: ™)
Bomar Wc.
Bellefonte, Pa., March 13, 1836.
Full flowered summer lies upon the land,
I kiss your lips, your hair—and then your hand
Slips into mine ; lo, we two understand
That love is sweet. ?
The roseleaf falls, the color fadesand dies ;
The sunlight fades, the summer, bird-like,
flies ;
There comes a shade across your wistful eyes—
Is love s0 sweet ?
The flowers are dead, the land is blind with
rain;
The hud of beauty bears the fruit of pain—
Can any note revive the broken strain,
Is love so sweet ?
The world is cold, and death is everywhere,
T turn to you, and in my heart's despair
Find peace and rest. We know through foul
or fair,
That love is sweet.
Pall Mall Gazette.
A—————
THE BLIND EYES,
S——
The Sory of a Picture.
BY C BOULTON.
The room was dingy and tawdry,
looking exactly what it was, the par-
lor of a third rate boarding house.
The furniture, upholstered in gaudy
brocade of gold and crimeon, mn its
pristine brilliancy must have been
wonderful to behold, but it had dimned
and faded until it wore the prevading
tone of the apartment. The walls
were hung with a motley collection of
pictures in cheap frames, aud a plaster
figure of Venous, which bad been given
a coat of gold paint, adorned a pedes-
tal in one corner. A semi-grand
piano, whose embroidered cover was
littered over with looee sheets of music,
stood against the folding doors, and
the whole room, with its air of degen-
erate grandeur, was reflected in the
depths of a long and very dusty mirror
which hung between the windows.
An untidy-looking colored woman
had just lighted the gas, and as she
turned to leave the room she almost
ran against a young lady who had
entered noiselessly.
“Dear rakes, Miss Rush | Yo’ done
give me de ‘horrors! ‘Peared like yo
was a 8pook creeping in dat ar
way.’
The girl laughed.
scared you, Sally.”
She walked over to the window and
looked out. Snow was falling quite
heavily and the sidewalks were de-
serted. The electric lamps across the
square shot out great shafts of light
through the white flurry, and the red
lantern of a trolley car gleamed
“I am sorry I
like a cyclopean eye as it whizzed
around the corner. She gazed out
for a minute or so, and then seated
herself on one of the yellow and red
couches, drumming nervously on the
carved arm with ber fingers. She was
a pretty girl, with shadowy blue eyes
and fair hair that went up softly into
a neat coil at the back of her head.
She was dressed in black, and she
wore a large black hat, caught up at
the side toshow her little pink ear and
the pale golden hair pushed back from
the temples.
and gloves on the sofa beside her, and
she sat there watching the clock as the
hands slowly approached 7.
A couple of young women in bril-
liant colored waists entered the room
noisily, followed by a weak -kneed gen-
tleman with fair whiskers and a bald
head. The three made for the piano
and one of the girls played an accom-
paniment, while the other sung a duet
‘with their companion, whom they call-
ed “Professor.”
Their appropriation of the instru-
ment was evidently regarded in the
light of an impertinence by a mother
and daughter who entered almost im-
mediately afterwards, and who cast
fierce looks of scorn'and astonishment
at the trio.
Just then the sound of wheels
crunching acroes the frozen snow came
to a stop outside. The girl on the sofa
gaye a nervous start, and a minute
later the door-bell pealed loudly. She
rose to meet the visitor, who was
shown into the parlor. He was a tall
man, and he wore a long overcoat and
a thick muffler, concealing the lower
part of his face. His eyes met hers in
a quick bright glance, and she mur-
mured something so indistinctly, how-
ever, that the other ladies, despite their
efforis, were unable to hear what she
said.
She caught up ber things from the
sofa and slipped past him into the long,
narrow entry that was dimly lighted
from a gas jet at the foot of the stairs.
“Those horrid people,” she muttered
with a little embarrassed laugh. They
take stock of everyone and everything.
In another ten minutes the whole
houee will have heard that Miss Rush
had a ‘gentleman’ come to take her
out, with a full description of how you
looked and what you did and didn’t
ay.
“I am glad the occurrence is so rare
as to merit remark,’ returned the man
with a grave smile and a flash of the
eye.
Mildred Rush averted her gaze
somewhat and became very much in-
terested in the fastening of her glove.
