Bellefonte, Pa., Oct. 12, 1894.
u——
MINDING THE BABY,
You betcher life dis ain't no cinch t' hustle
here all day :
An’ do d’ work an’ tend d’kid an’ have no time
to play,
While ald udder kids is out a-playin’ roun’®
a’ bl
ock, :
An’ dough me work is finisht, yet I hast’ sit
an’ rock.
Says ma: “Now rock d’ cradle, Kitty Anu,
An’ look out fer d’ haby, Kitty Ann,
Fer he's yer little brudder,
An’ youse hasn’t got no udder ;
Be sure t’ mind d’ baby, Kitty Ann.”
Deyr playin’ ring-a rounder, an’ at hop-scotch 3
| fair as a flower, and the heavy coil of
I kia tell ye,
I wonder ’'fI Sey sneak would he wake up
n’ é
Cheewiz! I'se been a hustling here since al-
most 8 o'clock, 3
An’ now it’s 1 but still I s’pose I'll haf t’ sit an’
rock.
I wish dere wasn’t any kids. D’y ain’t no use
a tall, :
Except to bodder folk and keep dem in all
day, an’ bawl; ;
Aw, naw, dat’s alla bluff! Fer he’s de bes
kid in d’ block,
An’ dough it’s radder tongh on me, I'll ches’
sit still an’ rock.
An’ so ches’ rock d’ cradle, Kitty Ann,
An’ look out fer d’ baby, Kitty Ann,
Fer he’s yer little brudder,
An’ youse hasn’tgot no udder,
So ches’ youse min’d’ baby, Kitty Ann.
--Jehn H. Lewis in New York Sun.
—————
STANTON HARCOURTS ROMANCE.
“Have you never been in love ?”’
said the child, gravely. ;
“No,” replied the man ; and a faint
smile crossed his face at the memory
of the bundred and one flirtations
which had flickered at different dates
across his career.
“Oh, but yon must have been!” con-
tinued the child, earnestly. “Every-
body falls in love several times before
they marry, mamma says. Mamma
says that I ehall be in love several
times before I marry : but that is
nothing at all, and then I shall marry
and eettle down.”
“When do you intend to marry ?’
said the man, scrutinizing the pretty
child more closely: *You are scarce-
ly old enough yet, are you 2"
“Ch, yes,” she said eagerly. “One
of the Princesses was married when
she was just sixteen, mamma says,
and I am nearly sixteen.”
“Indeed. Perhaps you are engaged
already ?”
“Well, not exactly. You see, he
wants me to marry him in two years,
but we are not exactly engaged.
Mamma wouldn’t hear of it, because
he hasn't left school yet, and I haven't
geen him since; but if he asks me
again at the end of two years, we shall
be engaged—properly.”
“Do you want to marry him so very
much ?”
“N-no,” after a moment's thought.
“Not very much. 1 haven’t thought
about it. It takes too much time to
think, you see. But it would be nice
to be engaged. One would be able to
put one’s hair up regularly if one were
engaged, I should think.”
The man glanced at the tawny mane
which she pushed impatiently back
over her shoulders as she spoke, It
would be a pity, he thought, to antici-
pate, even by a day, the moment when
those glorious tresses would be deliver-
ed over to the ill-treatment and eclipse
or hair-pins.
“If I were engaged to you,” he said,
“I should ask you to keep your hair
down as long as possible.”
“Then I won’t be engaged to you,”
replied the girl naively. “Besides,
I don’t even know your name. I don’t
believe that it is really Brooks of Shef-
field—I have spelt Sheffield with two
f’s : is that right ?—because I heard
that lady, the one with the very yel-
low hair, call you something else.
What is your real name? You must
write it down here.”
She was engaged in selling tickets
for a raffle at a country bazaar, and
she indicated to the man the sheet of
paper whereon she had written the
names of the ticket-bolders. The
seventeenth epace on the list was in-
scribed with the words “Brooks of
Sheffield.” The claimant of that
pseudonym took the pencil which she
held out to him, and signed himself
“Stanton Harcourt.”
