Demorralic aca,
Bellefonte, Pa., April 26, 1895.
——
THE BABY OVER THE WAY.
Across in my neighbor's window,
With its folds of satin and lace,
1 see with its crown of ringlets,
A baby’s innocent face.
The throng in the street look upward,
And everyone, grave and gay,
Has a nod and a smile for the baby
In the mansion over the way.
Just here in my cottage window,
His chin in his dimpled hands,
And a patch on his faded apron,
The child that I live for stands,
He has kept my heart from breaking
For many a weary years;
And his face is as pure and handsome
As the baby’s over the way.
Sometimes when we sit together,
My grave little man of three
Sore vexes me with the question :
“Does God up in heaven, like me?”
And I say, “Yes, yes, my darling,”
Though I almost answer “Nay,”
As I see the nursery candles
In the mansion over the way.
And oft when I draw the stockings
From the little tired feet,
And loosen the clumsy garments
From his limbs, so round and sweet,
1 grow too bitter for singing,
My heart too heavy to pray,
As I think of the dainty raiment
Of the baby over the way.
¥ * * * * *
Oh, God in heaven forgive me
Forall I have thought and said!
My envious heart is humbled ;
My neighbor’s baby is dead !
1 saw the little white coffin
As they carried it out to-day: i
And the heart of a mother is breaking
In the mansion over the way.
The light is fair in my window,
The flowers bloom at my door;
My boy is chasing the sunbeams
That dance on the kitchen floor,
The roses of health are crowning
My darling’s forehead to-day;
But the baby is gone from the window
Of the mansion over the way! ;
—May Riley in Cradle and Armchair.
SCI A RSE REA.
MARY'S MISSION.
BY W. J. HENDEREON,
The professor dropped the letter
which he had just read for the sixth
time. He rose with nervous energy
and went to the window.
He gazed into the street and saw
children, children, children—every-
where children—laughing, running,
skipping and geuerally disporting
themselves with the amiable idiocy of
youth.
“What on earth shall I do with it?”
muttered the professor, drumming on
the window with his eyeglasses. “What
put it into my sister's head that I
would be the best person in the world
to take care of her child? Why
didn’t her husband outlive her? Why
did she die? The whole thing has
been simply a plan to break up my—
hem! I don’t mean that! I suppose
poor Jane would have lived it she
could.
“But what am I to do with a 3 year
old child in my bachelor quarters? I
don’t know, I'm sure, If Mottsboro
were a big city perhaps it wouldn’t be
go bad. But in a miserable little vil-
lage like this, where everyone's busi-
ness is known to everyoue else, Ishall
be driven mad, I know I shall.”
As he stood gazing out of the win-
dow across the green stretch of level
lawn and over the snowy pick-
ets of the well kept fence he became
aware of a face at the window of the
pext house. :
“Qh, mercy 1” exclaimed the profes-
gor, half aloud, “what will she think?
I never spoke to her but once, and
that was at Mrs. Barbey’s lawn party,
where I was introduced to her. Then
she said it was a pretfy sight, and I
answered ‘Yes, it looks like rain.’
“I couldn’t help it. She was go
beautiful, and £ was eo—s0—s0 modest
—or—baghful—or idiotic—or some-
thing.”
It is quite true. Ever since Prof.
Arthur Brewster ipstructor in math-
ematics and astronomy at the Motts-
boro high academy, had been present.
ed to Mies Mabel Riker he had never
dared to speak to her again.
She had passed him on the street
often and had always greeted him with
a pleasant smile and a bow, but he
never dared to do more than litt bis
hat awkwardly and hasten on.
He would have given a month's
salary to find courage to say some-
thing, and a year’s for the audacity to
join her in her walk. © But he realized
that courage was not a purchasable
commodity.
She saw him at the window aad
smiled, whereupon he retired into the
room with great celerity.
Her smile always frightened him.
It always made him feel as it his
heart had jumped out of place.
He had nearly recovered from his
alarm when the aged woman who act-
ed as housekeeper, cook and general
servant in bis emall cottage knocked
at the door and on entering said :
“There’s a man here wid a child.”
“Oh, Lord, it's come,” said the pro-
fessor, the perspiration starting out-on
his brow.
He went down into the sitting room
and there he found the express messen-
ger. The professor did not dare to
take his eyes off the man lest they
should fall on the queer bundled up
object on the sofa.
