
And I could plainly see
The fire that caused the fevered flush ;
I whispered. “Walk with me.
Thou art of all the very maid
A braye heart wants to woo,
And I'il remember long,” I said,
“The way I walk with you.”
Then on we went; her laughing eyes
And sunny smiles were sweet ;
Above us blue and burnished skies;
And roses ‘neath our feet,
“I'm glad your sanny face I've seen,”
I said ; “when life is through
I'll own the best of it has been
The way I walked with you.”
And on we went; we watched the day
Into darkness merge ;
My fair companion paused to say,
“Here's where our paths diverge.”
I answered: ‘Yes, and one more mile
s fading from our view,
And all the while lit by your smile
This way 1've walked with you.
+&] do not say my love, my life,
Will allibe given to grief » ;
When you are gone ; the ceaseless strife
Will bring me much relief. i
When death’s cold hand the curtain draws,
When life’s long journey’s through,
Twill not have all been bad, because
I came part way with you.”
—Cy. Warman, in New York Sun.
STAMFORD’S SOPRANO.
BY HOWARD PYLE.
Tom Stamford had just returned
from college. He was ambitious in
the direction ot journalistic life, and
the immediate opening that presented
was to ‘do general hack-work for the
Liberator. The Liberator was a week-
ly journal modelled somewhat after the
style of the Spectator, and Stamford’s
uncle Elihu, who was that sort of a
rich man who takes an occasional pot-
shell at a new venture, was a consid-
erable stockholder in the paper. This
gave Stamford sonte claim ‘upon it; he
wrote a good deal for it, and not all
that he wrote was rejected.’
In spite of the positiveness and sono-
rousness- of its ‘name, the Liberator
was at that time leading a rather pal-
lid existence. ‘But it was uvew, it was
spending money, and it. was very hope-
ful of meeting the impact of solid ex-
perience and of surviving that encoun-
ter without going altogether to pieces.
It was just then in what one might
call the “cherry stain’ state of exist-
ence, for the panels of the office were
of stained cherry, the office rail was of
stained cherry, the new and shining
desks were of stained, the revolving
bent-wood seat ou which the editor sat
was of stained cherry, and the torture-
seat upon which his contributors sat
to hear the fate of their contributions
was also of stained cherry. A paper
with money and great expectations is
very apt to start in this state of exist
ence, os ;
‘The Liberator was at that time in
the opposition, and was very positive
in its position. It used to advise the
administration and the Upper and
Lower Houses of Congress with an air
of impartiality and restraint that .con-
veyed ‘the idea to the reader of'a tre-
mendous but suppressed motive power
" behind, which; if the editor only once
dared to let it go, would smash, at least
seriously cripple,’ the Execuutive de-
partment of the United States.
Stamford at that time was a very
young man. He also looked upon the
Liberator through a rosy atmosphere
of hope and of youth. He felt that it
was destined to have a great future,
and that by means of it he himselt
might algo rise to a great future. So
he used to write: his bits and scraps of
literary odds. and. ends, and a good
many of these were published. . He as:
sumed an air of literary experience at
that time, and used to speak of what
he wrote as: ‘stuff.’ - “I ran down
home last Sunday, and: staid a couple
of days to write up a lot of stuff for the
Lib,” or “I wrote a thousand words ot
stuff last night for the Lib about Salvi:
ni.” {(Salvini was just then the rage
in Boston.) . = |
One day when Stamford went, into
the office to inquire the fate of some
one of his manuscripts he found Mr.
Cadger, the editor, ini a more. expan:
sive mood than usual. The editor be-
gan saying, “I don't believe we are go
ing to be able to use all this paper of
yours, Mr. Stamford, You've gone
unnecessarily” into’ detail, Maybe if
you'd eut it down to eight or ten hun-
dred words we might be able to do
something with it.” He tossed it out
upon the desk as he spoke, and Stam-
ford picked it up, trying to look as
though he did not care. Then Mr,
Cadger' resumed and lit the cold and
dead'end of 'a cigar that Jay amongst
the papers on his desk ; then tilting in
hig “chair and cocking his feet up on
the desk, he yielded himself .to a. gen-
eral expansive impnlge to talk, “The
fact is,” said he, shifting his cigar from |
one side of his mouth to theother, and
winking away the smoke, that drifted
into his eyes—*‘the fact is that you
make the same mistake that all writ.
