Bellefonte, Pa., Aug. 3, 1894,
BACHELOR HOUSEKEEPING.
He is a bachelor pro tem ;
His wife's away.
And meanwhile—you can make a mem—
Life isn’t play.
He sleeps in all the beds in turn.
*Twoul make his wife's face set and
stern
If she could see how things are mussed
Since she went oft in placid trust
That things would stay where they were
left
While her dear hubby was bereft.
The bureau drawers are half pulled out,
With shirts and socks strewn all about
The floor, because he tried one day
To find a shirt she’d put away.
The parlor hasn't once been swept,
His old cigar Sumps he has kept
Upon the centre table, where
roe chanced to be a small place bare.
Out in the kitchen in a pile
Are all the dishes gathered while
Her indolent, though loving, spouse
Has been a bachelor keeping house,
The pile will grow without a doubt
As long as the supply holds out,
Then he'll brace up, when need confronts,
And wash the whole lot up at cnce.
The whole house has a musty air
Of stale tobacco ; everywhere
Newspapers litter up the fioor
And I could tell you of much more
Which if his dear wife knew of it.
Would make her fall down in a fit.
0, things have gone to wreck and wrack
While she's away.
And you can bet when she comes back
Life won't be play.
Somerville (Mass.) Journal.
——————————
ON THE POINT.
A Tale of To-Day.
BY EMMA A. OPPER.
Bedford seated Miss Page in the
boat's end and pushed off. He had
first carefully wiped out its wet bot-
tom.
“But I can’t make it fit for you,” he
said, looking at her with apology in
his smile—at the drooping plumes on
her white hat, her hands in gloves,
the fine lace that showed itself under
her skirt ae she gathered it up from
the damp planks. ‘You ought to go
boating in a painted shallop—pink
and blue or white and gilt.”
Miss Page looked at him without an
answering smile. Her gravity was
sweet, and more frequent than that of
most of the women he had known.
Sometimes it was inquiring ; often it
was disapproving.
“That was quite a flowery effort for
me,” he said with humorous re-
proach.
Then she smiled, Sometimes when
she smiled Bedford hardly dared look
at her, her loveliness was so all-com-
pelling.
“It was highly poetical,” sche
answered ; “but I don’t see why you
think I should go boating in a pink
and blue shallop.”
“Suppose I tell you why I think so
——geriously ?”’ said Bedford, slowly
aud bluntly. “Can’t you see it? Don’t
you know how you strike me? You
seem 80 much too good, too fine and
delicate, for this place, and us, the na-
tives, and anything we can offer you,
that it's a wonder to me you have
staid here for eighteen weeks—or so.”
He reddened a little. He knew to a
day how long she had been there.
“We're going to be something some-
time, We have all the advantage of
location—you have heard this some
seventy-five times [ presume. “We'll
have vour Eastern millionaires invest-
ing here, and our boomlet is going to
be a boom. We have twenty thou-
sand people now ; when we have forty
we shall have some refioement and
some society perhaps. But now—how
you have stood it here so long, going
to Mrs. Mackiu’s euchre parties, and
our club balls at the Grand Hotel, and
boating and driving with me—I have
been lost in woader at you, Miss
Page.’ .
She gave him a little frown. ‘You
known I like it here; I’ve told you so
over and over. I hke the place, and
the scenery, and the characteristics,
and the people—everything,” she de-
clared, warmly. Then she flushed.
“Of course I have enjoyed being with
my cousin.” she said, more cooly ; and
she added, with another degree of
frigidity, “How lovely the cliff town
looks to-night !”
“You can’t expect me to admire it
at any time of the day,” Bedford
laughed.