“And now you ought to tell me your
name,” be said.
“My name is Rosie—Rosalind Alice
Jane Devine—and we live at Wey-
bridge. Do you knew Weybridge ? It
is in the part called America. I am
staying here with the Harlands. Do
you live here ?”
“No ; I am just down for the day,
staying with that lady, the one with
the very yellow hair,”
“I see. I suppose you are in love
with her? Not? Well, I am glad!
Would you mind taking care of this
for me while I go after that man 2”
She kept on coming and going in
the course of the afternoon. It was
evident that she had privately estab-
lished Stanton Harcourt asa sympa-
thetic friend who might be honored
with the duty of buying tickets for her
raffles, and a safe depot where valua-
ble property might be left with securi-
ty. She talked to him in her queer
way now and then; but she had a
keen eye to bueiness, and was contin-
ually darting off towards some new
face with an appeal for her raffle.
Stanton Harcourt. moreover, ce
mented this friendship of a day by pre.
senting her with a large painted screen
which he was “lucky” enough to win
in one of her raffles.”
“Iam so sorry you don’t live at
Weybridge I” were almost her last
words to him. “It would be so nice.
Perbaps you may come there,
though?”
Shortly after that Stanton Harcourt
went to Norway for about six weeks,
and enjoyed all the pleasures of rough-
ing it, including horrible food. After
that he joined a yacht and started
round the world in a slow fashion.
One way and another it was not until
three years after that country bazaar
that he found himself once more settled
in London for the season:
“Who is the beauty of the year?”
he said to a friend at Lady Gleolyn-|
don’s ball. }
“Lady Rose Verden,” replied the
other, “Lord Salterton’s daughter—
presented at the May drawing-room.”
“Is ghe here ?” ;
“Yes. I'll point her out to you ; im-
troduce you, if youlike. Do you see
that tall girl in blue, the one with the
beautiful hair. passing us now ?"’
Stanton Harcourt gazed in the
direction indicated, and owned to him-
self that the opinion of society had not
erred. He saw before him a tall bean.
tiful, fair, girl, whose height overtop-
ped that of most of the men, while her
figure was so- gracefully proportioned
| that it was impossible to demur to an
inch of her stature. Her face was as
her hair suggested tresses that would
cloth her like a mantle were they once
unloosed.
“Introduce me,” he said ; and so in
time, Sir Stanton Harcourt was intro-
duced to Lady Rose Verden.
She turned a pair of loveliest blue
eyes upon him, and inspected him not
without curiosity. Then she smiled,
disclosing two rows of pearly white
teeth, Stanton Harcourt conversed
with her for a few moments, Then
she said, suddenly :—
“So you have forgotten me altogeth-
er! Or is it that I am so much
changed ? Ishould have known you
anywhere. Don’t you remember that
bazaar at Kirtleton three years ago
and how you told me that your name
was ‘Brooks, of Sheffield,” and.I told
you that I lived at Weybridge? 1 did
then. And you gave me a screen |”
“I remember now,” replied Stanton
Harcourt in amazement. “But—but
—I ought to have recognized you, of
course; but I am sure I have an ex-
cellent reason for not doing so. You
were a pretty child then, but now you
bave grown into a—"
“Now, you of all people must not
flatter. Remember, I regard you as
an old friend, whom I can trust. Don’t
you remember how I trusted you with
my things at the bazaar 2 I got such
a scolding at the end of the day for it.
They said I was too forward. Did you
think me too forward ?”
“The only thing that I cannot under
stand,’ replied Stanton Harcourt, evad-
ing this somewhat delicate subject,
about your name. You told me, ifl
remember right, that you were Miss
Rosie Devine Wasthata joke like
my stupid one of ‘Brooks of Sheffield’?”
“Papa had not succeeded to the title
then,” replied the beauty. “In fact
we were very far away from it, and
very poor ; but, as I daresay you know
our cousin and his two sons and grand- |
son were all drowned together, poor |
things when their yacht went down in
a great storm off the north of Ireland
and then my father was the next heir
through his mother: The title is one
of those very old ones which go to
women 8s well as to men. You know
what I mean. Then we took the
name of Verden, the old Salterton
name, a8 well as our own.”