She fancied that the beating of her
heart must be audible, so fiercely did
it throb against her side. In silence
she followed him down the slippery
steps and allowed him to help her into
the cab, which still waited. He gave
a direction to the driver and then
jumped in by her side.
“Well, madam, and now that you
have conquered your scruples and giv-
en me a chance to have more than two
minutes’ conservation with you, I
should like to know why you took so
long to make up your mind, or what
caused you to change it at last 2’
“Do not ask questions if you are
wise,” she said softly. “It is enough
that I am here.
“Yes, I suppose 80, but I am anxious
about a good many things with regard
She had thrown her coat.
to you- For instance. have you never
found the selling of paint and lead
ncils day after day for—how many
years ?—somewhat monotonous ? A
girl, too, with your eyes and fig-
nre !”’ {
“My eyes may be hard to please.
Suppose that goes for a reason. Yet
I must tell you candidly that I only
let you call this evening because I am
sick and tired to death of the terrible
monotony of it all. I have no rela-
tions, no friends. I can’t make com-
panions of those women at the board-
ing house. When they are not attro-
ciously common and vulgar they are
dull to a degree, and if any nice ones
do come along they regard me with
cold euspicion becauee I am young and
nice looking and have noone to take
care of me, Ob, yes; imagine my life!
The store all day, and at night long,
solitary hours in my room, darning
stockings or patching up my clothes,
or something equally interesting.”
“You poor little thing ; vou wanted
a change, indeed! I teel flattered.
But why did you choose me—were
there no others ?”
He was laughing at her, but his
voice was gentle and very kind. He
felt sorry for her because her life had
been so colorless and empty of all that
goes to make existence bearable.
He, Lloyd Hinchliff, had admired her
now for about three years, and he had
managed to see her at the store where
she worked on an average about three
times a week, Sometimes he took her
a few flowers, which she would accept
with gratitude, but despite his endeav-
ors he had never learned her name un-
til this morning, when after many and
persistent refusals she had suddeuly
given him permission to call and take |
her out the same evening.
The cab drove out Chestnut street
beyond Broad, and then, after a few
short turnings, pulled up before a
square, illuminated door-way built out
onto the pavement.
Before Mildred could say a word her
companion had hurried her out of the
cab and behind the glass doors, then
went back to pay the man.
She followed him up a carpeted
stairway into a long saloon brilliantly
lighted, where one or two men sat
drinking at the tables. A waiter with
a big, clean shaven face, came up
smiling, and Hinchliffe spoke a few
words to him in an undertone.
“Certainly,” said the man, and
ing open a door near the top of the
stairway, be shoved them into a small
room, containing a couple of chairs, a
table aud a hat rack with along mir
ror.
When they were alone he turned
with a smile to Mildred. She had
seated herself by the table, and with
her chin resting on her hand was re-
garding him anxiously.
“What place is thie, any way ?'’
Hinchliffe laughed as at a joke.
“If I tell you that it is the renowned
O’Kinahan’s are you any the wiser 2”
“Not a degree.”
“It is just the place for a long com-
fortable chat, and that is why I
brought you here. Patsy, that fat sol-
emn cues, is a model of discretion, and
here we are absolutely free from intru-
sion. Let me help you off with your
coat.”
When he had done so, he added :
“I'm sure you are dying to fix your
hair or your bat at that mirror. Be a
true woman, and I won't make fun of
ou.” ®
Mildred laughed merrily. The
place with its brilliant lights, the good
humor of her companion, and the un-
wonted romance and strangeness of
her whole ‘adventure begun to tell up-
on her. She felt like a new crea
ture.
Just then the waiter entered with
the wine. He filled their glasses, and
retired, his countance immoble as a
spinx. —
Hinchliffe spoke. “Here's to our
everlasting good friendship, Mildred.”
He drained the glass, but she sat look-
ne somewhat askagce at the dancing
iquid.
“Drink it, drink it. It will pot
harm you. Champagne never got in-
to any one’s bead yet.”
“Seriously ?"
“Oh, yes.”
They remained their talking for a
couple of hours. Hinchliffe rang for a
second bottle. He was triumphant,
for Mildred, in a dreamy of wine and be-
wilderment bad yielded to his impor-
tunities god had admitted, not exactly
that cheYpved him, for she was too
honest, bat that she was tired of her
present existence and very far from in
different to him. He told her he was
going to Florida in a couple of days.