The low-lying level city they had
left was behind them, its lamps seem-
ing to lend a soft lustre to the moonless
night. They were rowing towards the
long Minnesota Point, with its miles of
wooded darkness and its terminating
light-house far out. On this side, the
smooth bay; beyond the sheltering
Point, the cold deep, washing waters of
Superior. All over the bay twinkled
the lights of pleasure-boats, of little
tugs, and the ferry-boats. And down
on the breezy expanse of land and wa-
ter gleamed from the tall Minnesota
bluffs the lights of the rival city, tier
above tier, thick and brilliant, like
some fairy like consummation planned
for the pleasure of gazers from afar,
“Those are the Machins in that
farther sail-boat,”’ Miss Page said. “I
can hear Mrs. Mackin laugh.”
“It's impossible not to hear Mrs.
Mackin laugh,” Bedford remarked.
Miss Page laughed in her sweet-
toned way. “Yon are abominable
about Mrs. Mackin,” ehe said. “And
she thinks go much of you. She thinks
you perfect. She says you shall go to
the Assembly, if she expires in the
cause. She got nine votes for you last
week when we went through the Mar-
guerite flouring-mill ; she talked poli-
tics to the men.”
“I believe I shall go to the Assem-
bly. I have stopped talking politics
myself and buying cigars for voters.
It isn’t because it’s me, you under-
stand. I represent the stronger par-
ty.’ :
“And it is no credit to you, I sup-
pose, that you represent that party.”
“Mighty little.”
“Cousin Helen thinks itis a great
credit to you, Everything; your
whole career,” she said, gazing dis
tantly into the increasing dark-
ness.
Bedford rebuked himself for the
thrilled pleasure her words caused
him. “My career,” he said, ‘will be
given in next Sunday’s Messenger,”
together with a ghastly-looking picture
supposed to be me ; I saw an advance
sheet. But the career will be toned
up considerably. I gave Maxwell
bald facts, but he fixed them up to suit
himself and the party.”
“I presume you have never been in
state prison for horse-stealing.”” she
said, with gentle sarcasm.
They passed near to a mud-scow,
brilliantly alight, its rudeness idealized.
Her fair face shone upon him for a
minute in the glare, and Bedford could
not speak. But when the dimness
dropped between them he pulled him-
self together.
“It may amuse you to know what I
have been,’ he said.
*It would interest me.”
Bedford plied his oars slowly.
“Well, I never stole a horse. The
News has igtimated that I used to
jump claims in Dakota for a living,
but even thatis a mistake. I have
never done anything positively dis-
graceful except to be born poor. We
lived in a little place down in the mid-
dle of the State, and my father was a
carpenter, not energetic, and always in
debt; he was something of a drinker.
We never knew, anything but poverty
and misery. My mother lost several
several children. We never had a
home ; we moved from one cheap
place to another with our handful of
broken furniture. When I was thir-
teen my father died, and the town
helped to bury him.”
“Don’t tell it,” she said, “if it hurts
you.”
A ghall tell it,” Bedford answered,
“unless it hurts you. Well, I don't
know how we lived for a while then.
My mother was a refined woman, and
never very strong ; but she sewed day
and night, and went around helping
people with their house-cleaning. She
even took in washing, and I used to
help her with that. 1 had to stop
going to school, and I did all sorts of
things to help to keep us from starving
or going to the county-house. I wagh-
ed buggies in the livery-stable, and
pasted circus-posters, and weeded peo-
ple’s gardens, and hung around the
depot for any kind of a jeb. I wasa
lanky tall chap, and after awhile I got
workin a saw-mill from ix in the
morning till s1x at night, and six dol-
lars a week. I wanted my mother to
stop taking in washing then, but she
didn’t. So I bought her a new clothes-
wringer, and some brown calico for a
dress. She was proud of me; she
cried when I gave them to her.”