ers, ‘particularly’ ‘novitiate ‘writers,
make. The ‘trouble with you all is
that you'go'out’ of your way to try to
find something unusual and uncom:
mon to write about, something. that no-
body knows anything about... Now the
reader as a rule, wants to read what he
knows about, and not what he does |
not know about. For instance, the.
first thing that your reader turns to in
a newspaper is the account of the char-
ity-ball' which’ he or she attended the
night before.” Your reader wants to
read that because he or she knows all
about it, and such a one will pass over
the account of the volcanic eruption in
the Feejee, Islands, such as we. pub.
lished last, week, and the loss of tea or
- -—y
back of Cape Cod, and they have no
kind of interest to. the general reader.
Now if I were a writer like you, Mr.
Stamford, I wouldn't go so far away
from home; I'd just work right here
in Boston at something all the Boston
people know about, and then, if you
didn’t hit it off in the right fashion,
you'd find that all the Boston people
would read about it.”
So spoke Mr. Cadger, with a most
success of himseif; -he had always |
stumbled over his own theories, and
crackad his shins against the hard facts
of life... Stamford knew that this was
the cage, and could not help thinking |
of it, but he listened to the other very
respectfully, for he was an editor, and
it is well to be good to- editors. ‘Yes,
I think I see what you mean,” said he:
“I don’t know but what there's a great
deal of truth in 1t.”” And then, as a
sudden’ idea struck him, he said, “I
| tell you what I’m going to do, Mr.
Cadger : I'm going down to West New-
ton. There’s going to be a county
fair down there, and I'll go down and
write it up. That's something every-
body knows about. Do you think you"
could use any such stuff in the Libera:
tor 2" :
“0b, I don’t know about that.” said.
Mr. Cadger, instantly scenting editor
ial danger, and as instantly withdraw-
ing iuto his shell of editorial caution :
“jt altogether depends upon: bow it is
done, Then he began fingering
among the papers of his desk, and
Stamford saw that it was time to go.’
So Stamford went down to West
Newton to see the county fair-and to
try his art at realism. The accommo-
dation train in which he went down to
West Newton, “after a great deal of
backing and filling, finally stopped at
the temporary platform at the fair
grounds. - Stamford followed the
stream that emptied out of the cars and
poured along the dusty road toward
the great rambling board buildings
fluttering with flags and streamers,
Somewhere a band in the distance
brayed with a far-away voice, and the
swings and merry-go-rounds squeaked
and squealed. There were grotesque
brutish. noises coming from the ‘Agri.
cultural Building, and auniversal aro-
ma of damp deal boards, of saw “dust,
and-of trampled grass pervading the
warm spring day. Stamford made his
way to a little frame shanty labelled,
rather graadiloquently, “Office of the
Superintendent.” Within was an at
mosphere ‘of cigar smoke. A lot of
men were sitting around intently and
serionely idle. They looked at Stam-
ford with a” rather bovine stolidness,
and with a good 'deal of diffidence he
introduced himeelt to ‘them as the cor-
respordent of the Boston Liberator. He
had thought that they would have
shown him some attention, but they
did not. Indeed. itseemed to him that
they felt him to be in the way, and
they did not know exactly what to do
with him. They gave him a ticket to
the grand stand to see the races in the
afternoon; and then he was left to take
care’ of himeelt, He left the office feel
ing very lonely and deserted.
_ A little ‘while later, in the Main
Building, he met a stout motherly -la-
dy who was in general charge of the
exliibit there. She was a Mrs. West,
and her son’ had been to Harvard.
Stamford remembered him indistinctly,
‘and it served as a bond of acquaint
ance to connect him individually with
hig, surroundings. He wae very glad
of compantonship in the strangeness of
his surroundings, so he walked about
and talked to Mrs, West whenever he
found her disengaged, looking with
aimless interest at the array of quilts
and fancy-work and bread and pre-
serves, and loaves of .cake cut in ‘half
to show how light they were inside.