His lung was affected, and his physi-
cian insisted on the change.
“Come with me, and you shall never
regret it, I swear,” he whispered. “I
will make you very happy, you poor
child. TI have money. I love you,
and I will do everything to please you,
and make you love me.” The note of
passion trembled in his voice, Mildred,
seeing the great tenderness in his eyes.
beld out ber hand.
“I love you almost already,” she
said. “I think I must have cared
about you for some time. Do you re-
member one day when it was snowing
80, and you brought me some violets ?
I have them yet in my desk. Oh, yes,
take me with you if you will. I will
be your slave—anything—but take me
from that wretched life,”
“Not altogether for my sake ?"
said Hinchliffe. He rose from his
chair and went over to her, taking her
in his arms and smothering he warm
face and lips with kisses until half
suffocated she wrenched herself from
his grasp.
“It is so late, look I” She pointed,
at the clock. “I must get home.”
“Must ?”’
“Indeed, I shall be locked out.”
“Ob, Mildred, what a shame to part
80 quickly. I have said nothing to
you.” @
“A good long nothing,” she retorted,
almost angrily. Dimly, she felt that
she could never again demand from
this man the consideration of respect,
and the thought, shadowy as it was,
still wounded ber, But she was deter-
mined to go on—she had fought long
againet ber better self, and now it was
trampled under foot at last. Batter
anything thau the drudgery of the
counter again.
“Come, Hinchliffe, I must go back
at once—on Tuesday I will come to
you for good or bad, but until then—"
He caught her again in his arms.
“Just as you wish—you darling !”
As they were leaving the room a
thought struck him. “By the way,
you ought to be interested in pictures,
There is a beautiful thing here I must
show you. The face hasalwaysstruck
me as being eo like yours.”
The long saloon was empty. He
took her arm and led her to the furth-
erend. There were several pictures in
the place, but the one to which he re-
ferred was nndoubtedly the best. It
was lifesize, the figure ofa young wo-
mao with a child in her lap. The lit-
tle one was looking at a picture book,
but the eyes of the mother looked out
from the ¢anvas, mournfully beautiful
because they wore the wistful, unsee-
ing gaze of the blind.
“I think that is a fine thing,” said
Hinchliffe. “The proprietor of this
place picked it up for almost nothing
at an auction sale in New York. It
is signed Bosmer, Bosmet or some-
thing, I can’t make out. Anyhow it’s
a name I never heard.”
“It is nice enough,” said Mildred,
“only you are mistaken, I don’t like
pictures.” A violent shudder convuls-
ed her ; her eyes glared for a moment
at the blind face, then drooped, and
she turned listlessly away.
“What the deuce?’ thought Hinch-
liffe, but he made no remark.
“Let us walk back,” Mildred plead-
ed, when they reached the snowy
street. “My head is bewildered. I
wish I had not taken that wine. The
cold air will do me good.”
But Hinchliffe, who never forgot his
affected lung, would not hear of such
a thing. So Le called a cab and on
the way back to the boarding house he
spoke with much fervor of the happy
days to be spent in the South. The
future glowed to him. by comparison
with the bitterly cold night.
“And now, love, good-bye.” The
cab had reached the house and they
stood on the steps waiting for the door
to be opened.
“Fo-morrowgevening I will come tor
you again, and then we can settle all
our plans. Three nights irom now we
will be together, beneath a more chari-
table sky than this.”
Wher. Mildred reached ber attic she
threw herself upon the bed. Her soul
wandered through an intricate and
cruel wilderness of thought- Towards
morning she slept, but her dreams
pursued her like demons. Only as she
woke, with the noise of the six o’clock
whistles, she fancied that a woman’s
figure evanescent as spray, hovered for
a second by her bedside.
She dressed herself hurriedly and
wrote a couple of letters, one to the
proprietor of the store where she work-
ed, the other to Hinchliffe :
I cannot do as I said. Something
bas occurred to make it impossible,
now and forever. You have been
kind to me, and I thank you, sod I
would like you to forgive me because I
misled you. I have told them at the
store that I am sick, and that I shall
stay home for some days—by that
time you will be in Florida. If yon
come here, I will not see you—if you
write, I will burn your letters unread.