She was drawing off her gloves; her
head dropped. Bedford wondered
what mast be her thoughts. She bad
known nothing but luxury ; she had
studied in Europei
“We were so poor that my ambi-
tions would have died of starvation if I
had been left to myself. But my moth-
er encouraged them. We used to sit
up nights to talk about it, and my
hankering to get an education and
amount to something got to be my
ruling idea and I stuck to it like a bull-
dog. I wentto school again part of
every winter, and studied what I could
besides. The same old hackneyed
story of the struggling young Ameri-
can, you see, Miss Page. I don’t think
I wae remarkable for anything but the
variety of the things I did. My win-
ter schooling prevented my having a
steady job, and, anyhow, I was always
looking for something to bring in more
than thelast thing. I worked in sever-
al mills and factories. I did telegraphy
forawhile. The summer I was eigh-
teen I went over to Milwaukee, and
went on a lake boat as a steward ;
hard work had made me look old, and
I told them I was older than I was;
I wasup to all sorts of schemes in
those days. We had saved up a little
money by then, and I wanted to go in-
to a small college near by us. and my
mother backed me up. It was for her
I was doing it all as much as for my-
self ; I wanted to be able to make
money in a gentlemanly way. and give
her a little comfort and happiness for
once in her hard life. But the next
spring she died. She bad worked too
hard and worried too long.”
He could not go on at the moment.
The girl sat motionless. The black
pines of the Point were not far off,
“There isn’t. much more to tell,”
said Bedford. ‘*‘At first I had no heart
for anything: She was alll had. I
kept some of her things—her thimble,
worn jagged on one side, and her few
poor dresses ; I have kept them al-
ways. After my first wretchedness, I
think the thought of what she had
wanted me to do drove me on. I went
into the college, and got through it by
means of hard and lively work during
vacations. The few things I hadn't
done already I did during those four
years. I was assistant janitor of the
college buildings, too. Even in that
rude little Western college the fellows
rather looked down on me, but I was
hardened to things of that kind. I got
my diploma, and then I taught school
for awhile, and read law evenings.
Then I travelled for a flour-mill for
two years, because there was more
mouey in it than teaching.” I went to
Milwaukee then, and got into a law
office where I wasn’t really wanted,
and did some clerical work for them
and read law, and after a while I was
admitted to the bar. That's all of it.
I came up here and settled, because I
liked the idea of working up a practice
in a growing place. [ did work one
up, and now it seems likely I shall go
to the Assembly. I am glad of it, be-
cause it will help my practice, and I
care more for jthat than for politics.
But that is my ‘career,’ Miss Page. I
' am not very greatly cultivated, because
I have never had time'for it. I have
read as much as I could afford to, and
, two years ago I travelled around the
| country a little ; but my widest exper-
,ience has been of poverty and hard
work, It has made me look older than
I am, but that has been to my advan-
tage.”
He guided the boat among the snags
and floating logs that flanked the
shore and brought it cranching to land.
A warm wind swept their faces, and
the odor of the pines was strong. At
one point, near at hand, a light twink-
led through the trees, and the notes of
a violin sounded sharply and loudly
through the silence.
“You remember that man that
came and shook hands with me oa the
ferry-boat one evening ?”’ said Bedford.
“He is a Milwaukee patent-medi-
cine man. I sold his medicines for him
all over the State one summer when I
was in college, and he remembered
me.”
She kept her silence, and his whim-
sical smile faded. He feared he had
gone too far, and disgusted her with
the pitifulness of his story. He had
only meant to prove to her that he
realized as pl8inly as she the great and
impassable distance that was between
them. They climbed the little rise
beyond the wet 'beach and he
helped her with the tenderness it was
beyond his power to keep wholly in
check.
“If you thought better of going to
the Palace Pavilion, he said,,’ we will
stroll across to the lake.”
“Not see the Palace Pavilion ?”’
Miss Page cried, protestingly. It is
what we came for.”
They penetrated the woods to the
clearned spot where the Palace Pavil-
ion had been erected. The name had
been painted redly across one side; an
occassional letter remained. It wasa
rude shed, forty feet square, with great
cracks in its weather-worn sides.’
Closely approached, it seemed that the
music and the pounding feet must dis-
sipate the silence for miles. They
went in and sat down on a bench that
skirted the room. The fiddler and a
man who thumped chords out ofa
melodeon sat on a high platform.
