- me critically.
I saia, ‘on my way to Freoton,’
sm
Bellefonte, Pa., Feb., 28, 1896.
THE SWEETEST SONG.
I have heard the greatestartists that the world
shall ever see
Sing all the grandest music of the day.
I have sat with soul transported in a mist of
melody,
As] listened to each life-uplifting lay ;
But the music that is sweetest—surest round
my heart to.creep-
Is the voice that every evening softly sings
my boy to sleep.
Singing in the twilight simple, soultul little
airs,
Fragments of some love song, old and
ear;
They {ouch my better na‘ure and they mel
my heart to tears, :
Just the kind of music that is always good
to hear ; :
So full of heaven’s tenderness, with love so
sure and deep, 5
1s the voice that in the twilight softly sings
my boy to Slap. :
Heart swells from her girlhood, maybe seeing
through girlish tears,
Now doing cradle duty for God.
They come to me like echoes from the tomb
of buried years—
Just a little glimpse of Eden on the sod;
Oh, the air ia full of angels and their wings
around me sweep. .
As I listen to the twilight voice that sings my
boy to sleep.
— Nashville American.
THE KODAK'S EYE.
just six years ago that I took
ing tour with my kodak
emember. I had passed
morning, and oo the autekirts I came
across ooe of the pretiiegt cottages I
ever saw in my life. Gables;
and a porch framed in honeysuckle ;
and running up the hill behin
house, an old-fashioned garden—suc
a garden !
“A little boy was swinging on the
gate,” Thomeon went on : “pretty lit
chap about six, I should think. He
was lashing the gate with a great
bunch of whitethorn, and chirruping
to his steed as he swung back and
forth. He looked across the road at
me and laughed. *‘If you'll keep quiet,
still while I count six, I'll give you a
bright new shilling,’ I said. He eyed
1 set the focus and
sighted the child io the finder of my
kodak. 1 saw thatthe hillside garden
and tbe honeysuckle porch would come
into the scope of the picture. But I
wished the child hado’t grown so per-
petually grave. ‘What you got iu the
box,’ he eaid. ‘I'll show you in a min-
ute, if you keep quiet,’ I answered.
Just as I put my finger to the button a
cuckoo in the copse began to call.
The child lifted his curly head and
listened rapturously. ‘It’s my bird,’
he eaid, but just before he spoke I had
pressed the kodak button. Somone
shouted ‘Billy !’ from the cottage, and
the child scrambled down from the
pate. ‘Here's your chilling,’ I said.
He turned back, thrust his small hand
through the white fence for his prize
and scampered off with it.
“1 bad only a short holiday that
year, and on wy way home, going
from Thorpe to Frenton,1 took a
wrong turning, and found myself vear
Pinley again. [I didn’t really care, for
I had made my forty eight exposures,
and wasn’t looking for anything new.
It was furiously hot the worning I
saw the picture cottage for the second
time. I came on it from behind the
hill at the back, and saw that the place
was in reality a emall farm. ‘I dare
eay they'd give me a glass of milk,’ I
thought, and by way of making a
short cut, I climbed a wall and dropped
on the otherside. But I came down on
a wobbly stone lying in a ditch, lost
my balance, turned my ankle, and lay
curging dismally for some minutes.
Then I limped up to the house. There
was no one about, and yet it wore an
inhabited air. I knocked at a side door
and leaned heavily against the lintel.
No one came. Ilimped around to the
front. My little friend wasn’t banging
over the gate this time. 1 went into
the porch and knocked again. The
door was opened—a woman of about
five and thirty, looking very ill, I
thought, stood there waiting to know
my errand. ;
‘Can I get some one here to go for
a fly ? I've eprained my ankle, and’ —
i“ ‘There's nobody here,” she said,
and shook her head unsympathetically.
I bad a horrible fear that she was go-
ing to ehut the door in my face,
** ‘Can you let me have a glass of
milk ?” I said. I wanted nothing in
the world so much as an excuee to sit
dowao.
“ ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ she said, in-
differently, ‘Come this way.’
“I followed ber into the kitchen.