“Professor,” said the messenger,
“here's the kid, eafe and sound.
Brought er all the way myself. She's
a jim dandy, she is, Her trunk isin
the wagon. Wot’'ll I do with it?”
“Bring it in and put it in the small
room upstairs.”
While the man wae out of the room
the professor walked to the empty
fireplace and stood gazing into it,
painfully aware that his every move-
ment was solemnly obeerved by two
coal black eyes.
He could not have told how he
knew they were black, but he was mor-
ally certain of it.
The man returned with the trunk
and deposited it in the small room be-
side a brand new iron bedstead. :
“That's all O. K., professor,” said
the man, pocketing certain bills, ‘I |
hope you'll like the kid, for she's ai
jim dandy,”
A strange intonation in the man’s
voice caused the professor to tremble.
There was a dismal silence for several
minutes and then a high pitched treble
voice said :
“Is you my Uncle Art’ur ?”’
The professor started, turned and
found the eyes looking up at him.
There was no mistake ; they were as
black asa crow’s wing. So was the
hair that hung in tangles around the
olive brow.
The lips were red enough and the
teeth white enough, but those eyes
were dreadful.
“I am your uncle, Mary,” he said,
feebly.
“Mamma said you'd be dood to me.
Mamma’s dead.”
There was .& queer monotonous
pathos in the speech. The professor
felt a new emotion. He did not know
what it was, but it made him bead
down and lay his band gently on the
child’s head as he said :
“I'll be good to you Mary.”
“Den take off my fings.”
This was more than the professor
had bargained for, so he called the old
woman. Butthe child refused to be
touched by her.
“Do’way,” she said, with a most
malignant expression; ‘do ’way.
Wants Uncle Art’ur to be dood to me.
Don’t want ole womans, I scratch ole
womans.”
The protessor was fain to make an
attempt to take off the ‘“fings.” He
struggled bravely and got the poirt of
a pin in his finger, which drew from
him a rude exclamation.
“Pin tick ?’ gravely inquired
Mary.
“Tt did,” as gravely answered the
professor.
“Well, you mus’'n say so naughty
words,” continued Mary, ‘‘or you
can’t go to heaven. My mamma's
dere. I wish I was.”
And then the little black head fell
forward and a tear or two fell.
Prof. Arthur Brewster looked un-
comfortably at the old woman for a
moment. Then he motioned for her to
0.
2 She obeyed, but when she peeped
through the keyhole a moment later
she saw the professor tenderly take
the gypsy looking mite in his arms
aS it close to his breast, where
the tears ceased to flow and the unbpat-
ural gravity resumed its sway.
At supper the child asked for all
sorts of things that the professor sup-
posed were poisonous to children and
all of which he promised to bave in
the house the nextday, provided Mary
would not carry out her one dread
threat and cry.
But finally bedtime came and then
Mary flatly refused to allow the old
woman to undress her.
The professor perspired, but he man-
aged to get the little garments off and
to find in the poorly stocked trunk a
night dress.
Robed in the long white gown Mary
looked more than ever like a little
gypsy, but when, without a word of
warning, she dropped on her knees be-
fore him and murmured in her broken
language a little prayer, he thought
that she might not be so painful a bur-
den after all.
But the end was not yet. When he
had retired ome hours later to his
own bed and was endeavoring to com-
pose himself to sleep he became aware
of the little figure standing beside his
pillow.
“Why, Mary,” he said, ‘whatever
do you want now 7”
“J lonely,” she said. “Wants
sleep wiv you.”
“Oh, no,” he said, rather shortly in
his surprise, “that’s quite out of the
question.”
He turned his back on her, hoping
she would return to her room.
But a moment later he heard a
to
meek little sob, and turning again
found that she had fully carried out
her supreme threat and was crying.
He tried to be angry, but something
tugged at his heartstrings and he
reached out his arms and took her to
his bosom, where she purred a moment
like a kitten and dropped to sleep with
the peace of a perfect trust on her
queer little face.
But the next day the trouble began
again when, after looking over his
morning mail, he found that Mary had
disappeared.
“Good gracious!” he exclaimed,
‘‘where has she gone?”
He called but she did not answer.
He went into the next room, but she
was not there.
He looked into the kitchen, but the
old woman declared that the ‘blessed
little imp’ had not been near her.