“I gee ; and Shortland clipped the
name, and told me merely that you
were Lady Rose Verden.”
At that moment a tall, handsome
young man came up, and claimed
Lady Rose for the next dancer He
was a very good looking man, thought
Stanton Harcourt, and seemed to know
it. H's big black moustache was curl-
ed till the ends pointed to his ears;
the expression of bis really fine eyes
seemed to say ; ‘‘See how irresistible I
am, and worship at the shrine.”
Involuntary Stanton Harcourt turn.
ed towards Lady Rose to see how she
was affected by the arrival of the new-
comer, and whether she would obey
the mandate of his orbs.
She said a few words to the young
man apart, and seemed to demur to his
claim. If so, however, he must have
insisted on it, for she laid her hand
within his arm, and, with a parting
smile to Stanton Harcourt, was lost in
the crowd that filled the ballroom.
In the next minute he saw the pair
whirliog around the room. It was
quite evident from the expression of
his lips that the good-looking unknown
was not wasting a monent of the op-
portunity that fortune had afforded
him.
Stanton Harcourt felt an unreasona-
ble sense of anger rising in his breast
against this young man, who, afterall,
had only availed himself of the ordi-
nary privileges of the ballroom, which
was equally open to Stanton Harcourt
had he been ready [to seize it. But
then Stanton Harcourt had given up
dancing. As a rule, hedid not go to
balls: His presence at Glenlyndon
House on this occasion was solely due
to the fact that Lord Glenlyndon was
the head of his tamily,
“Who is that young man,” he said
to Lady Glenlyndon, “who is dancing
with Lady Rose Verden 2”
“Oh 1” that's Count Karl Chirafoun-
Charafau, the son of the Prince, you
know ? He's attached to the Austrian
Embassy, and I also think that he is
attached to Rosie Verdeu. What a
beautiful girl she is! I shouldn’t be
surprised if there were an engagement
in that family soon.”
This suggestion made Stanton Har-
court feel that he almost disliked
Count Karl.
“I think 1t is a great mistake for
Eoglish girls to marry foreigners,” he
gaid. “Don’t you ?”
“Well, I don’t know," replied Lady
Glenlyndon, whose first husband had
been very far trom an angel. “Some
Englishmen are just as bad as foreign-
ers, and some foreigners are just as
nice as any Englishman. Besides this
man comes of a very old tamily, and
will be enormously rich, And Lord
Salterton is by no means a millionaire.
The estates are not large; the wid.
ows got most of the personality, and
he has two jointures to pay.”
It was then that Stanton Harcourt
for the first time in his life thanked
Providence that he was wealthy.
“I am twenty-five years older than
her,” he owned to himself. “Bat, af-
ter all, what does that matter if che
) |
loves me 7?’
At the end of a month he came to
the conclusioa that she did love him.
Certainly, she had encouraged him to
think so, She had introduced him to
her parents, and asked him to call.
He had arranged various parties to the
theatre, to dine at Ranelagh, to San-
down, and to the opera, to all of which
she and her mother had graciously
consented to come. It was also true
that at the meet of the Four-in-Hand
Club Lady Rose had appeared on the
box-seat of Count Karl’s coach. But
then Stanton Harcourt contrasted her
manner towards him with her behavior
towards the Count. With him she
was always at her best, always brim-
ming over with liveliness and good
spirits. With the Count, however, she
was often tongue lied and dull, seem:
ingly unable to carry on much conver-
sation, and ready to turn to anyone
who addressed her.
“The Count bores her,” thought
Stanton Harcourt. “He is all very
well as a dancing partner, but his
eternal brag and sentiment are getting
wearisome to her.”
He waited his opportunity ; and he
had to wait some time, for it was the
most difficult thing in the world to se-
cure a quiet tete-a-tete with her. She
was in much request, having so many
friends, and living in a perpetual whirl
of gayety. Besides, people had abso-
lutely no sense or discernment. Often
and often, when he thought the right
moment had come at last. some loud-
voiced boy broke in on the quiet cor-
ver and dragged her away or distracted
her attention.