In one end of the great barnlike
place there was & little space railed off’
like a pen, and somewhat raised from
the floor. Here 'an organ company
bad an organ upon exhibition. There
‘were seats arranged around for those
who chose to listen to the occasional
music that was played. The instru
ment was a sort of eemi-pipe organ—a
vocalion, was called—and the man
‘who played upon it was a teacher in
the high-sehool and the organisc.at Ho-
ly Trinity’ Chapel. Mrs. West listened
to bim ‘with’ evident pleasure, ‘and then
| she told Stamtord that Mary Estee was
oing to sing by and by. :
2 “And oy Mary Estee 2" asked
Stanifosd.” "oo Et
“Mary ‘Estee? Oh, she’s our so-
prano—she sings at Holy Trinity
Chapel. She is Professor . Krim-
baugh’s favorite scholar. By-the-way,
have you been to the Art Gallery yet?
1 want you to see the chrysanthemums
that Tak Dudley painted. . She's
studying in Boston this season.” |
Stamtord, wondering. who Professor
Krimbaugh was, said that that he had
not been to the Art Gallery yet, but
that he would go and see Miss Dudley's’
chrysanthetnums.’ | Before ‘he went
Mrs, West ‘stopped him ‘to say : “You
must be sure and come back at eleven’
o'clock and Hear Mary Estee sing. At
eleven o'clock, remember,” © = °° ba
Stamford” did come back at eleven
o'clock. He heard the grunting and
growling of the vocalion as he ap-
proached from the distance, und he
knew that Mr. White, the. orgasist,
was performing upon. it... There was
quite a little crowd gathered to, listen.
Stamford took his seat upon one of the
wooden benches in front of the raised
pen wherein the voealion was enclosed,
and by-and-by, after Mr. White had
playéd for a while, the West Newhain
soprano ascended the dais amid a rat-
tling' discharge of applause. She way
‘dressed with a rather elaborate’ imita-
tion of & real ‘concert Soprano, and
there was something ‘suggestively pa.
thetic in the caricature. ‘She sang a
very ambitious ikl encared, , and,
and then’sang “Kathleen Mavourneen.” |
Stamford knew really nothing about
music, but he had heard'singers sing,
and he: recognized at once that Miss
Estee bad really 'an exquisite voice,
filteen thousand, lives, to read the ae-
count of that charity ball. » Now here:
you have taken all the trouble to write /
with’ an almost professional ring about
Np sods Wy Load LEIA
it; 190y > : tin
«| After ‘the performance was over, he
singer. He had not recognized how
young and how pretty she was until he
spoke to her. She could pot have
been over nineteen years old. She
was excessively cold and reserved in
her manner, and though Stamford was
very well aware that the manner was
assumed to cover her diffidence and
her uncertainty of herself, he was over-
awed byit in spite of himself. Still he
talked with her for a while, with only
oracular- air. He had never made a | partial success. “Indeed, Miss Estee,”
said he, for the twentieth time, ‘you
have a magnificent: voice, a superb
voice;” and then he added, “you ought
to go abroad and study.” {
“Pye studied two years,” said Miss
Estee, “under Professor Krimbaugh.”
“Oh!” said Stamford. He was si-
lent for a moment or two, and then he
beganagain: “I don’t kmow anything
of Professor Krimbaugh, but he can’t
give you what you could get abroad.
Of course you'd have better chances in
studying abroad, you know, than you
have here. You can get better train-
ing there even than you could get in
Boston. Yes! You ought to go
abroad ; that’s what wou ought to do.
Artis in its infancyin this country,
compared to what itis abroad. You
might go to England. You know they
teach music as well in England now as
they do anywhere else. - In fact they
have turned out some very great simg-
ers'in England.” He felt that he was
talking of something that he did @ot
know anything about, but what he
said sounded well.
Miss Estee stood for 2 moment with-
out making any reply. There was a
very awkward break of silence. Then
she saw a friend approaching, and her
face ht up with a pleased light of rec-
ogunition. She left him standing where
he was, to join the young woman,
which she did with a rather exuberant
air of cordiality, and Stamford did not
get another chance to talk with her.