Upstairs went the professor in great
haste, loudly calling for Mary. He
tried to reason with himself that he
ought to rejoice at her sudden disap-
pearance and hope that she ever,
never would return, but his arguments
could not hold their ground against
that new thrill of anxiety which had
got possession of his heart.
He went out of the house and called
loudly :
“Mary 1”
“What you wants ?”’ came the shrill
answer from the other side of the
fence.
There was Mary, comfortably seated
in Mabel Riker’s lap, while the girl af-
fectionately patted her tangle of black
curls,
“0Q—ah—yes—I beg pardon.” stam-
mered the professor ; “you see—well—
she went away when I was not look-
ing.
“[ quite understand your aaxiety,
professor,” replied Mabel, a pretty
flush mounting to her cheeks, “I
should be anxious if I were in your
place. She's such a sweet child.”
“I wonder if she’s making game of
me ?"’ thought the professor. Then he
said : “Now, Mary, you must come
home; you mustn't bother
Riker.”
#Oh—why—of course, certainly, if
you like.”
“Uncle Art’ur’s dood to me,” cooed
Mary. “Let's me s’eep in he's bed,
and I kiss 'm.”’
“Ha! Hum! Good morning,”
said the professor, retiring in the ut-
most confusion.
After that little Mary spent most of
‘her time with Mabel Riker, and the
professor’s hours of studious retire-
ment were not greatly abbreviated.
And he was always glad when the
child came trotting in at the meal
time with some new story of Mabel’s
goodness.
“Yes, Mary,” he said, emphatically
one day, “she’s the best girl in the
| world.”
Little Mary treasured that astound-
ing declaration and in the afternoon
remarked to Mabel :
“You’se dood to me; you’se best
girl in de world.”
“Oh, Mary!” eaid Mabel; “that's
too much ; you mustn't say that.”
“Will say dat. You’se best girl in
de world ; Uncle Art’ur says you is.”
“Oh-oh-oh I” said Mabel in a low
tone, her eyes softening and her face
coloring.
When little Mary returned to her
uncle she was bursting with eagerness
to repeat Mabel’s reply. Suddenly,
while the old woman was pouring out
some milk, the child exclaimed :
“Uncle Art’ur, you’se handsome.”
“Saints alive !"”" cried the woman,
spilling the milk.
“Why—why — Mary !”
the professor.
“You is. Mabel says you is.”
The professor said not a word, but
he ate heartily and after supper smok-
ed his pipe with uncommon zest.
When Mary went to visit Mabel
the next day she carried with her a
very pretty box of bon-bons for that
young woman and when she returned
she boresome choice berries plucked
in Mrs. Riker’s garden by Mabel’s own
fingers.
The last detail caused the professor
to refrain from eating the berries. He
put them away in a secret place, where
they were subsequently found a lot of
hard, black pellets.
How long this communication of
spirits might have gone on it was im-
possible to say but it was in-
terrupted in a way which brought
grave anxiety to the professor’s heart.
One evening Mary was much paler
than usual and she complained of pain
in her head.
“You've been playing too hard,”
said the professor, with his newly ac-
quired air of paternal wisdom.
So he sent her to bed early—to her
own bed, in which she had finally
consented to sleep.
But in the silence of the night she
come to his side, crying and complain-
ing of the pain. He found her in a
feverish state.
The professor was a man of decision
in most things. He promptly dressed
himself, aroused the old woman, bade
ber sit by the child and went for the
doctor. That dignified person on ar-
riving looked wise and said :
“I am afraid she is in for the meas-
les—or the scarlet fever—or else a bil-
ious fever. It is really impossible to
tell at this stage.”
He gave explicit directions as 10
treatment and promised to call again
in the forenoon. When he did so he
shook his head and said :
“Professor this child needs. a wo-
man’s care,”
“J—I suppose you are right. But
what shall I do? She will not allow
my cook to come near her.”
“(yet a protessional nurse.”
“There are only two in town—and
—they are both young—and—well,
you know—I—1I live here alone.”
“Well, sir, you must manage it
somehow."
The doctor went away, leaving the
professor much disturbed. A few
minutes later the old woman informed
him that Miss Riker was at the kitch-
en door inquiring about Mary. The
professor felt that he ought to answer
such an inquiry in person.
“I am much troubled,” he said, “for
the doctor thinks Mary ought to have
a woman’s care and she will not tol-
erate the cook.”