At last, in despair. he wrote to her
asking for a private interview, as he
had a matter of the utmost importance
to reveal to her. To this letter she
sent no answer, but meeting him in the
evening at a party, told him with a
smile, that the whole thing was very
improper, but if he would call on the
Friday at 4 o’clock—well, she could
not promise, but it was possible.
He walked home in a state of such
ecstasy that he was almost oblivious
of his surroundings: The result was
that at the corner of Hertford street he
was knocked down by "a furious han-
som, stunned, and so severely injured
that he was taken up for dead.
He was not dead, however, though
he hovered for a long time between life
and death. His constitution triumph-
ed at last and he began to get well,
His first thought when his mind re-
covered its equilibrium was that he
must make haste in order to make up
the lost time.
As he became convalescent. friends
were allowed to see him. He inquired
eagerly after the Saltertons,
“Oh, they are in Scotland ! You see
since Lady Rose’s wedding —"
“Lady Rose's wedding!” almost
screamed Stanton Harcourt. “Which
Lady Rose do you mean ?”’
“Why, the daughter, of course—the
beauty. She married thai Austrian
fellow, Count Karl Chirafou-Charafau.
Of course, you've been ill so long, poor
chap! Don’t you remembera tall,
dark man with a mustache, who was
always very much in attendance ?”
Stanton Harcourt’s brain seemed to
reel as if again under the influence of
delirium. ~~ Rose married !—to that
Austrian | Why, she loved him! And
if she loved him, why had she married
another ?
“A capital match, of course,” con-
tinued the unconscious friend. “And,
entre nous, [ am told that itis a very
good thing for Lord Salterton, who
might have had some difficulty in
meeting his creditors if his son-in law
had not proved obliging.” :
In a flash Stanton Harcourt saw it
all: his adored was a victim, a pale
sacrifice on the altar of filial affection.
While he was lying helpless and sense-
less unable to speak and declare his
love, the pressure of the inevitable had
come upon Lord Salterton, ani the
heartless father had commanded his
daughter to save her family at the
price of herself. No doubt he had
urged that the man she loved was at
the point of death, would never rice
from his couch again. In the mean-
time here was this Austrian, rich, gen-
erous, devotedly attached to her. Why
shouldn't she save her father’s honor
and provide for herself ? She ~anld not
wear the willow forever fora wan to
whom che was not even engaged.
Stanton Harcourt nearly fretted him
self into a fever at the thought, and so
great was his meatal anguish at the
picture which he had conjured up that
it seriously delayed his recovery.
It was a year before Stanton Har-
court met the Countess Chirafou Cha-
rafau, and he was spell-bound at the
sight of her. She was then at the
height of her lovliness, and her charms
were enhanced by the magnificent
tiara of diamonds which crowned her
bair+ She showed no trace of sorrow,
and, true to the law which forbids a
woman to show her feelings, she re-
ceived him with none but the most or-
dinary emotion. Stanton Harcourt,
ou the other hand, v7as pale and hag-
gard from the effects of his illness and
excitement. When the Countess ex-
pressed her sorrow for his accident, he
almost broke down. It seemed to him
that he must throw himself at her feet
or die. Fortunately he resisted this
impulse, and limited himself to inquir-
ing when he could call. Then his
hour would have come. He would not
reproach her. She must have suffer-
ed enough without that, But there
should no longer be any secrets between
them,
Later in the evening he heard the
Countess’ voice and his own name.
“Poor Sir Stantou,” she was siying,
“I was quite shocked to see him, Of
cours?, 1 have always known that he
was old enough to be my father, or
older. He was quite old when I was a
child. Bat now his illness has aged
him go terrible that I hardly knew
him, and his beard is quite white:
Sir Stanton Harcourt did not go to
see the Countess on the day named.
On the contrary, he went to the seaside
tto brace up his strength. anl recover
from this crushing disillusionment,
——Read the WATCHMAN.