Stamford did not make anything out
of the county fair, and his trip resulted
in nothing, [fe did not know how to
begin writing about it, and even. were
he to begin, he knew he would not
know what to say. But he thought a
great deal about Miss Mary Estee, and
the more he thought about her the
more sure he felt that she had a mag-
nificently superb voice. Why should
ghe not go abroad and dewelop her
voice, as he had suggested? Perhaps
she might develop into a greater sing-
er, What a splendid thing it would
be if he could get his uncle Hlihu and
the girls interested in her—if they
should send her abroad, and she should
develop into a famous prima donna!
He continued to build castles in the
air about her at odd moments of his
time. He fancied her to be an operat-
ic queen, and himeelf intimate with
her. He fancied her crowned with
roses and the world at her feet. As
for him—he would have made her all
this. She would have been no longer
cold ; she would be gratefal, and he
would be her friend.
When Sunday came he went out to
take dinner at his nncle Elihu’s. Mr.
Elibu Biglow was very rich. He
lived just outside of Boston, in one of
thicse beautiful suburbs that are neith-
er of the city nor of the country, but
have all the, delights and beauties of
both. Stamford nearly always went
tended service at St.’ Michael's, and
then took a family dinner at his uncle's.
The family consisted of Mr. Biglow
himself, Miss Susan, acd Miss Clara.
Mr." Biglow was a shy, silent little,
wan, always ill at ease, very quiet and
retiring in his manner. ‘Stamford of-
ten wondered how he had come to be
rich, but then he had never seen him
with ~ hig’ sixth (“business”) sense
aroused.” Miss Susan was lke her
father, very silent and shy. She did
not often venture anything beyond a
timid commonplace, and she would sit
with hands folded in her lap listening
attentively to what Clara said. Miss
Clara.was bright and “smart” ‘enough
for all three; indeed, she was bright to
over-keenness, and perhaps for that rea-
son ‘was not so popular as'she might
have been ; for people, as a rule, do not
like to be made pin-cushions for witty
sayings. = | Gr Anil
Clara laughed at Stamford when he
told about his prima donna. She had
played the Sunday school organ at St.
‘Michael's and led the choir in singing.
“Why, Tom,” said she, “your swan’s
a gooee, and nothing more. There's
nat a country town nowadays that does
not have its soprano.
genius, too, and most of them study
music. Thi girl you're speaking of—
I'll venture 10 say, if you only knew it,
‘that, she’s gone through a course of
vocal training, just as they all do, un-
teacher of vocalization.”
Stamford = remembering Professor
‘assertion. ‘But her voice hasn’t, been
properly brought out,” hesaid. ,
And then Miss Clara laughed again.
But though Miss Clara laughed, Stam-
ford bad, after all; said enough to lin
terest the Biglows in Miss Estee. By
tea-time they were all talking seriously
| about her, with only an occasional joke
from Miss Clara, and before Stamford’
had lett them the two young ladies had’
agreed to go down to West Newton
the following Sunday to hear Miss
Estee sing.” They went, and they
came back only lees enthusiastic than
Stamford had been. Then Uncle Elihu
himself became interested. | A great
deal of negotiation and correspondence
followed, and then the girl came down
to Boston. SH BROT: Fubav
Her father came with her:! He was
cashier of the. West Newham: Bank,
where he had a salary very much
smaller than his family. He was a
lorless little ‘man, dressed in dull
oy He had alarge noseand a thia
face; and he made yon somehow ‘think
of a mouse. Ii seemed to Stanford
that the little man toadied to his uncle
Elihu, He ‘was’ Sra Spotted in the’
‘girl Lereelf; she did not look nearly so
‘well now -that she was brought down
ta Boston, . In West Newham, where
she b:longed, her localism did not ap:
up this village of half breed. Jodiane got Mrs, West to'intrcduce him to’ the pear nearly so local. Nevertheless,
down 10 Woodbridge on Sunday, at’
studied music diligently, and she
They all have.
(der the instruction of some provincial
Krimbaugh. did not deny Miss Clara's
Miss Estree certainly had a fine voice.
The Biglow girls took charge ot her,
and one day they took her into town.