She gave me a chair and went out. I
sat nursing the injured ankle until she
came back with the milk:
“I oaesed here about ten days ago,’
“Did you ?’ said the woman, in a
stupid way. She turned to the'window
and sat down on a low stool by a mar-
ket basket. I eaw that she had been
shelling pease when I knocked.
“I noticed your garden -particular-
ly. I haven't seen a finer ‘one this
year,’
“No, it ain't bad,’ she replied,
dropping the fat peas into the pail at
ber side. They pattered down like
hailstones. .
“ ‘How far shall I have to walk be-
fore 1 can get a trap ?' I said.
‘Nothing this 8ide “of Travers, I
should think.’
“‘How far is that?
* ‘Bout half a mile.’ I almost groan-
ed aloud. I couldn’t walk it. Some:
body must be found who would go and
treat with Tarver for me.
“ ‘I saw a little boy swinging on the
gate when I passed some days ago'-—
“The woman turned her head so
sharply io my direction that I stopped
short. It was only an instant’s inter-
ruption, The tace was averted again,
and the peas began to hail against the
tin.
“ ‘Ign’ he here now ?’ I asked.
“The woman shook her head. It
wae very warm, The perspiration
stood in beads on her forehead. She
lifted her arm, and passed -the sleeve
of her print gown over her face. I set
the empty glass on the table at my
elbow, and took out my purse. I no-
ticed the woman's quick hands were
idle again, and ber head bent down.
‘She 18 very ill,’ I thought. ‘She can’t
go to Tarver's, but —'
“sp']] be glad to pay anybody half
a crown who will get me a fly,’ I said
aloud. ‘Do you know of'—
“She had lifted her head and looked
at me.
“ (Was it you gave him the shillin ?’
** {Gave who?’
“Billy, my boy. Yousaid you saw
bim swingin’ on the gate. Was it you
gave him a new shillin’ 2’
+ Oh, I believe I did,’ I said.
“The sunburnt face worked and
dropped on ber folded arms.
“What happened ?’ I said, after a
pause.
“She sat up and stared vacantly
through the window.
+] usen’t to let him go outside the
gate to talk to people passing.’ she
said, ‘I called him in when I -heard
voices that day. He showed me the
shillin’ ’—— She broke off and wiped
ber eyes on the back of her hand.
“Yes,” I said.
“I didn't like bim takin’ money
from strangers, I scolded him, an’ he—
he cried. Her own eyes were full of
tears. ‘I tried to make him say what
the shillin’ was for,’ sbe went on. ‘He
said, “Nothin,’” “Then you begged
it,” I says, ‘an’ you're a disgrace,,’ an’
he cried more an’ said he hadn’t—
‘ ‘But that was quite trne,” I inter-
rupted.
* ¢Oh, I didn’t know that. I didn’t
know !"” the woman moaned. ‘I said
I'll give him a beatin’ if be didn't tell
me why the strange gentleman gave
him the shillin’. I might ’'a done it,
but he stopped cryin’ all of a sud-
n’ said : “Why, of course, mam-
w why he did it—it was be-
:koo sang for him, ’'an I
could hear.” I knew
that was just Billy's nonsense, but I
dido’t beat him—ob,\'m glad I didn’t
beat him, % * % = !
“I waited till she foun
again,” Thomson said, after a
as an excure. for the sudden failur
his own.
“The woman ‘explained,” he went
on, “that Billy had climbed upthe
laburnum tree that eame afternoon.
‘He lost his hold,’ she said, ‘an’ the
doctor says he must ’a fell on his head
—he died that night.”
“I muttered something stupid about
smypathy. She went on shelling the
peas. Looking vaguely around I caught
sight of a child’s photograph in a
frame on the opposite wall,
‘ ‘Is that a picture of your boy?’ I
asked.
% ‘No, no,’ said the woman, ‘that’e
my sister's child, and he ain't dead,
neither ! We never had a picture of
Bills. That seems to make it worse
somehow. I tell my husband I believe
I could bear it better if I bad a picture
of him.’
“ ‘Why, I took a picture of him!
In my excitement I started up, and
wrenched my unhappy ankle. I sank
back faint from pain.