Driven Mad by a Skull,
Eugene Humphrey, a Young Artist, saw Its
Hideous Grin on Every Face~Could Paint
Nothing Else—~He Became Suddenly Insane in
His Studio at Vienna.—Now He's In a Luna-
tic Asylum.
During the past month one of the
most promising of the young artists in
New York was taken to the Middle-
town asylum for the insane and locked
up as an incurable and violent lunatie.
Eugene Humphrey is the son of Dr.
James H. Humphrey, who for years
had a large practice in Brooklyn. ~ Eu-
gene in his boyhood developed a decid-
ed taste for art and displayed a certain
amount of artistic ability. His father,
however, wished him to be a physician,
and personally laid the foundation for
his medical education. About two
years ago Dr. Humphrey died, and on
his death-bed implored his son to com-
plete his studies. But Eugene, after
much deliberation, determined to aban-
don the medical profession and to be-
come an artist.
At first he essayed landscapes. Then
he determined to devote himself to por-
traiture. To this end he decided to go
to Vienna and become a pupil of Prof.
Borst. After much persuasion and a
liberal fee Eugene found himself in-
stalled in the old man’s studio. The
professor forbade him to paint from the
living model.
“What do you know of form ?”’ he
sneered, ‘Learn first the structure of
the human body before you presume to
clothe it with flesh and blood.”
Eugene began patiently to paint from
the skeleton. The skull, with its pol-
ished cranium, its eyeless sockets, its
eternal grimace, fascinated him. As
he worked he involuntarily wondered
how his father would appear by. that
time. He had been dead for several
months. Was his skull like the one he
studied? Eugene thought not. Cer-
tainly no two skulls were alike. So he
concluded, and the thought haunted
him that whatever individuality a face
possesses depends solely upon the skull,
1ts contour and conformation.
After a time Eugene was permitted to
employ a model—a beautiful girl of 16.
As he observed her face, with its curves
and dimples, Eugene found it difficult to
believe that beneath this beauty lay the
inevitable skull. He painted eagerly ;
the sketch progressed. Before the light
became obscure the girl arose and ad-
vanced to the easel. Her face grew ra-
diant as she gazed atthe unfinished por-
trait. “I am not as beautiful as that !”
she cried delightedly.
Eugene was elated. It seemed to
him that with the completion ot his ef-
fort he would become famous as an art-
ist.
Eugene was now seized with a frenzy
to work. When twilight came he
would impatiently trait for another day.
When finally the picture was finished
Eugene threw down his brushes with a
triumphant exclamation. The portrait
was a masterpiece, and even Borst could
not restrain his enthusiasm. He show-
ered his pupil with congratulations.
From that moment Eugene believed
himself an artist. He conjured up a
series of future triumphs, all due to his
tireless study of the skull. He had re-
course to his father’s library. Night
found him reading and rereading books
that had formerly been so distasteful to
him. He made himself believe that art
was based solely upon truth, and truth
existed only in anatomy. Behind every
face he discovered the skull. His first
success emboldened him to convey, still
more distinctly, the idea of structural
values, The result was he produced a
portrait so strikingly spiritual that it
suggested the resemblance of a shade.
Eugene obtained an order from a
young widow whose wealth and social po-
sition guaranteed a liberal remuneration.
Every day for a fortaight she visited
the stndio, but Eugene seemed unable
to fasten her individuality upon the can-
vas. The fortnight over, he was in de-
spair. He had not allowed her one look
at tho sketch, and it was impossible to
do so.
Eugene became disheartened. Borst
called upon him one afternoon at twi-
light as he stood before the canvas won-
dering at his own incapacity.
“What! You have taken to paint-
ing mummies, eh?” exclaimed the
eccentric old man. “Tell me, do you
visit graveyards ?”’ and with a laugh he
slapped his pupil on the shoulder.
‘‘Then you do not think it resembles
her ?”” Eugene said sorrowfully.
“Her ? Death more than anything
else, or his bride, it he has one. My
boy, give up your painting for the pres-
ent. You've been working too hard.
Take a vacation. Frankly, I'm sur-
prised at you.”