“Yes, so the cook told me,” an-
swered Mabel. After a minutes hesi-
tation she added: “I think Mary
would let me take care of her.”
“I am sure she would,” declared the
professor, warmly, “That is, of course
1f—if—it were—possible.”
“I think it might be done,” said
Mabel, softly.
“Do you? How?”
“Let her come to our house.”
“But would your mother be will-
ing?
“Oh, yes ; she suggested it. She's
very fond of Mary.”
“Ah, yes; it is extremely good of
vou--and your mother. I'll speak to
the doctor about it.”
“Oh, thank you,” exclaimed Mabel.
“How good I mean you well please
let me know what the doctor says.”
And she departed in some haste and
in evident confusion.
As for the professor he would . have
worshiped her more than ever had
that been possible.
The doctor came again and consent-
ed to the removal. Indeed, he urged
that the child be taken to ‘the Riker
house at once, for he himself was ata
loss to cope with the disease without a
woman's help.
So Mary was very carefully wrapped
in blankets and Uncle Arthur carried
her to the little bed which had been
prepared for her.
“[ don't—I don’t know how to ex-
press my gratitude to you, Miss
Riker,” he said, with feeling. “The
child has become very dear to me.”
“Don’t speak of gratitude, profes-
ejaculated
sor," said Mabel, frankly, extending
Miss | her hand ; “I love Mary.”
The professor took the proffered
“Oh, but she doesn’t,” exclaimed | hand and they stood gazing silently at
y gazing y
Mabel.
“Wants to stay bere,” said Mary.
pleaded Mabel.
the professor's entire world.
one another till Mabel seemed sudden-
ly to recover consciousness, drew her
“Let me keep her a little while,”
hand away and went about her duties
She could have kept ' as nurse with bright eyes.
At night little Mary became delir-
ous. - Sometime she called for Mabel
and sometimes for Uncle Art’ur.
| She told Mabel over and over again
| that she was the best girl in the world,
| because Uncle Art'ur said she was ; and
| she told the professor that he was-
| handsome, because Mabel had so de
| cided.
And there was much confusion in
two anxious minds.
In the course of time, however, the
disease passed its climax and youthful
nature triumphed. The burning
waves of fever broke and rolled back-
ward, leaving the pale face paler than
ever, ith its startling contrast of black,
shining eyes and tangled raven hair.
After a time little Mary was a con-
valescent. Then the professor bend-
ing gently over her, said :
“To-morrow my dear little girl shall
go home again.”
“And ’tate Mable too,” she said.
“Ha well Mabel will come to see
ou.”
“Won't do "less Mabel dose, too.”
“Well ah Mabel’s mamma wants
her to stay here.”
“Den I stay here too.”
“And must Uncle Arthur go home
without his dear little girl 2
“No. Uncle Ar’tur stay here with
Mary and Mabel.”
“Oh-ah~-I'm afraid do
that.”
Mary looked first at Mabel and then
at the professor, her piercing eyes
showing all her wonder at the unreas-
onable obstacles in the way of her
happiness.
“Mary, dear,” said Mabel, softly,
“vou must go home with your uncle.
and I'll come to see you every day.”
“Won’t do away from you. Won't
do away from Uncle Art’ur. Bofe dot
to stay wid Mary or she get sick adain
and die.”
And the black eyes became moist,
while the lips quivered. The pro-
fessor straightened up with a sudden
snap.
“It might be managed to her satis-
faction,’ he said. .
“How ?"" asked Mabel,
as my wife.
They were both bending over the
child now, looking into her eyes.
“You come home with me for good.
Ae the professor ceased speaking
Mabel’s head bent lower till her lips
touched Mary's cheek. The profes-
sor’s head sank till be kissed the other
cheek. Then lifting their lips from
the pale face they let their eyes meet.
Mable very softly put her hand in his,
bent to kies the child again and mur-
mured :
“We shall go home together, dear.”
— Boston Herald.
I can’t
softly.
Appomatox As It Is.
The Famous Old Surrender House Now a Ruin
and the Village Desolate.
This vicinity, now historic, has seen
many changes since the memorable 9th
of April, 1865 ; unfortunately, not for
the better. Young men have been
leaving for other fields, the old ones
have been dying off, and the labor ne-
groes has been going to railroads in
Southwest Virginia and elsewhere, so
that our country, blessed in climate,
seasons and soil, is fast retrogarding for
want of enterprise and skilful labor.