She sang before that eminent musician
Dr. Mortimer, with all the poise and
‘assurance of inexperience and igno-
rance. Dr. Mortimer liked her voice
very much indeed. ‘He was an ex-
tremely quiet man and did not say
much, bnt what he did say was of the
best and most encouraging.
During Miss Estee’s stay in Boston,
Stamford saw a great deal of her. The
Biglow girls, who bad her in charge,
were both interested in her and amused
with her. When she asked for a little
more “chicking” at dinner, Miss Clara
almost winked at Stamford. Bat it
was only occasionally that Miss Estee
made such lapses in Stamford’s pres-
ence. She was very bright and quick-
witted, and she did not ofiea betray
herself before him. She very well
knew that she bristled with localisms
and idioms, and whenever a stranger
was present she hedged herself around
with a silence that was almost resent-
ful, and from which she looked out
eharply and keenly whenever she sus
pected herself of having erred in some-
thing she bad said or done. She must
have talked with the Biglow girls more
freely and unreservedly as she got
better acquainted with ‘them. Miss
Clara used to repeat scraps of her con-
versation with a precision and accuracy
himself. “It's: a shame,” said he,
helplessly, “to make such fun of a poor
girl ; she can’t help her peculiarities.”
“Dear me,” said Clara Biglow, “I
don’t mean to make any naughty fun
of her. I like her very much ; indeed
I do; but I can’t help being amused
when she ‘wants to know!’ or when
she says to me ‘do tell I'
During the time that Miss Estee was
sang repeatedly at St. Michael's. At
the conclusion of the first service at
which she sang a number of the more
prominent people of the rich and more
than respectable congregation came up
to thank her for her lovely voice.
Stamford stood near her, holding her
wraps ; he felt almost an air of pro-
prietorship that was very delightful.
The girl received her ovation with ‘an
air of reserve and coldness under which
the enthusiasm wilted, in spite of its
initial warmth.
In the beginning of December Miss
Estee went to‘Europe with a friend of
the Biglows, and letters of introduction
from . Dr. Mortimer to some of the
leading musical lights in London, and
a check for a good round sum from
Mr. Biglow.
For a time'the Biglows heard every
little while from Miss Esiee. The
letters they received were written in a
precise, almost school-girlish hand, and
her sentences were joined together with
a great many “ands” and “so’s.’
‘Clara used to read them to Stamford of
a Sunday with a nasal intonation and
a slurring of the “r’s” into “ah’s,” very
much like Miss Estee’s own style of
talking. So for a little while the ac-
‘quaintance and the correspondence
were kept up. Then the letters be
came more intermittent. Then came
a letter saying that Miss Estee would
have no more need of Uucle Elihu’s
monetary assistance, and that she had
a position that would easily pay for her
support and her tuition. Then came
another letter ; then a long interval of
silence. Then came another letter,
enclosing a check, returning the money
that Mr, Elihu Biglow had advanced
her ; then a silence that was not again
broken. : ;
But Stamford heard of her once or
twice, more or less indirectly. A
friend ot the Biglows, a Mrs. Walker,
had met her in London. The young
lady had been asked to sing at an
evening company ; Mrs. Walker had
talked with her afterwards, and the
girl had said that she was about going
to the Continent. ‘‘She is very success-
ful,” said Mrs. Walker, “and she is
very different from what I remember
ber here, So much more—what shall
I say ?—fine. Yes, fine—and polished,”
That was about the last time. that
Stamford heard of his protegee. Then
she drifted out of his life altogether,
and became only a remembrance.’
' Eight or nine years passed, and
Stamford grew from. his green unripe
state to the mellowness of manhood.
The Liberator faded out from its
cherry-stain state of existence into that
of painted deal and rough-cast plaster,
and thence faded out and. was gone
from the world of letters. Stanford
succeeded in his profession, and became
the assistant editor upon the New Era,
and it was a part of the whirligig of
fate that Mr. Cadger should now bring
contributions | to him, ‘Ah, Mr.