“ Yon took a picture of my Billy I’
She was standing: beside me when I
opeued my eyes. :
¢ *Yes—er—of the house.
at the gate, you know.’
‘“ “Yhank God! the woman said,
shaking her clinched hands pitifully.
‘Thank God ! thank God !’
“ ‘But it may not come out right,’ I
said, cursing myself for having raised
hopes that my kodak might not justify.
‘You see, it 18n’t developed. I can’t tell
bow—"' :
“Oh, you must make it come out
right, sir! Where ig, it? The bard,
sunburnt face was quivering.
‘It’s here, in this'—I motioned to-
wards the kodak at my aide. She
kneeled down before it with clasped
hands, like a penitent before a shrine.
“ ‘You'll show it tome, sir—just
for a minute !’
“I can’t just now—it isn’t devel
oped.’
“ ‘But juet let me see if itis my
Billy. Oh, please, gir | If you koew,
if you knew—'
“¢[’]] let you have it as soon as it is
ready,’ I said.
took it out now.’
“I'd be very caretul,’ said the wo-
man. She got up eagerly, and instinet-
ively wiped her rough hands on her
apron,
“No, it’s the light, you see, that
would spoil it. It must be kept in the
dark,’ I tried to explain ; but she evi-
dently wasn’t listening. She kept look-
ing down at the kodak with supersti-
tious awe.
“Some one passed the window. She
looked up. ‘They've got back !’ she
cried, breathlessly, and ran to the door
in the scullery. She was talking ex-
citedly about Billy's picture wheo she
came back with two men. It was her
husband and her younger brother.
cause my
kep’ quiet so
He was
home from market. We soon arranged |
that after dinner, when the horse was
rested, I should be driven to Frenton,
by my bost, Mr. Peter Shail, and that
meanwhile I should go up stairs and
lie down, and let Mrs. Shail put cold
water bandages on my foot. The pain
became excruciating.
“A very comfortable room it was
that they put me in, and when Mrs.
Shail said my foot was badly inflamed,
and that I had better stay where I was
for a few days, I waen’t at all unwill-
ing.
“Will you show me the picture to-
night ?’ she said, the moment the plan
was decided on,
“A light broke in upon me. ‘Unfort
unately, I haven't any developer with
me. I should have to send for some.’
** ‘You can buy anything at Fren-
ton,’ she said. ‘Shail will go for you.’
¢ ‘Oh, I should have to send to Lon-
don.’
* ‘Shail will go for you,” she re
peated.
“ ‘As to thatthe Eastman Co. would
send it. ButI have everything at
home, and when I get back—’
**iOh, if you please, sir, don’t wait.
Shail will takea telegram if you'll
write it. I—I—you’ll think me very
strange, but—' she leaned over the
foot of the bed and lowered her voice
‘his bair.
‘It would be spoilt if 1.
out of my mind if I go like this, It's
all about Billy, sir. © You won't speak
about it to Shail, but I seem to be for-
getting how Billy looks. I can’t go to
sleep o' nights for tryin’ to make a
picture of him in my mind, and its
gettin’ harder an’ harder. He's only
been gone 12 days, an’ last night I
could’t seem to remember anything but
You see, 7 must be goin’
out of my mind. Bat if I hada pic
ture | Ob, sir! let Shail take a tele-
graph an’ get the—the—whatever it
ie.
“She left the foot of the bed and came
to the side. I looked up atthe poor
face and didn’t hesitate long. ‘Get me
some paper and a pencil,’ I said.
“Shail was dispatched with the ‘tele-
graph,’ and the next afternoon a packet
came from the Eastman Co,
“My foot was very painful. Mrs.
Shail begged me not to stand on it.
“+l get you everything you want,’
she said.
“ ‘Well, where is the kodak?” I
looked about as I undid Eastran’s
package.
“Oh, it's in my room,’ she said,
looking a little guilty ;: aod she hur-
ried out.
“I hope it hasn't been tampered
with,” I observed, when she came back
again.