Pine boughs and dirty red bunting or-
namanted the rough boards,
“It is open Sunday nights also,” said
Bedford ; “two evenings a week. They
are all servant-girls and their beaux,
you see, and a good share of them
Swedes. It is very popular ; they
come from far and near, and Sunday
nights it is generally crowded. You
can get peanuts and eoft drinks ata
stand outside, and go down by the lake
and get cooled off between dances. On
hot nights it isn’t unusual for the fel-
lows to take their coats off. The
round dances are free to all. But you
see that man behind that counter in
the corner ?—the men have to pay him
ten cents for every square dance, and
they sprinkle them in pretty frequent-
y.?
It was a polka. Among the dancers
there was some careless grace some
stylishness of a bold sort, some beauty.
They were at once conscious of the in-
terlopers and of their foreign quality.
The girls, for the mest part, when they
circled near them, examined Miss
Page's every point with a perfectly open
suriosity.
“It is so strange !"” she said. “Here
in this wild place, here in the woods,
this spot of vivid life.”
He studied the bounding couples.
“Come down to the bottom facts,” he
said, reflectively, “and it is notstrange.
It is the same principle that pepu-
lates a New York ballroom.”
“Sociability 7”
“Love,” said Bedford,” or the desire
of it. That has accounted for stranger
things than the Palace Pavilion.”
“Youare very clever,” she said, |
meeting his eyes and smiling.
The interim between dances was
short. The company rested on the
bench mainly, but some of them stroll-
ed off. Several of the men smoked.
A man in his shirt sleeves walked
around the room talking in loud per-
suasion.
‘Here, now, you needn’t sneak off.
We're going to give you a quadrille,
best one you ever shook your feet to.
"Tain’t but ten cents. Worth fifty.
Walk up toere to the counter, you fel-
lers, and do the square thing. We give
you all the round dances free fer
nothin’, and you don’t want the earth,
do you? Hurry up; music going to
begin. Fill up the floor! What's the
matter with you, Ole Larsen ?”
“Ay bene tired yooet now,’
Larsen answered, banteringly.”
“Yah! You and Yenuie yoost come
along here,” said the manager. “And
the rest of you fellers. Get a move on
you.”
A young fellow who was standing
near Bedford, having paid his dime,
came a step nearer. He was
good-looking and broad-shouldered, he
bad a blue silk handkerchief twisted
around his neck ; and he wore a buoy-
ant smile of factitious ingenuousness.
He lifted his hat. “Can [ have the
pleasure of this square dance, miss ?”
he said to Miss Page. “G. B. Calla-
han at your service.”
Bedford fixed him with a stern gaze,
some sharp word on the end of his
tongue, Butshe touched his arm in
repression, and laid her gloves on his
knee with a smile that curved the cor-
vers of her mouth downward. “With
pleasure,” she answered.
Bedford stared after her. He had
discovered that her moods were varied
and her courage considerable, but he
had scarcely been prepared for this,
He laughed after A moment. An un-
reasoning pleasure possessed him. In
the ball room of the Grand Hotel he
bad felt a gnawing jealousy of her part-
ners. He was not jealous of Mr, Cal-
lahan, The dance began. He watch-
ed her with only a joyous appreciation
of her gracetulness and her charming
manner, as though she were dancing
there for him alone. The entire com- |
pany watched her with undisguised |
astonishment. Tne young man with
the blue silk handkerchief eyed her
side-ways, and touched her respectfully
and charily. He was hoist by his
own petard ; the joke was on him,
and he was not wholly happy. Occa-
sionally between the fingers she spoke
to bim, and he answered with good
taste and suavity., The fiddler called
the figures in a yell. She advanced
Ole
and retreated, swung with Mr. Calla-
han and with the other men, schot-
tished hither and thither, marched in
line with the three other girls, danced
with them around the men standing
motionless. Her hat lapsed to one
side, a flush mounted in her cheeks ;
when she looked towards Bedford her
eyes sparkled. He could have watch-
ed her all night with that insane satis-
faction, but the fedler stopped with
some suddennesss after a scant ten
cents’ worth. Mr. Callahan walked
with his partner once around the room,
then he made a bow, with his heels
close together and his toes spread.