Stamford,” said the ex-editor, “I knew
you had the talent when you used to
write for me in ‘the Liberator, and I
used tosay that boy is: bound to sue-
was kind to him. :
It was aboat this time that a singer
developed very suddenly’ somewhere
labroad. The first that the American.
world knew of her was that she was
singing in London, and that all the
world ~ was’ talking about her. Her
‘name was Marie d’Esti, and some fa
miliarity in the sound ‘made Stamford
think ‘ot his' own soprano, and laugh at
his old ambitions, and ‘wonder what |'
became of her. Then D'Hsti’s mana-
ger brought her over to this country in
a revival of Italian opera, and she was
‘presented in‘ New York with” phehom-
enal success. One Saturday afternoon
8 lot of exchanges was brought into
‘the office of the New Fra, among
‘others” some “illustrated weeklies.
Stamford was ‘passing by the ‘table
where ‘they lay, when the front-page
illugtration of one of the papers caught
his eye, and he stopped to. look at it.
It was an engraving, a portrait of
Marie d'Esti, paintéd “by Jasper.
There was ; something: very familiar
about the face that struck Stamford at
once, and be looked at. it for. a long
time, with his head first on one side
and ‘then’ on ‘the other.’ Suddenly
recognition eame almost like ‘a ‘flash.
“By George !"! said he, fairly speaking |
aloud; “by George! It is! Yes, it
that made Stamford laugh in spite of
in Boston before she went abroad she:
ceed.” And Stamford laughed and |
‘me very much if you’ll let me have a
1 “Well, here is some.” ! i
must be. By Jove!” Then he folded
up the paper and stuck it in his pocket.
He still kept up bis praetice of tak-
ing his Sunday dinrer at his uncle
went out to Woodbridge he carried the
illustrated newspaper with him.
“Look here, girls,” said he, after they
had come home from church together,
and he took the newspaper out® of his
overcoat pocket and. opened it. !
» . 1
you recognize it?" i
They did recognize her very quickly. |
Miss Clara emphasized the recognition |
with an almost ‘breathless “Well, .I |
never!” She looked very long and
steadily at the newspaper portrait.
“I never thought of it being her,” said |
she. “Why, of course, that’s just ex- |
.actly who it 181” and then she said |
again after a while, “Well, T never!’ |
That winter Marie d'Esti came to!
Boston to sing, and of course Stamford |
and the Biglows went to hear her upon
her opening night. They , hardly |
recognized her at first, but with the aid |
of the opera-glasses the identity was |
unmistakable. Her voice had been
very extensively advertised, but it was |
all the advertisement claimed it to, be |
—it was wonderful, It was not espec- |
ially powerful, but it was supple and |
flexible in the extreme, her runs and |
trills being given with no apparent ef-
fort, and with all the ease and fluency |
of a singing-bird. ’
“Well, she has certainly learned how |
to sing,”” whispered Stamford.” Who
would bave thought that the county
fair at West Newton would have pro-
duced this ?”
“l tell you what T'd like t» do,”
whispered Miss Clara in response, “I
would like to goto the stage eatrance
and see her come out. I can hardly
believe, even yet, it really is she.”
Se, after the performance was over,
they went around and stood on the
cold sidewalk at the stage entrance.
A coupe—a dashing, brilliant affair—
was waiting for the singer. By-and-by
she came out, muffled in a loose white
wrap and a suit of rich fur. She was
under the escort of a gentleman of a
distinctly foreign appearance, wearing
mustaches waxed to points and a
singularly man-of-the-world air. She
was about passing the little group un-
der the cluster of lights atthe curb,
when she looked up and saw them.
Recognition came with a flash. She
stopped for an instant, Then she
snatched her hand from her escort's
arm and came quickly to them.
“Ob,” she cried, “I am so glad—so
very glad to see you! I was going to
write to tell you I was in Boston, but I
can’t tell you how busy I am. My
secretary is sick, ‘and "I almost never
write letters myself. But do come.
and see me, won’t you? I'm stopping
at the Hotel Metropole.” Then she
turned suddenly to her escort, who all
this time was standing aside with an
infinitely gentlemanly air cf fine re-
serve, holding some of the singer's
wraps upon his arm. “Count,” said
she, “these are the ladies of whom I
have so often spoken to you. Miss
Biglow, Miss Ciara Biglow, Mr. Big:
low, let me introduce you to my hus-
band, Count Stinitz. Count Stinitz, Mr.