* iNo, indeed, she eaid; but she
flushed under my glance. ‘Its only
been settin’ on my chest of drawers,
where I could see it plain.’ ;
“But I mistrusted her. I daresay I
showed it, too, for she hesitated an in-
stant, and said slowly, in a blundering
kind of a way : ‘You can’t think, sir,
what a comfort it was for me just to
lie an’ look atit. I kep’ thinkin’ my
Billy's in there. Maybe he's lookin’
out now, through that little ronnd
winder ! Shail said no, an’ told me
how it was; but, anybow, it don’t
matter much now if I do get mazed,
and can't remember—his picture's sate
io that little box. Seeme queer, too,
I've had such a lot of pictures of Biliy
in my head, an’ I can’t keep one clear;
an’ that little eye in the box never for-
ets bim—never forgets him—like his
‘oma mather does.” Thomson cleared
his throat. ;
4] seed her if she bad a lamp with
a red shade. ‘Yes, sir,” she eaid, and
started for the door. ¢
tAnd bring in acouple of shallow
dishes pudding or vegetable dishes, I
said, ‘and a pair of ecissors:.
“J examined the kodak, butcouldn’t
detect anything amies. Still, I was
full oi foreboding. The presentime
that something had happened to the
particular picture I wanted became al-
most a conviction,
‘At my direction the wooden shut-
ters were closed, and a pair of blankets
and eiderdown quilt were put over the
window. The small, red-shaded lamp
gave out a dim glow. On atable by
my side were the dishes and his bath
of developer.
“Now, you can go, Mrs. Shail,’ I
said. “I'll call you when I'm ready.’
“Go, sir 1
“Yes. I won't be very long.’
“40h, you mustn't send me away,
sir,’ she said. ‘Let me stay, an’ I'll
help you. I can’t go away an’ wait!’
She began to sob.
“] wished to the Lord I was out of
it. But I thought, ‘If the picture turne
out right, after all I”’—Well, I began
to feel more hopeful.
“The light was put behind the bed,
and I opened the kodak, and took out
the roll of film.
“ ‘Where is it?’ said the woman in
a whisper, peering forward in the dark.
“I think it’s the third on this reel,
I said. ‘Give me the scissors.’
“She fumbled about on the table.
‘Here!” she said. The word was
hoarse, and spoken with difficulty.
The sound of her voice made me ner-
vous. What an idiot I had been not
to send ber out!
“I unrolled the film and cut through
the punctured lines. ‘Where is the
picture ?’ said the voice across the ta-
ble. I was conscious that she was
peering into the empty kodak case.
“‘] hope it’s here,’ I said, misera-
bly, my presentiment coming back.
“Where?
“On this piece of paper’ I me-
chanically laid down the third expos:
ure, and returned the reel to the case.
“The woman came nearer.
‘ ‘Please, sir, turn it over !’ she said.
“(What ?’ I asked.
“‘The paper.’
*¢Thie, do you mean ?’ I picked up
the scrap of flim.
“¢It isn’t there! It isn’t there!’
The woman staggered back into the
darkoess,
“SWait I’ I said.
tain for a few minutes. Don’t go out.
The door mustn't be opened.’ But I
was almost glad that she was prepared
now for the worst. 1 was as certain
as if I had seen it that Billy’s picture
would be a failure.
“Mrs. Shail was crying hoarsely in
the corner. What a fool I'd been to
say anvthing about that snap-shot! I
poured the. developer into a dish and
submerged the film. I washed the
liquid back and forth.
“Please bring the light nearer,’ 1
said presently. Mrs. Shail got up and
set the lamp on the edge of the table.
I held up the film,
“ ¢That’s one’s turned dark,’ said the
woman, hopelessly, I knocked down
the ecissors with my elbow. She came
round, fumbled on the floor and pick-
ed them up. I returned the film to
the bath, with a sense of infinite thank.
fulnees and relief. Billy's picture was
coming up all right! As I wasbed the
stuff back and forth, I could see his
whitethore whip coming out black and
distinct, and above it! ——
“Mrs. Shail bad laid down the scis-
sors, and was looking over my shoul-
der.