Please do not think it is on account of
anything you have said or dome. I
cannot give you my reason. If this
thing had never happened, and I had
gone to Florida with you, I am sure
I would have come to love you very
dearly indeed ; but what is the use of
telling you that ? Itis impossible, so
good-bye for all time.
M. R.
cn
She slipped on ber wrapper and
crept along the entry to the head of
the stairs: Dowu in the hall Sally
was sweeping with a great clatter of
dust-pan and whisk. Mildred called
to her, “Sally, can you come up herea
minute ?”’ :
When the woman, fat and grumb-
ling somewhat at being disturbed at
work, had made the ascent of the
etairs. Mildred banded her the letters
and a dollar bill,
“Get these oft for me as soon as you
can, and put a special delivery stamp
on this one—never "ind the change.
And, Sally, I am sics. I am not going
to work to-day, and if anyone should
call, I cannot and will not see them. I
am going back to bed, I feel so
wretched.”
The woman took the money and
the letters and went down stairs with a
curious smile on her black face.
Mildred heard no word of her lover
for the ensuing three days, and al-
though she felt it a relief, she was at
the same time much chagrined at find-
ing that her decision was accepted so
unhesitatingly.
Had she known the truth, he was
cut to the quick. Balked is his love,
cooly thrown over by the girl whom he
had. deemed conquered, disappoint.
ment and anger rioted in his heart.
But care for his health predominated
aud he departed tor the South in soli:
tary displeasure, cursing the race of
woman, :
And for Mildred, existence went on
a8 drearily as before. She never saw
Hinchliffe again.
Late in the spring after he returned
home assured that his infatuation for
her was dead, the scent of some violets
which a street urchin was hawking
brought back to him what she had
said about the flowers he once gave
her. Seized by,a sudden irresistible
impulse, he bought a couple of the
: fragrant bunches. A few steps took
'him to the art store and he bastily
pushed the glass door open and enter-
ed. The proprietor himself was stand-
ing behind the counter, and at the far
end of the store a young lady, w. was
not Mildred, was dusting some . sock.
‘The man~smiled obsequiously a. his
customer, and Hinchliffe, a little taken
aback, asked to see some sketch
books. He fingered them at random,
elected one, and then, after a minute's
hesitation, asked for Mildred. The
man looked up quickly, his face
sombre.
“She is dead—died last night of ty-
phoid. I thought I recognized you
when vou came in, You used to run
after her bere, I remember.”
His words and his tone were brutal,
but Hinchliffe could not resent them.
“Yes, I cared very much for ber,”
he said in a low voice. “It is very hard
for me to realize such a cruel thing.”
“Yes, it's true enough, poor child,”
said the man. “The old story—
strength gave out, all run down. It’s
upset me enough, I can tell you. Such
a nice creature about the place asshe
was. Quite a lady, too. She came
to me when her grandfather died—her
own father was a devil of a bad lot—
aod asked for a job here. You see I
koew the family.
her mother, who was blind as a bat,
and only lived for a year after—poor
goul | The old man didn’t leave a
penny. An artist, and, I guess, sold
precious few pictures”
“What was his name,” asked
Hinchliffe, holding his breath hard.
‘‘Bosmer—Henry Bosmer.”
Hinchliffe was silent. He paid for
the bod and walked out, leaving it on
the counter.
It was a lovely morning and the
street was full of pretty women in
spring toilettes, flitting from store to
store, and exchanging greetings with
their friends. But for all that Hinch-
liffe noticed he might have been won-
dering over a desert. He felt strange-
y upset aod regrettul. Poor little
girl, no wonder she had been shock-
ed. What fateful impulse had induec-
ed him to show her that picture ?
His thought rambled into the past and
he wished things had happened differ-
erently. Perhaps.
What use in dreaming ? Mildred
was dead and it was best so after all.
He turned into a florist’s and bought
a buge maes of white flowers ; then,
hailing a cab, had himself driven to
the boarding house and the colored
woman who opened the door was
hauded a piece of silver and the
flowers.
“For the funeral.”
Pilgrinis to the Holy Land.
A Band of Christians Who Will Worship at the
Holy Land.