Stamford.”
Her husband bowed in a general and
affable way, and in an exceedingly gen-
tlemanly fashion, to the Boston people,
and then she took his arm again,
“Remember,” said the singer, with a
smile that was very beautiful, “I shall
expect to see you at the Hotel Metro-
pole to-morrow. Good night.” And
then she was gone. {
The four stood for a while.in the
dark and’ silent street, dirty with the
snow that had been trodden underfoot.
Nothing could have exceeded the spon-
taneousness and cordiality of the sing-
er's greeting ; it was beyond measure
warm and hearty, and she evidently
meant that she wanted to see them.
Nevertheless, there was about her an
indescribable air of urbanity, almost |
of condescension—nat in the least snob-
‘bish, not in the least assumed, but very
plainly a manner that had grown upon
her with the splendid growth of her
fortune. They had none of them
known before what a great personage a
great singer was. =. ?
“Well,” said Miss Clara, breaking
the silence with a deep breath, *‘upon.
my word!” aod Stamford burst out
laughing. > !
“She did not write because her sec-
retary ‘was sick,” said Miss Clara
again, just as she was stepping into the
carriage, “I feel as though we had. all
lived in a barn-yard and had hatched
out a swan I" and Stamford laughed
again.— Harper's Weekly.
Man Wants But Little; Etc,
From the New York Weekly. '*
Tramp. “Please, mum, would you
be so kind &s to let me have a needle
and thread ?”’ ! ’
Mrs. Suburb. “Well, y-e:s, I' can let
you have that.”
~ “Thankee, mum.
Now you'd oblige
‘bit of cloth for a patch.”
“Thankee, mum, butit’s a different
color from my travelin’ suit. Perhaps’
‘mum you could spare me some of your |
‘husband's old clothes that: this patch
will mateb,”’ fy yo
“Well, I declare | I'll give you an
old suit, however. ''Here it is.,’ ~
. “Thankee, mum. : I see it's'a little
large, mum, but if you’ll kindly furnish
me with a square meal, mebby I can fill
it out.’”.’ Gh
: HAT ES
———Are you on to the new walk—
the new gait—of the fashionable girl.
The paragrapher of the summer girl
does not Rppesr to have caught it, but it
is here. - 1t'beats the Grecian bend or
anything the girls have yet -abopted as
their own. It can best be described as
aswagger. The head is moved from
side to side, the shoulders and the whole
body. sways, giving exactly the motion
a person apparently has who is standing
gideways in a boat when the waves are
rough. Tt is a foreign notion introduc-
ed last season abroad and the few fash-
,upon a lining and finished with a
‘ruche, There'is’a ruff of box-plaited
satin ribbon of organdie dresses and an-
other of shaded velvet and white lace
for more elaborate toilets. The “collar”
may be only this-—a neck, or it'may be
an extensive cape, fluffing to’ the waist
in extravagances of gauze and chiffon,
The wildest extreme has been reached
when a single length of black lace ser-
ves as a background for strings of mock
gems hanging from, the Marie Louise
collar around the throat; of a girl scarce.
ly out of her teens, f
For and About Woman.
Taut and trig the belted jacket.
Perpendicular trimmings for the short
Elihu’s, and the next day when he Woman. ?
A woman conceals what she does not
know.
Head drapes of chiffon for an evening
stroll.
White satin is in vogue for evening
“Here's a picture of Marie'd’ Esti, | Do dresses.
Grenadine the popular fabric for light
weight gowns. :
Weather, wind and a woman's mind
. change like tke moon,
White lace veils are worn with sailor
hats, about which they are carelessly
knotted with ends hanging down in the.
back. :
The latest fad in an incongruous
combination of material is holland and
black satin, a plain coat of holland hav-
ing deep revers and a lining throughout
of the satin.
The newest and smartest way to wear
flowers is to have one large La France
rose cut with a long stem and foliage
and pinned in at the left side, the fol-
iage reaching to the waist. ,
One of the numerous young newspa-
per women who are demonstrating to a
previously skeptical public that beauty
and brains may inhabit the same earth-
ly tenement of clay is Miss Mary Adel-
aide Belloc.