“He is from our town,” said Miss
Page, “and he will vote for you, I
think; Itold him he'd better. We
can go now, if you like; I don’t in-
tend to dance again,”
“Suppose I want to dance?’ said
Bedford, and she laughed. Thay left
the light and the dust and the loud
talk and the tawdriness, and went out
into the leafy coolness of the night.
“He was really a good dancer,” said
Miss Page. They could hear the
washing of the lake. ‘Let us go down
to the beach.”
They went a few steps in silence. He
kept his eyes away from her, but she
looked up at him, swinging her Lat in
her band. And suddenly his self-re-
straint gave way. He caught her
hands tightly and not too gently.
“I never thought you would do such
a thing as to dance at the Palace Pa-
vilion,” he eaid. “Do you want to
know what I was thinking while you
were dancing? I wished you were one
of them. Then Icould tell you how
much I love you, how dearly, and
make you care a littie for me perhaps.”
He freed her hands. She waited a
little, scarcely breathing.
“You make it hard for me,” she
cried warmly, when he said no more,
and she was childishly half erying. “I
‘have done enough and said enough.
You are soblind! I know you have
been half-way afraid of me. You are
80 absurd! Aud I have tried to show
you—I danced that quadrille purpose-
ly. Oh, well, if you can’t see !"’
A few minutes later they sat on a
smooth washed bowlder on [the lake
shore. “It is a mistake,” said Bed-
ford, in his joyful security. ‘You will
marrv a man unequal to you in all the
little ways that count for so much in
your world. I shall not let you be
sorry ; but if it should be a mistake—"
She tucked her hand in his arm in a
tender contempt of answering. and
leaned her cheek on his shoulder. To
the west the harbor lights shone bright,
and the lights of the vessels lying
there. And the cliff built city, had
their happy eyes been turned upon it,
gleamed with a wonderful widespread
radiance.
Reviving the Half Drowned.
People Given Up for Dead Who Could Be Saved.
It requires as much pluck and te-
nacity of purpose to revive a half
drowned man, at times, as it does to
effect his rescue from the water. There
was an instance at Asbury Park on
Sunday, and another at Rockaway,
where men were revived considerably
over an hour atter they had been taken
out of the water by the indefatigable
work of the people who had undertaken
their resuscitation.
A boy in Long Island Sound, who
had been under the water for 15 or 20
minutes, and who was given up for
dead by the majority of the spectators,
was brought back to life after two
hours of continued friction, the appli-
cation of hot towels, and the modern
system of compressing and expanding
the lungs by raising and lowering the
arms of the patient. This latter rescue
was accomplished by a physician who
had made a study of the matter of re-
viving people who have apparently
died in the water, and he was exceed-
ingly persistent and tireless in his ef-
forts to restore breath t® the boy’s
body. Toward the end of his exer-
tion’s he was looked upon as a fanatic
upon the subject, and all but one of
the people who had so willingly belp-.
ed him at the outset shook their heads
and retired from the work. Bat the
physician and an old woman kept at
work until the boy breathed faintly
and was finally fully restored to life.
Then the doctor tumbled over and
fainted from his excessive exertions.
There would seem to be reason to be-
lieve that a very large proportion of
the people who are given up as dead
when taken from the water might be
saved if there were a few men of hero-
ism and stamina in the crowd to keep
at the work of resuscitation.
Food for the Gossips.
A Wealthy Spinster in a New York Town Weds
Her Hired Man.