“That one's something like this
bouse’, she said drearily.
dish nearer the lamp. ‘What do you
see there in front ?’
‘She leaned over the table and stared
into the dish.
“Yes, I see a fence and a shrub-
—f‘the truth is, [ think I'll go clean
‘We can't be cer-.
“ ‘Look here!’ I cried, holding the |
bery, an’ a gate, an’ a wide collar, an’
a face, an’—Ob, Lord! Oh, Lord!
It’s my Billy, swingin’ on the gate !”
‘Thomson broke off at this point in
bis story, and began to walk up and
down the room. iE
“They send me a hamper full of flow-
ers every year, on the anniversary of
the day 1 saw Billy swinging on the
gate. I haven't seen them since one
day in that same year, when I went
to take Mrs. Shail an enlarged photo.
graph of my snapshot. It came out
splendidly !"” Thomson said, with_pro-
fessional pride. ‘Best child’s photo I
ever saw ; that pretty background, the
branch of whitethorn hanging over
the gate the uplifted face, intent smil-
ing—'Just as if he beard his mother
callin’ to him,’ said Mr. Shail.
“No; it was the angels,’ said the
woman, very low.”— Pall Mall Budget.
The Maher—Fitzsimmons Fight.
Not in it from the Start.--The Australian
Knocks Out the Irish Lad in One Round with
a Right Hand Lick on the Jaw—New Heavy-
Weight World's Champion.
LaNaTrY, Texas., Feb. 22,—It took
Fitzimmonus just ninety-five seconds to
defeat Peter Maher, and become the
heavy weight champion of the world.
The fight took place in the bottoms of
the Rio Grande river on the Mexican
side, a mile and a half distant from the
Langtry depot. Even to his friends" it
was evident that the Irish lad was not
in it from the start. Before the round
hed progressed thirty seconds, Maher
attempted a foul and was heatedly
warned by the referee. Fitzsimmons’
coup was in the form of one of his
famous upper hooks with which he
knocked out Hall and broke the nose
of Jack Stelzner, his trainer.
Maber made a gallant eftort to get
on his feet when time was called, but
alter getting half way to a recumbent
position he fell back and still had his
head on the floor when time was call-
ed, and the decision was awarded to
the Cornishman.
FIRST AND ONLY ROUND.
First round.—Fitz led with bis left.
Maher backed towards his corner.
Fitzsimmons landed with his right,
and a clinch followed. Maher struck
Fitzsimmoos with his right hand while
they were clinched, and referee Siler
warned bim that if be did so again be
would give the fight to Fitzsimmons.
After a break away, Peter landed
hig left on Fitzsimmons’ neck. Close
infighting followed, and Maher suc
ceeded in landing his left on Fitzsim-
mons’ upper lip, drawing blood. Fitz
janes his lett on Maher, and followed
it with a right. Clinch followed.
Maher feinted, and Fitzsimmons led
with his right but fe!l short. A mix
up followed, in “which Maher landed
both right and left on either side of
Fitz's head. Maher led with his left
and another clinch followed. Fitz
seemed a bit bothered and broke
ground on Maher's leads. Maher fol.
lowed him up and led with his left;
when Fitz side stepped and swinging
his right landed full on the point of
Maher's chin. Maher measured his
length, his head striking the canvas
floor with great torce. He vainly at
tempted to arise, but could not more
than raise his head. His seconds
| called on him to get up, and be failed
ed to respond and sank back to the
canvae,
MAHER DECLARED OUT
The fatal ten seconds were counted.
Maher was declared out and Fitzim-
mons announced the victor, after one
minute and thirty-five seconds’ rather
lively fighting. Fitz's admirers cheer:
ed him to the echo and Maher's sec-
onds carried the defeated Irishman to
his corner.
It was several minutes before he
realized what had happened, and Fitz
walked over to his corner and shook
him by the hand. Fitz also sbook .
hands with{Quinn and the seconds in
Peter’s corner.
Barring the slight bleedidg at the
nostrils, occasioned by the left band
jab of Maher’s, the Cornishman show-
ed no marks ot injury, and appeared
as fresh as at the opening of hostilities.