Among the dainty novelties are
Maria Antoinette capes of lace, either
black or white, that are to be worn with
summer toilets. These have long scarf
ends that fasten at the belt and fall to
the skirt hem.
For traveling the blue and ox-blood
gloves will be worn, and sailor suits
having men’s vests of figured duck are
the most popular. = For dressy wear the
Leghorn hat continues in favor, but for
all jaunts the ever-popular sailor seems
to completely answer the purpose.
A little cream of tartar water, lemo-
nade, powered borax in your bath ; corn
pone, corn muffins, corn dodgers and
corn cakes along with graham bread
giuten bread, whole wheat bread and
brown bread will do more for the com-
proving ade all the creams in the mar-
et. !
‘The Montana Republicans have se-
lected 2 woman lawyer as council in
their offort to secure the control of the
Legislature, and for this they have em-
ployed the legal services’ of Miss Ella
Knowles, who was the Populists candi-
date for Attorney General at the recent
election and who came within 1,000
votes of being elected. :
Eton, Russian and zouave jacket ef-
fects are still a marked feature of new
waists that open over shirred, plaited or
folded vests, the fronts very full and
are girdled. Lapped fronts opening
over silk or chiffon inserted plastrons
remain in great favor, and the corslet
bodice, with guimpe of lace, net or oth-
er delicate fabrics, will be in high vogue
for months to come.
A. very pretty dress was striped dimity
a white foundation, with hair-lines of
black, moss green and pale blue.
The skirt was trimmed with two nar-
row ruffles of black lace, set on in ‘deep.
waves, one headed by a ruching of pale
blue satin ribbon, the other by one, of
green, to match the stripes in the dress.
The waist bad a similar adornment fgo-
ing over the shoulders and forming a
yoke effect, both back and front. Large
sleeves drawn ‘into little narrow cuffs
completed a costume that was undoubt-
edly made by a French modiste at a
mcdiste’s price, but which. could easily
be duplicated at home for one-third the
money. :
The downward tendency of the sleeve
.does not lessen the quantity of material
required to construct these deformed at-
tachments of the regular gown, and it
is still necessary to consider the sleeve
before any other part of the gown. Ex-
pansion continues to be the fashion of
the day, with the difference that it is
around the elbows, and has the effect of
breadth rather than height.
shoulders should not be raised at all ex-
cept for evening gowns. ° Half short
sleeves are popular. for summer wear,
and in thin material there is more ruffle
finish for the top in place of the more
common puff" A long, full puff, ex-
tending below the elbow and finished at
the top with a close-fitting cap, is one of
the new designs.
' Collars are indispensable in the well-
finished costumes, so they say, these
leaders whose infinite attention and fde-
tail has earned them the distinction of
being genuises in dress. They are
fashioned of lace, of tulle, plain
or “embroidered, of grendadine with
gay. stripes of. satin, of gauze,
of mousseline de soie, ¢f silk and rain-
bow tissues. Most are black, to be worn
with any gown, but many are designed
especially for one costume and these are
the most elegant. . ‘White lace is worn
with silk dresses at garden parties, dan-
ces, and outdoor fetes. A quaint and
daring fancy is'a huge neck ruffof black’
collarettes of alternate black and white,
Another one of these , most Jopilas
garnitures is the ‘umbrella’ collarette,’
so ealled from its’ regular points’ ‘down
the back and over the bust. It is usual -
ly made of changeable silk, fribared
) ul
” One of the simplest and prettiest mod-
els yet/seen ‘is'an appurtenance'to a lilag
.crepon dress. It is of . deep; heliotrope
gauze heavily plaited and -edgad with a
purple lace so deeply colored that it
shone almost black, “Tt fastened behind
with:a Florian’ knot. wo long “ends
of deep purple satin ribbon with the
coquettish cognomen of “follow me’.
hung to the hem of the skirt.
ionable women who are {rying it on
may think it beautiful; but itisn’t. © It of purple velvet,
is technically called the waggle.” 8
' The handkerchief bag at the side was
hanging by purple’
trings.
The
and white lace, from which are’hung
“hen