The gossips of this town have enough
to talk about lately. It has just leaked
out that Miss Mary Cornelius, of this
lace, has been secretly married to John
‘ackey, her hired man. Miss Corne-
lius is said to worth about $50,000 or
$60,000, and is some years Mackey’s
senior. After the marriage in Brook-
lyn the couple returned to the old Cor-
nelius homestead at Roselyn and have
been living there quietly ever since.
Miss Cornelius was the daughter of
Carman Cornelius, who died a year ago.
Mackey had for some years been em-
ployed as a general overseer and coach-
man by old Mr. Cornelius, who had
great confidence in him, never suspect-
ing, however, that he would ever mar-
ry his daughter. After the old man
died, Mackey was retained.
It was supposed by old friends of the
family that after the father died Miss
Cornelius would discontinue living at
the homestead, and that Mackey would
have to look for another situation.
They were mistaken, however, as Miss
Cornelius continued to live at the home-
stead, Mackey being her attendant.
A Cruel Rejoinder.
Dudely. “Do you evah wish you were
a man, Miss Bright ?”’
Miss Bright. ‘‘Yes ; do you ?”
And Dudely was out of temper the
rest of the day. — Judge.
A Disenchanting View of Greeks.
Most of the Men Look Like Thieves and the
Women all Lie.
The modern Greek saye he is the line-
al descendant and heir of the ancient
Greek, but he is not, says the Pall Mall
Gazette. He may be divided into two
classes—such examples of him as look
like the young Apollo and such as do
not. Those of the latter class, which is
very far the larger, look for the most
part like the Impenitent Thief. The
dress of the modern Greek is a number
of short white petticoats, not unlike
those worn by a fairy in the ballet, only
in cases less clean. To call him dirty,
however, as some travellers have done,
is most unjust. A chimney-sweep is
dirty at the close of his day’s work ; but
with the modern Greek dirt is less a
custom than an immemorial tradition.
The first cases of him seen by the!
traveller—supposing him to approach
the country from that side—are in Mes-
senia. This fact has suggested to an
antiquary that at the disastrous close of
the first Messenian war, in 735 B. C.,
the Messenians bound themselves by a
great oath that until they had washed
out disgrace thay would wash nothing.
That oath they have faithfully kept,
and now it is unlikely ever to be either
terminated or broken.
The modern Greek does not work.
There are, it is true, workingmen ; they
are needed for demonstrations of the un-
employed ; but they do not work. In
the same paradoxical spirit it may be
said that the principal industry of the
country is idleness. But for the conven-
ience of the gazetteer it is officially giv-
en out that the nation is engaged in
commerce—mainly currants. Besides
this, there is a brisk trade in justice in
many parts of the country, while the
inhabitants of some seaport towns devote
their energies to blacking one another’s
boots in the principal streets. Such are
the industries of modern Greece. It is
to be observed, however, that although
the modern Greek never works, he has
an unequalled natural aptitude for look-
ing as if he were just thinking it almost
time to begin to work.
Although inactive, he is enterprising.
The race is very widely spread ; indeed,
the only place near Greece where you
may not expect to find Greeks is the
post of duty. Even here the modern
Greek has been noticed more than once,
but he was almost invariably just step-
ping off a moment to light a cigarette.
When he is about to light'a cigarette
he is always smoking one, except when
his neighbor’s tobacco gives out. He is
not always drinking—a fact which may
be ascribed more to the character of his
native wines than to his native sobriety
—though he can seldom spare the time
to leave the wine shop, but fills in the
interval trying to induce his neighbor
to buy him wine to drink. It is proba-
bly the national devotion to the cigarette
to which we may attribute the charac-
teristic architectural styles of modern
Greece. The common feature in all
these is their rough, bold incomplete-
ness. To the experienced eye the build-
ing looks as if it were tumbling down ;
but this is not the true explanation.
Plainly the house was half built, when
the master builder stepped away to get
a light and forgot to return. In agri-
culture the modern Greek does not ex-
cel.