Maher showed no sign of punishment
except 4 slight break in the skin just
above the point of the chin where
Fitzsimmons’ master stroke landed.
Ce ——
A Marvel in Eyesight,
The Roentgen Ray Confers Its Amazing Power
to Secing.— Prof. Salvioni, an Italian, Invents
an Appliance Which Enables One to See
Through Even a Marble Heart.— Details of the
Application Meager, But Science Dismays Skep~
tics.— Wonderful Possibilities of the Adjunct to
the Eye.—A Substitute tor the Crookes Tube.
A most remarkable discovery has
been made, according to a dispatch from
Rome, in connection with an investiga-
tion of Prof. Roentgen’s new force of
photography. Prof. Salvioni, of Perugi,
read a paper before the Rome medical
academy, Saturday, in which he des-
cribed an optical instrument, his own
invention, which enables the human
eye, by means of Roentgen rays, to see.
through anything which these rays can
penetrate.
It is said that Prof. Salvioni produced
his wonderful invention at the meeting,
and that by its means the physicians
present were enabled to see the contents
of a closed aluminum box. Unfortu-
nately nc explanation is given of the
means used to make the hitherto invisi-
ble rays. perceptible by man’s optic
nerve.
A London photographer has found a
convenient substitute for the Crookes
tube. It is an ordinary incandescent
electric lamp in which the filament has
been broken. This improvised Crookes
tube and an ordinary house-to-house
electric light current will enable any
photographer to make Roentgen photo-
graphs on a small scale.
Forgetting Disagreeable Things,
Blessed is the man or woman who bas
the happy faculty of forgetting disagree-
able things. Harrowing scenes will now
and then obtrude themselves upon one’s
vision, but why should you hang them
upon the walls of memory’s picture
gallery.
|
1
A Heather Sprig.
The Dreams and Fancies Interwoven With the
Modest Plant Brought from Bonnie Scot-
land. s
Only a little brown crockery pot,
rough and unpolished, round and un:
graceful, without even a curve at the
top to give a touth of classic beauty . to
its roly-poly form, yet from its shallow
depths were born hopes and dreams,
memories and ambitions, which a palace
might be proud to shelter, and which
filled a summer for me. Where then
‘was the charm, where the magic touch
which could convert the humble brown
jar into an Aladin’s cave of treasure ?
Ab, there, ss the sun glinted about it,
touching into life the soft purple, which
filled it, was revealed the secret. A
tuft of Scotch heather, growing as
cosily in its homely receptacle, distribu.
ting its beauty as blithely as if the
Scotch sunshine still warmed into ame-
thyst beauty and the Scotch mists bath-
od it into dewy fragrance. -
Up in the narrow window it rested,
just peeping out from between prim cur-
tains.
A hundred passersby might pass it
unnoticed, but to the bundred and first
its story was unfolded from the delicate
tufts in that summer, growing in ten-
dernces and reaching even glory at the
close.
Day after day I watched it, and =s
the winter retreated sulienly, and the
spring sent gladsome embassies on be-
fore, the heather drank in the fleeting
sunlight, brightened in its purple glow |
towards the window and grew until it
almost filled the round little pot which
made its home. The prim white cur-
tains appeared and disappeared in peri-
odical trips to the laundry, some bright-
hued geraniums were seen for a week,
but they drooped and died and left the
heather in undisputed possession.
DREAMS OF THE PAST.
What dreams and fancies of the past
were woven at first from the purple
sheen of that tiny plant !
Fancies of the proud tread of the
ancient Highlanders, who roved with
bold Rob Roy over the hills; of the
rushes made by bonnie Prince Charlie
and his followers, and of the stern gaiety
of the Scotish chiefs. Sometimes the
plant looked a wee bit wistful, us 1f the
sunlight which shone through the pane |
of glass could not make up for the flood
which shone about its native hills ; and
at these times the rugged, stern outline
of those hill would form the picture
which always painted itself about that
sprig of heather. Sadness and the
grandeur of the loneliness lurked un-
suspected in its fuzzy leaves, and theso
were all spread out in the dream pic-
tures which the drooping plant would
bring to mind.