A few years ago a Washington syndi-
cate bought up a large quantity of the
lands on which the war ended, but
failed to buy the central point, the
house in which the articles of surrender
were signed. It was like the play of
“Hamlet” with Hamlet left out, as their
object was to make it a national park.
And well adapted it is for the purpose,
because accessible by a trunk line rail-
road to every station—north, south, east
and west. Subsequently a Chicago par-
ty bought the house where the surren-
der took place, and tore it down for the
purpose of removal to another place
having no connection with the final
scene, and what was a genteel home lies
on the premises that surround it a mass
of rubbish.
This act seems to the writer nothing
less than vandalism, and I see no pros-
pect of a restoration and preservation of
a place that ought to be almost sacred.
The old Appomattox Court House,
once one of the most pleasant villages in
Virginia, is now a fit representation of
Goldsmith’s “Deserted Village,” Since
the burning and removal of the old
Court House, and the tearing down of
the surrender house, it looks indeed
desolate.
Not Understood in the North.
“Yankees have a knack of pronoun-
cing words in 8 most outlandish way,”
remarked a gentleman from New Or-
leans. “I am on my way home from
Buffale. While I was in Buffalo I got
a trifle mixed up about the streets. In
fact I was lost. I stopped a gentleman
and asked him where I could get a car
(pronouncing it kor, as we do down
South).
“The gentleman was evidently puz-
zled, and, after thinking a moment,
said ‘What did you say you wanted ?”’
“ ‘Why, a car,’ I replied.
“tA kor,’ he said, what's
How do you spell it ?’
“That made me rather angry, and I
answered : “Great goodness ! can’t you
people up here understand English ?
C-a-r, kor.’
“ (Oh, I know what you mean now,’
he said, ‘you mean a car’ (pronouncing
it exactly like care.)”’
that ?
Heredity. |
Binks—Speaking of heredity, do you
| remember Forrester who bought some
wild land and turned it into a farm ?
Winks--Yes, he was the inventor of a
very effective stump puller.
Binks--Just so. Well, his son is a
very successful dentist.
——Smallwort--+Old man Gripe, the
chattel mortgage man, got a needle in
his hand this morning and the doctors
had to cut it out.”
Ford—*Nothing strange in that.
They would have to do thesame thing
had it been a nickel.”
——He (with superiority)--*I wouldn’t
marry the best woman living.”
would be a very ill-assorted match.”
"in many cases are suffering for funds ;
How Do You Like It?
After trying for forty years, the Re-
publican majority in the House of Re-
presentatives at Harrisburg on Tuesday
passed the Judges Retirement bill which
provides for the retirement of Judges on |
full pay who have been in office for
twenty consecutive years, or thirty years
altogether and have reached the age of
seventy. These same statesmen who
voted to thus pension civil officers whose
elective term is ten years at a salary of
$4000 a year, after they have had the
benefit of that same salary for twenty
years, are figuring to take away from
the schools of the State from a half a
million to a million of dollars the ap-
propriation to the schools, they answer
that the depleted condition of the trea-
sury will not warrant so large a sum.
The charitable institutions of the State,
and yet a pension must be voted to men
who ought to be worth thousands of
dollars. Tax-payers of Fulton county
what do you think of such legislation ?
School teachers of Fulton county, some
of you who have heen serving the State
just as faithfully as any human being
can fulfill a public trust for twenty
years at an annual compensation of less
than one hundred and fifty dollars a
year, who do you think ought to be re-
membered when the State begins to pen-
sion ? Laboring men, you who have
toiled all day and get your fifty cents
that you may take it home to the sup-
port of your wife and children, what do |
you thing of helping to pay from $4,000 |
to $8000 a year to men who have re-
ceived in salary from the State not less
that eighty thousand dollars? Think
about it.— Fulton Dem.
_— ee |
Dyspepsia and Baldness.
A Disordered Digestive Apparatus the Great
Hair Puller.
Dyspepsia is one of the most common
causes of baldness. Nature is a great
economizer, and when the nutrient ele-
ments furnished by the blood are insuffi-
cient to properly support the whole
body, she cuts off the supply to parts
the least vital, like the hair and nails,
that the heart, lungs and other vital
organs may be the better nourished. In
cases of severe fevers, this economy is
particularly noticeable. A. single hair is
a sort of history of the physical eondi-
tion of an individual during the time it
has been growing, it one could read
closely enough. Take a hair from the
beard or from the head and scrutinize
it, and you will see that it shows some
attenuated places, indicating that at
some period of ‘its growth the blood sup-
ply was deficient from overwork, anxiety
or under feeding.