Eugene was overcome ; he sank upon
the sofa.
“The skull. T studied that. Now I
see it. I see it everywhere. In the
countenance of the child, the girl, the
woman Yes, the skull is the begin-
ning and the end.” Then he sobbed
aloud. Borst, seriously alarmed, en-
deavored to comfort him.
It was thus that Eugene's madpess
evidenced itself thus suddenly and witk-
out warning. A protracted illness re-
sulted, and then he slowly recovered
health. Still feeble, he requested that
his palette and brushes be brought to
him. His wish was granted, and a
model was procured. He painted dili-
gently, with but one result—the skull.
His insanity permitted him to see noth-
ing elce. He rapidly grew morose, and
finally dangerous. He was sent back
to New York. Here he grew worse
daily ; he became violent, then threat-
ening, and he was placed in the asylum.
ESR,
-—A boy who was recently sent to a
boarding school has just sent the follow-
ing letter to his loving and anxious
mother : “I got here all right and I
forgot to write before. It isa very nice
place to have fun. A feller and I went
out in a boat and the boat tipped over
and a man got me out, and I was so full
of water that I didn’t know . nothin’ for
a good long while. The other boy has
to be buried after they find him. Hig
mother came from Lincoln and she cries
all the time. A hoss kicked me over
and I have got to have some money to
pay the doctor for fixing my head. "We
are going to set an old barn on fire to-
night, and I should smile if we down’t
have bully fun. I lost my watch and
am very sorry. I shall bring home
some mud-turtles, and I shall bring
home a tame woodchuck if I can get 'em
in my trunk.
DASSRRASOENR
Knewledge Spreading.
Illiteracy in the United States on the Wane
Among Native-Born.
Iiliteracy in the United States is
principally confined to the foreign-born
and colored citizens.
From the statistics of illiteracy in
1890 it appears that of the total popula-
tion 10 years of age and over in 1890 12
per cent, or one-eight, were illiterate.
Ten years earlier a similar proportion
was 17 per cent. or about one-sixth,
showing an immense reduction in the
proportion of illiterates. This reduc-
tion has taken place in the ranks of the
native-born whites and of the colored,
while among the foreign-born the pro-
portion bas increased. Thus the pro-
portion of illiterates among the native
whites was in 1890 6.2 per cent. and in
1880 8.7 per cent. Among the colored
the corresponding proportions was 56.1
per cent. and 70 per cent. Among the
foreign-born, on the other hand, the
proportion of illiterates in 1890 was 13.1
per cent. and in 1880 12 per cent. an
increase to be accounted for by the ex-
cessive immigration of the decade and
by the character of much of that immi-
gration, which consisted of the lower
classes of southern and eastern Europe
—Italians, Huns, Poles and Bohe-
mians.
The illiteracy of the country is, there-
fore, mainly represented by the foreign-
born and the colored elements, and by
the latter in much greater degree than
the former. Considering the entire pop-
ulation, the states in which illiteracy is
most prevalent are those of the south.
Mason and Dixon’s line, the Ohio river,
and the thirty-seventh parallel of lati-
tude separate the literate from the illi-
literate states. North of that line the
proportion of illiteracy ranges from 8.1
in Nebraska up to 12.8 in Nevada.
South of that line it ranges from 14.6
in the District of Columbia to 45.8 in
Louisiana, if we except Oklahoma,
which was largely settled from Kansas,
and carried Kansas education with it.
Indeed, throughout the cotton states
the proportion ranges high, being 40 per
cent in Mississippi, 41 in Alabama,
nearly 40 in Georgia, and 45 in South
Carolina. In the northern states,
throughout New England and the Up-
per Mississippi valley, the average is
between 5 and 6 per cent.
Making Reparation.
They Lynched the Wrong Man, But It Was All
Right in the End.’
The cowboy was telling some of his
thrilling experiences, including several
incidental lynchings.
“Those lynchings are dreadful,” ex-
postulated a mild bred listener.
“Can't git along without them,” said
the cowboy.
“But they are wrong.”