It is thought by sociologists that the
land was so ravaged by the end of the
Peloponesian War (404 B. C.) that the
Greek became dispirited, and has not
planted anything since. Certainly, it
would be impossible to ravage the land
now. Thus cut off from his traditional
military exploit, the modern Greek is
but an indifferent soldier. But is to be
remembered that it is now hardly over
fifty years since he freed himself (acting
through the fleets of England, France,
and Russia) from the brutal dominion
of the Turks. Doubtless in a century
or two he will have advanced more than
one step on the road to rejuvenescent
prosperity. The perpetual invention of
new labor-saving machines is of the hap-
plas) augury for his future civilization.
t should be said, moreover, that there
isin the islands a town with a large
square and a fine subtropical plant in
the middle. It contains public build-
ings, partly finished, and eight or nine
drinking shops, besides a statue of a
patriot in knickerbockers, called Muley
—no doubt in affectionate recognition of
his tenacity of purpose. The square is
called the Place of the Glory of the
Resurgent Hellas, but it is very many
times too large for it.
The modern Greek woman differs in |
several important points from the mod-
ern Greek man. She sometimes works,
and not seldom, in early youth, looks
like an habitual criminal. It must not
be thought, however, as some have done
that she goes so far as ever to tell the
truth. When she goes a journey she
carries with her everything she has in
the world, in this respect approximating
to the custom of her sisters among less
civilized peoples. She carries her gbods
in a broken box with a parti-colored
leather top, trellised with yellow tinsel.
In the rare cases when the lock is not
broken, she further secures it with a
piece of broken string.
——Mrs. Meyer Wilkekey, of Lan-
caster, was teribly mangled by a bull
dog belonging to Peter Krantz. She
was driving a pet dog of her own into
the yard with a strap, when the bull
dog approached her. She sbook the
strap at him playfully and the next in-
stant the savage brute sprang at her
throat, but missed it and struck her
breast. The woman fell to the pave-
ment and was terribly mangled before
a policeman could assist her. He final-
ly killed the dog by putting a ball into
its head.
Never.
“I hope, Robbie, you never go fish-
ing on Sunday, do you ?”’
“No, sir; we play baseball in the
mornin’ and go ewimmin’ in the after
noon.”’—Chicago Inter Ocean.
—— Women are always wishing
that men were true; men are always
wishing that women were new.
——The kick ot a cow is not the
most acceptable form of milk punch.
SESE ABI SRC SONS,
For and About Women.
Miss Hamilton, of India who has just
been appointed the physician of the
harem of the Ameer of Afghanistan.
will be accompanied wherever she goes
by a personal guard of six native sol-
diers.
A blue-eyed person never looks so
blue-eyed as in a blue dress or white
with a blue cravat, whereas the strong
blue of the fabric might have been ex-
pected to dim the slight blue of the eye.
A woman with remarkably red lips clad
in dull heliotrope, with amethysts, has
all the coral taken from her mouth,
which wears instead a light heliotrope
tint and with this tint the pink of her
cheek is also touched. An ordinary or
even sallow cheek never looks so beauti-
fully white as over a white dress, which
seems to threaten to darken it. And
beautiful as the ‘“wsthetic’’ colors were
in their day, they quenched and dim-
med their wearers to their own tone.
This is not to be easily explained by
any known chromatic rules. Nor can
any one say why turquoise blue dark-
ens dark eyes and ads to their bright-
ness. Experiment and verification
should be as much valued by the wom-
an as by the Comtist philosopher.
The newest white sailor hat hasa
band of broad white moire around it,
with a plain bow at the side, sometimes
fastened with a little silver buckle. The
moire reaches quite to the top of the hat
crown, and white or silver pins are al-
ways used.
Fanny Crosby, one of the best known
writers of Sunday school hymns in this
country, who lately celebrated hersev-
entieth birthday, hasbeen an inmate and
teacher of the New York Institution for
the Blind for 60 years. She has been
blind since infancy.