The hair falls out when the strength
of its roots is insufficient to sustain its
weight any longer, and a new hair will
take its place unless the root is diseased.
For this reason each person has a certain
definite length of hair. When the hair
begins to split or fall out massage to the
scalp is excellent. Place the tips of the
fingers firmly upon the scalp and then
vibrate or move the scalp while holding
the pressure steadily. This will stimu-
late the blood vessels underneath and
bring about better nourishment of the
hair. A brush of unevenly tufted bris-
tles is also excellent to use upon the
scalp, not the hair.
“Asia for the Asiatics.”
A New Cathay May Rise at the Bidding of the
Japanese.
As the population of Asia is more
than twice as large as that of all Eu-
rope, it is not surprisingt that the Ja-
panese cry of ‘“‘Asia for the Asiatics”
stirs the mind of those European
countries which hold or control so great
a part of Asia. If the spirit of Japan
were to enter China and India there
would be no place for England or for
France in Asia. The only European
power that holds a large part of Asia by
that right which a Russian statement
has called the ‘right of geography” is
Russia. There is no break between the
western and the eastern portion of the
Czar’s dominions, while England and
France are thousands of miles away
from the Asiatic territory upon which
they keep their clutches. Their only
right in Asia is that of the drawn
sword.
Irish Types.
Three types, at least, are observable
in the South of Ireland—first, the dark,
Italian-looking Celt, also found in De-
von ; secondly, the tall, yellow-haired
Danish type ; and thirdly, the aborig-
inal Aryan of the Volga, with red or
auburn hair and blue or green eyes, who
may also be found in Cornwall. The
dark, aquiline type of Wales differs con-
siderably ‘from that of the Irish, and
the Irish language is nearer akin to
Cornish than to Welsh. The tra-
ditional Irishman of caricatures is not
often seen in the south, though this type
is not unkown even among the upper
classes. The soft features and bright
eyes of the modest peasant women pres-
ents many varieties of beauty, and the
mingled race of Cork and Kerry--fairer
as a rule than that of the far west.-is as
vigorous as any in Scotland or in York-
shire.
——Mr. Morton, who is Mr. Cleve-
land’s secretary of agriculture, is a most
fearless member of the cabinet. Some
of his statements are exaggerated and
many of them lack prudence, but there
is no doubt concerning his honesty, and
he has a wonderful faculty of punctur-
ing frauds in the agricultural world.
This has earned him the hostility of all
the political farmers, and of many hon-
est men who have been misled by bad
leaders.
——Wade Hampton is not particu-
larly gallant, judged by his expressions.
He declares that women and horses ‘‘are
just alike and require the same treat-
ment. There’s only one way to get
along with them. Use your strongest
curbs on the fast ones and lash the slow
ones like the devil.i’
——TFalsehood has an infinity of com-
bination, but truth only one mode of
being.
She (with confidence) -“If you did, it '
TATA,
——The tramp is making for the ,
country once more. :
For and About Women.
“The girl of to-day is in no haste to
wed ; she need not marry for a home,
because she is capable of earning one for
herself. If she is left behind ‘when he
Joves and rides away,’ she need not pine
away and die from sheer want of some-
thing else to think about. No ; she can
work out a career of her own, reside in
residential chambers, and become a lady
bachelor. She can have, in fact, much
the same as the majority of men would
who had been badly treated by a mem-
ber of the fair sex.”
A pretty old fashion just revived is
that of wearing dainty turned over col-
lars and wristlets of fine white muslin,
lawn and linen with one’s dark woolen
orsilk house gowns in the morning or
afternoon, These should be stitched by
hand, and may be decorated in a varie-
ty of ways with infinitesimal tucks,
delicate insertion and the finest lace
edging.
Fullness in skirts is gradually spread-
ing the whole way ronnd, and many of
the newest models have the godets set-
ting out all round after the fashion of
penwiper dolls. Needless to say, this
style lends itself only to women of slen-
der propositions, and the skirts are the
reverse of comfortable from the pedes-
trian point of view. Stiffened pleats
are not to be held up for any length of
time without an arm-ache, and the hide-
ous effect of a held-up skirt that has a
steel at the edge can be easily imagined.