Sometin:es the far, wide stretch of
hills under the moonlight might be
seen ; a gray ruin in the distance would
be noted, with the tender moonbeams
touching gently the dizmantled walls,
and showing the ivy, which crept about
the fallen towers, to hide their death
place. Again the soft evening mists
would steal uver the undulating bills,
shutting from sight the distant purple
peaks, then filling the valleys with silver
silence, at last creeping to one’s very
feet, while through its veil the notes
of the pipes would steal, in rollicking
ballads or “slow, measured love song,
but always with that mournful after-
tone in its music, as if tears started from
even the gayest measures.
THE GROWTH OF LOVE.
So the pictures grew with the sprig
of heather, as the dgys went on, and one
day they took in a new figure, a bright
eyed girl, whose smiling face was bent
low over the purple bloom, whiie her
gentle hands stirred the earth about its
roots and poured water for its thirsty
needs. Always after that she was in-
cluded in the heather-pictures. Some-
times she gathered great bunches of it
under the morning sunlight ; again she
stood in the twilight keeping tryst with
a lover or listening to the pipes which
spoke her heart's desire. Then again
she stood on an out-bound vessel with
this lover, her husband now, watching
with tear-filled eyes the hills of her lov-
ed land fudein the distance, while the
sprig of heather was the one bit of
memory carried to the new home across
the sea.
The heather told all this, and it told
more, one day when the smiling girl
held a brown-eyed baby to the window,
where the sunlight danced to amber
lights in its eyes as it laughed and
grasped at the brown pot. Happiness,
content, thrift and love were woven.
into the story of romance. The mem-
ories became silent now ; sympathy
for the bit of plant, torn from its native
heath was entirely gone, and only
brightness and smiles reigned in the
daily chapter which was spoken from
its depths. :
THE HEATHER WAS GONE.
But one day there was a new note in
‘the story, which had becomes sym-
pheny. The gpotless curtains were
away, thelittle brown pot pushed to
one side and unwatered, and the next
day its mournful droop told of some
sorrow which was mysterious but un-
mistakable. The third day it was the
same. No bonny faces smiled behind
the window, no bright eyes looked out
at the sunshine with content for the
present and hope for the future, and the
tread of the sturdy father, ashe hasten-
ed away in the morning,bespoke anxiety
in his Leart.
But it was all cleared up before the
week had gone, the curtains were
straightened, the mother’s face was seen
at the window, without the smile and
wet with tears, but the heather was
gone. My anxious eyes sought for my
friend when I saw the empty little pot,
and they found the solution to it all in
the sprig of purple heather, though all
its glow of sunshine, its silvery charm
ot mist, its fancies of the past and tale
of the presant were gone.
For little whita crepe fluttered from
the door, and in its folds of snowy rib-
bon nestled the sprig of pa le heather.
GrAcE MERCEDES McELroy,
in the Pittsburg Dispatch.
Qut of His Own Mouth.
Foggz—¢*That last scene in the first
act was awfully startling. It actually
took my breath awav.”
Mrs. Fogg.—*So that was what you
went out for. I notice that you have
got it again.’’
For and About Women.
Miss Anne Walworth, of Cleveland,
“has given $100,000 to the Euclid Ave-
nue Presbyterian church of that city.
In the new shirt waists is observed a
strong leaning toward delicate, limp
cottons instead of the thick percales and
cambrics of last summer. Grass linens,
figured, striped and dotted are also ex-
tensively used, and the same stiff, white
linen collars and cuffs of last year are
still in high favor. When, however,
the waist is of batiste or figured ir deli-
cate tones, the collars and cuffs will
often’ be of colored linen, pink, blue,
violet or yellow. The newest fancy is
to have the collar and cuffs match,
though if the shirt waist is in plain ma-
terial the cuffs may be of thesame and
the collar white. As to shape, there
does not seem to be much change ex-
cept in the sleeves, which now run en-
tirely~ to bishop affairs. Sometimes,
too, th& gathers of the front will be
pressed down each side of the buttons to
form a double box plait, and a few of
| the more dressy waists are made on half
| fitted linings to button up in the back.