Sleeves are enormous, but continue
to droop from the shoulders in a huge
bell puff at the elbow. One of the Iat-
est favorites with leading modistes is an
extremely full and very long mutton-
leg sleeve that, after being lined with a
plain coat-sleeve and sewed into the
armhole, is arranged in graceful *‘casca-
des,” i. e., caught up in easy drapings
here and there én jabot. This ig called
the chatelaine sleeve.
Low-necked dresses, except for full
evening dress, seem to have vanished as
silently as the night goes. Last year
the round and low cut neck was seen on
gown intended for all kinds of wear.
This season, in spite of the idea which
prevailed early in the year that the
same fashion would continue, the low
neck has been utterly driven out and
supplanted by the stock collars of
brignt ribbons or handsome lace, or
the chiffon or maline net cravats and
ruches. Not even bathing suits are any
longer made decollette, and no woman
who prides herself on being quite com-
me il faut will show more than an inch
of her throat until she dresses for even-
{ ing.
, ed with lines of black lace
’
A new way to solve the curtain ques-
tion that is certainly convenient and by
no means ugly is to have two sets of
sash curtains—one for the upper and one
for the lower half of the window. Both
are hung on rods and consist of two
parts, so that they can be parted in the
middle. The upper set should be made
long enough to fall about an inch over
the top of the lowerset. They may be
made of muslin, silk, or any fabric with
edges hemstitched, frilled or trimmed
with lace. The arrangement is a good
one for small bed rooms or for kitchen
windows.
An aching tooth should never be
borne with. I have known a woman
to courageously endure the repeated ex-
cruciating toothache that attends a dy-
ing nerve without consulting a dentist.
The pain finally subsided, for good und
all, but the tooth gradually became dis-
colored, taking on ‘a drabbish tone.
Then for the first time this unlucky
woman suspected what had happened.
The pulp, the dead nerve, was removed
but the tooth never regained its clear,
pearly lustre. Ifoneis troubled with
dyspepsia or any gastric disturbances
the teeth bear witness to the fact. They
lose their brilliancy, often become
stained a dark saffron about their necks.
Every pretty dyspeptic should make it
point of keeping a wine glass of water,
into which is stirred a teaspoonful of bi-
carbonate of soda, by her bedside to
rinse her mouth with as often as she
wakes. The bicarbonate counteracts the
effect of any “acidity’’ of the stomach
on the teeth.
Natural linen dresses are the rage at
all the fashionable resorts and a very
pretty one was made with a full skirt
with a deep trimming around the hem
of white embroidery. The plain bodice
was covered with the embroidery all
save the sleeves, which were of the lin-
en and tremendously large. A soft col-
lar of cornflower blue moire finished the
neck, and a dead white chip hat was
worn with it that was trimmed with
black wings, black satin rosettes and
cornflowers.
Almost every other woman this sea-
son had a touch of bluein her costume,
this being the fashionable color abroad
and receiving an impetus here by its
prominence in nearly all of Lady Ran-
dolph Churchill’s gowns. A lovely
blouse in small black and blue checks
bad revers of cornflower blue silk cover-
insertion.
Though a most effective but very simple
frock of white muslin made with a sin-
gle row of insertion in the skirt and
three in the French waist. A pale blue
ribbon at tha throat was held in place
by a silver slide in front, and a belt of
the same color fastened by asilver buck-
le girded the slender waist. Simplicity
was the order of the day, the guest of
honor having chosen a pale blue and
white chambray with yoke of white
! embroidery and rosettes of black satin.
If the belt is inconspicuous this sea-
son it is no less carefully thought out.
The idea is to have it identified in color
with the bodice, or bodice trimming
rather than with the skirt, so that the
waist shall appear to begin at its lower
edge ratner than above. Suede leather
—— Switzerland contains the most belts worn with flannel outing suits are
beautiful scenery in the world.
of yellow or white and are very elegant.