“Great civilizers, though.”
“The wrong man suffers
times.”
“Not very often.”
“Didn’t you ever help hang the
wrong one?”
“Never but one in all my experi-
ence.”
“Dreadful, dreadful | No reparation
could be made in such a case.”
The cowboy looked at the listener
with contempt.
“You don’t know us people,” he said.
“Why, we fixed that up to the entire
satisfaction of everybody.”
“How could you ?”
“Well, we apologized to the widder
the next morning ; and a month later
the leader of the hangin’ party married
her.”
“I don’t see how she could have
done such a thing, and so soon, too.”
“‘The cowboy became reflective.
“Well,” he said, in a balf-bashful,
apologetic way, after a minute’s thought,
‘‘mebbe she would have waited 60 or 90
daysif it had been anybody else but
me,” ani the listener did not pursue the
subject further.
————————————
A Terrible Dream.
Mr. Blank is Tortured With a Sleep Fear
That Unmans Him,
some-
Mrs. Blank went shopping, Mr.
Blank went with her. No one can ex-
plain why he went for she didn’t posi-
tively compel it, and he is stil regarded
as sane! He went anyhow.
She wanted buttons. Those at Jen-
kin’s store were too small, much too
small. So she went to Kahn’s and
Poznanski’s and the Merchants’ Sup-
ply ; then to Poznanski’s and the Mer-
chants’ Supply and Kahn's, At Jenk-
ins again, thcy showed her the same
buttons and she found them too large !
Blank guessed it a case of expansion
caused by the heat ; it seemed hot to
him | She got almost to another place
—not quite—for they saw her coming
and locked the door for the night. She
went home.
That night Blank’s hard breathing
woke his tired wife, and she woke him
in turn.
“What's the matter ?”’ she demand-
ed.
“I—I had a dreadful dream,” he
gasped ; “I thought we were both dead,
that you had gone to heaven, and that
I—I hadn't I”!
“How perfectly awful,” she cried,
grasping him convulsively around the
neck, to be separated and-—-"'
*“We—we weren’t separated,” moan-
Blank with a shudder; “I—I could
have endured that! But no—no! I
dreamt that you were to be allowed to
go shopping forever, and that I was
condemned to go with you.
Taking no Chances.
Colonel Ingersoll once called upon
the Rev. Philips Brooks, and the great
preacher received him at once, although
he bad declined to see many distinguish-
ed preachers. “Why have you shown
me this marked distinction ?’’ inquired
the colonel. “The reason is simple,”
replied Dr. Brooks : “If those preach-
ers die, I'll be sure to meet them again
in heaven; whereas, you had gone
away and died, I should never have
met you again. I thought I had better
take the chances.”
——The latest victim of the balloon
and parachute fully was a woman who
made an ascension at a New York state
fair on Saturday and managed to fall a
distance of 1,500 feet. Every bone in
her body was broken. The state legis-
latures should make such exhibitions |
unlawful.
———e ee -SSS
For and About Women.
Redfern’s latest bit of tailor-made
primoess. It consists of a loose seamless
backed coat, in smoking jacket form,
with a plain skirt to match. Revers
and cuffs of velvet give it a feminine
touch.
Mrs. Klock, of Denver, is making a
big fight to be elected to the Legislature
of Colorada. She has no fears as to the
result.
The stiff, high collars, particularly
when worn by short-necked women, are
being accused of producing nervous
headache. They press at the back di-
rectly upon the sensitive base of the
brain and compress, often to the point of
injury, the veins and arteries of the
neck, frequently causing a congestion
that ends in headache.
A markedly handsome walking dress,
lately seen was ot burnt brown tweed
with a horse cloth vest in red and yel-
low. The plain skirt was gored with a
wide bell sweep at the bottom, which
was finished with a heavy inside front.
fold of brown corduroy.” The double-
breasted jacket came “but little below
the hips, and had a slightly V-shaped
opening with a narrow turn-over collar
and small revers ; it was to be worn
either buttoned or unbuttoned, so as to
show the snugly-fitting plaid vest. The
sleeves were a neat compromise between
French bigness and English tailor
smallness, und the buttons were of horn
and enormously large. Another, and a
very agreeable feature of this jacket,
was an appreciable absence at the tail
back of the ungraceful frilliness at pre-
sent (one marvels why) so much worn.