These last were introduced late in the
| season last summer and did not find a
| very favorable footing, veing clumsy to
| launder and expensive to boot. For
dressy moments, however, they are desir-
{ able, and some of them are made very
| handsome with ribbon stocks, tabs of
‘ yeilow lace and entre-deux of the same,
The greatest fault of the middle class
| mothers of families is that they have al-
lowed their interest in things outside
i their homes to dwindle. The cooking,
' the servants, the mending and the
marketing absorb all their energies.
They wear woolen frocks that their
daughters may go clad in silks, which
' would be a charming bit of sacrifice if
rit were not sobad forthe daughters.
These mothers, in order to be as de-
lightful as they are good, need the en-
livening influence of occasional restau-
rant dinners, of the theatre and after-
theatre suppers, of pretty frocks and the
like. Their families will only appre-
ciate them the more for such indul-
gencies'
i
|
i
| A word aboat the ribbon collar. To
be quite correct you must always tie it
yourself. The same rule of the fitness
of things applies here as in the four-in-
hand.
Never take the ribbon plain und sew
it about the stiff collar, fastening the
bow in the back by a hook and eye:
Instead buy one yard and a-half of
ribbon. Pin the middle of it at the
exact back of the collar. Carry the
ends to the front cross them loosely,
carry them back again, and tie in a bow,
pulling the loops and ends even. Be
careful not to mash them fiat; they
must stand out as much as possible, and
don’t make the bow large.
A cameo or miniature brooch pinned
slightly to one side completes the cor-
rectness of your neck adornment.
That the edge of the ribbun quickly
becomes soiled (as light colors are most
desired) the Parisians, who adopted this
satin stock when President Carnot was
buried, have now added small tabs or
ruchings at the side. They prevent the
ribbon from soiling as quickly and take
away the stiff effect of the ribbon line
—an effect toe curve-loving French
folk abhor.
These tabs or ruchings are seen on all
the very new gowns. However, I
saw some other frocks that had
knife pleated crepe lisse in there,
and the effect was charming.
Stiffened lace will du just as well and
chiffon is even tolerated.
Some skin-tight sleeves are seen on
new tailor gowns.
Silks were never so gorgeous.
The most conspicuous feature of the
evening bodice is the ribbon bow. It
appears on the shoulders and it appears
on the collar. It challenges attention
at the front of the girdle, and itis not
wanting at elbowsor wrists. It fur-
nishes the economical woman with a
rather economical method of freshen-
ing her old bodice.
Brown paper and paper bags are too
frequently thrown in the fire or ash
barrel, whereas, if they were carefully
folded and in odd moments cut into dish
papers, croquettes and similar dishes
would not be so often sent to table with-
out being properly drained.
The clean bags should be saved for
sending out of the house, for certain
articles can be packed inthem muck
more easily than in loose paper.
Lemons are an excellent remedy in
pulmonary diseases. =~ When used for
lung trouble from six to ninea day
should be used. More juice is obtained
from lemons by boiling them. Put the
lemons in cold water and bring slowly
to a boil. Boil slowly until they begin
to soften ; remove from the water and
when cotd-epough to handlesqueeze un-
til the juice 1% extracted, strain and add
enough loaf or crushed sugar to make it
palatable, being careful not to make it
too , Add about twice as much
water a8 there is juice. This prepara-
tion may be made every morning, or
enough may be prepared one day to last
three or four days, but it must be kept
in a cool place.
ern
Every seamstress knows all the both-
er and hindrance of a machine which
sticks and refuses to run smoothly. A
dressmaker recommends that, in such a
case, all parts which seem gummed up
should*be carefully bathed in alcohol
over night. In the morning it will bs
found that everything will be in good
running order again.
If you wish milk to agree with you
never drink it hurriedly. Sip it and
you will not feel a tinge of indigestion.
The woman who copies an imported
gown by trying to get the same effect
for half the material always wonders
why her effort was not successful.
It is fear that he will get away or &
case of liking to feel his presence near
that makes a woman cling on the arm
i of an escort in broad daylight ?