As a house-gown the wide skirt just
touching the ground is perfect, but in
the street it leaves its wearer no choice
between enduring a stiff arm and acting
as a pavement sweeper.
There is danger ahead for the Ameri-
can woman. . In her eager desire to
stand side by side with man she is be-
coming aggressively self-confident, and
unless she watches herself there is risk
of becoming too clever, of becoming
stilted, dogmatic in the expression of
her opinion ; in a word, unnatural, and
that way ruin lives. A clever man of
the world not long ago wes heard to say
apropos of this subject: “The most
charming and delightful thing in the
world, but I regret to say the rarest, is
a thoroughly natural woman.” A
shrewd comment. The woman of to-
day cultivates her mind to such an ex-
tent that she is self-conscious ; she loses
the charm of simplicity of speech ‘and
manner ; the former is stilted, the latter
aggressive ; she has won a reputation
for cleverness and she strives to main-
tain it at all hazards. In a, word, in
season and out of season, at home and
abroad, she never ceases to remember
that she is a bright woman.
The box-pleat has positively attained
to the dignity of the keynote of the sea-
son. Not only is almost every blouse
and skirt arranged in this fashion, but
the latest sleeves are set into the shoul-
der seam in box-pleats. Sometimes the
latter, instead of starting from the shoul-
der, are carried up to the neck—a style
which can hardly be considered becom-
ing, but which may commend itself to
those who, like the Athenians of old,
are ever athirst for novelty.
And now with spring actually here
and the fashions permanently decided,
the query is, “What is the main feature
of this season’s modes?’ In answer I
should say the blouse waist, and one has
but to walk through any of our large
stores to bave this opinion verified.
Every device has been to bear upon
these gay bits of feminine attire in or-
der to make them as unique as possible.
Buttons vie with buckles and wide rib-
bon with the narrower sort in making
them attractive. Prices likewise vary
to accord with the capricious modes
and it seems as though no other dress
idea had ever taken such a hold on
womankind before.
‘White blouses of plain material may
drop over the belt ; those of large pat-
terns have usually a velvet belt, rather
wide. The reason is that large patterns
increases the apparent size of the figure
and this increase is an advantage round
the shoulders, but not round the waist.
A dark velvet belt makes the waist look,
by contrast, small, and this contrast of
apparent width across theshoulders with
the small waist is characteristic of the
style.
These gay blouses seem to demand
not only the skirts but the hats also to
be of little color, and perhaps this is the
reason so many hats are black. Later
in the season this may be ‘lifferent.
But apropos of hats it may be . smarked
as a sign of fashion that there is no lon-
ger a similarity of color sought to be es-
tablished between the hat and the gown.
Once with a brown gown went a brown *
hat, but now there is nothing of the
sort. The hat has a neutral basis,
either of white or black, and its flowers
of velvet rosettes are #0 chosen as to
form = harmonious contrast with almost
any gown one may have in the ward-
robe.
The fichu is a favorite neck trimming
especially for the dresses. Itis made of
mull or lace, or of the material edged
with lace. The organdie gown of the
picture has a lace fichu bordering a
guipure vest which is laid over pink the
shade of the roses in the pattern. The
skirt has a panel on each side made of
the lace used for skirt draperies.
This “spring church costume’ is a
vision of grace and loveliness. It is
made of Havana brown crepon, such
hairy, wiry crepon that it seems almost
more like mohair or challie than woolen
goods. The skirt is perfectly plain,
with a great sweep in the back. The
bodice is of the material and finishes
short at the waist. A belt of Havana
brown satin encircles the waist and
forms a high bodice.
The front and back at the edge of the
bodice, below this belt, are two knots of
black satin ribbon, confined by buckles
of cut steel, from which float black satin
streamers to the bottom of the skirt.
The front is formed of a loose vest of
pale blue mull over white satin, edged
with a rufile of fine black lace. This
falls loosely over the bodice belt. The
crowning glory of this fetching gown
was the sleeves. These beautiful big
puffs were very full above the elbow,
and rather scant below. They were
formed of pale blue silk, scattered with
large pink peonies. Over this richness
of color was a design in fine black braid-
ing, which toned down without com-
pletely concealing the exquisite color-
ing.
Sitting invariably produces fat, and
fat just where one does not want it—
about the stomach and hips.