Whatever kind of costume you are
making, says the New York Recorder,
put revers on it and you’ll be in fash-
ion.
Take for instance, an accordion -plait-
ed corsage of soft canary-colored satin
over it will be fitted an outer waist of
black satin or velvet, attached at and
slashed from belt to shoulder into inch
and a half stripe which are jet-edged.
Sometimes these “surtouts” or over-
bodices are slashed into elaborate de-
signs, but the straight lines are best for
full or short- waisted figures.
Only a well-hung skirt can be effec-
tively trimmed with the giant bows
which just now are so popular.
The hats are trimmed to give asquare
effect by placing bows, rosettes, paquets
aigrettes of small fiowers, tufts of feath-
ers or whatever you have for garniture
in four strongly accentuated separation
to mark the corners.
The same with the neckbands. A
loop or rosette is placed on the collarette
before and behind each ear which gives
the head the effect of being boxed in
ribbon.
Miss Alize Catlin, the nominee for
Superintendent of Public Instruction
for the State of Colorado, accompanies
Governor Waite on his stumping
tour.
One careful mother teaches her child-
ren never to fold their arms across their
chests. She says it must of necessity
tend to contract what should, on the
contrary, have every thing done to
broaden it. Instead of this common
practice, she insists that the growing
children shall, in standing, contract tha
babit of crossing the arms behind the
back, alleging that as much good will
come from this habit as harm from the
other.
The variety of furs to be used this
winter is simply endless. Everything
from skunk to tiger skin will be worn
(by those who can afford it,) while even
the little sable throatlets are still well to
the fore, but, despite their cosiness and
their new name otf cravate Russe, they
are not precisely a novelty, but will
maintain their naturalized success until
something equally neat, pretty and be-
coming takes their piace. Boas, with
the exception of short black feather ones
have taken a back seat, I am not sorry
to remark, while in their place will be
used the deep capes and wide collars,
that are not so easily reproduced in
cheap furs and moulting feathers as are
those long floating abominations, boas.
Skirts seem to be made more exorbi-
tantly wide than ever and are pretty
evenly balanced by the fully-trimmed
bodices and voluminous sleeves that are
still en regle. The latter by no manner
of means appear to increase; on the
contrary, they maintain their old struc-
ture, caught up here and there with
rosettes or tagged bows, or left floating
fully from shoulder to elbow, set in at
the armhole and spanning the shoulder
in a series of very fine plaits,
Plain skirts, with just a band of
checked black trimming, edged on both
sides with a narrow line of fur jor fancy
mohair braid, will be accompanied by
charming blouses of velvet matching
the bias fold and ornamented down the
front with a single broad Norfolk plait
with three jeweled studs, or more sim-
ply fancy buttons, in gilt or silver set
shirtwise and at equal distance from
neck to waist. The sleeves of velvet are
full, at the neck a dropping of lace is
knotted at the back, falling in two short
ends.
A cape en suite will be as’ necessary a
portion of a day gown this year as a
coat ‘to match” has been for a good
many seasons past.
Several new models for autumn cos-
tumes show round waists, bias cut, with
deep yoke, shirred back and front. At
the waist line the material is laid in tiny
plaits over a close- fitting, boned lining.
Skirts are generally of the Godet, pat-
tern, left plain or trimmed lenthwise
with jet, ribbon or velvet cords. No-
tice is attracted to the new leg-of-mut-
ton sleeves, which are wrinkled from el-
bow to wrist, like long suede gloves. A
great deal of velvet, in the form of
panels, bretelles, suspenders, crush col-
lar and belt, butterfly bows, ete., is used
on the new models.
A tobacco brown serge has an Eton
jacket fastened warmly in front with
three hooks, the points spreading a lit-
tle at bottom and the revers making the
blouse of checked brown and white silk
visible above.