Jerusalem is the Mecca of seventy-
two pilgrims who arrived in Philadel-
phia, on Saturday morning, on a Penn-
sylvania railroad train from Chicago
and in the afternoon sailed on the
steamship Waesland, of the Interna.
tional navigation company, for Liver-
pool. When the pilgrims arrive at
Liverpool they will be transferred to
the steamer Rameses, which will con-
vey them to Jaffa. They are scheduled
to arrive at Jaffa on April 7, and to
take a train for Jerusalem, where they
will be met by a coleny known as
“The Americans.”
The pilgrims were a peculiar looking
band as they were huddled together in
the immigrant station at the foot of
Washington street before the Waesland
sailed. All the goods they possessed
were in trunks and in bundles. They
were mostly from the farming districts
of Minnesota and Southern Wisconsin
and refused tospeak about their pil-
grimnage.
An accompanying party was Wil-
liam J. Ruddy, who claimed he bad
$20,000 in cash belonging to the pil-
grims. Ruddy refused to divulge their
plane. Mrs. Aona Spofford, an elder-
ly woman, with a sad-looking face,
will have charge of the party after it
lands. She wag not verv communica-
tive. She said: “Our mission is to
lead a religious life. Christ died on
the ground near where we propose to
make our permanent home, and there
we can worship surrounded by the
beautiful scenes which greeted the
eyes of the earlier christians. We do
not belong to any fixed religious de
nomination, but we will simply follow
the doctrine of the Bible. We will
hold joint meetings every day, and by
doing this we expect to make a good
impression on those nearest to us.”
Am Historical Ready Reckoner.
Here is an easy way to ascertain
any day of the week for any event in
the past from 1753 up to this year:
Take the difference between the
given and current year, divide by 4,
multiply the quotient by 5, and divide
this product by 7. She remainder, if
any, will indicate the days to count
back from the day of the week oun
which the given event is. marked in
the current almanac.
Should there be any years over from
the first operation, add 1 to this num-
ber, and this will represent so many
more days to reckon back.
But if the date given is in January
or February, the one day extra is not
to be added.
The battle of Waterloo, June 18,
1815 :
1896
1815
4) 81
20 1 over
5
7) 100
nip
14 2 over
3 plusl = 4,
June 18 is marked for 1896 on a
Thursday ; four days back is on a
Sunday.—St. James Gazette.
—— Bicyclists must first learn to ride
fairly well before they are allowed to
use their wheels in the public streets of
Russian cities.
_but soft light of an Italian moon floods
She had to support |
The Duke’s Vendetta.
Chapter I.—Over the scene hangs a !
deep star-studded sky,
It is midnight inVenice. |
On the balcony of a magnificent :
ducal palace on the waters of the Adri- |
atic sits the Countess Ginccioli. By her ,
side is Pete Skidmore, the talented |
young American painter. The brilliant
the marble steps of the palace, and the
crystal sea where shadowy gondolas
wind in and out like the mazy figures
in some half-remembered dream.
“Do you love me ?”’ asks the countess
in low, overripe tones.
““Kasy,” says Pete, kissing her jewel- |
led hands.
As he speaks a black-gondola glides
past, and something is thrown and falls
at the feet of the countess.
“Corpo di Bacchio !”’ she exclaims.
“Jt is a vendetta I”
“Is it ?” says Pete.
looked like a potato.”
The gondola glides past again, and
some one in it hisses some words in
Italian through his clenched teeth.
“That must be a steamboat,” says
Pete, “and the escape valve is out of
order.”
“It is the Duke Rivoli,” says the
countess. ‘‘He loves me to distraction.
You must fly.”
“Why 7”
“He has declared a “vendetta.”
“What's that? Anything like a
“I thought it
dividend ?”
“Do not jest. Fly, oh, fly, ere it is
too late. One kiss, and then farewell.”
As Pete Skidmore kisses the countess
another prolonged hissing sound comes
from the gondola. Pete looks up at the
summit of Mount Vesuvius in the dis-
tance.
“Sounds like we are going to have
another eruption,” he mutters to him-
self. “I wonder the Cuticura people
haven’t caught on oyer here.”
Peto then puts on his shoes and vest,
and goes So to the palace where he
boards.
Chapter II.--1t was twenty minutes
to 6 o’clock in Texas.
Pete Skidmore has finished his art
studles in Venice and has returned to
Houston. He has arisen early, and to
oblige an old friend, is painting a barn
a dark red color for $4, one-half in ad-
vance.
He often sighs when he thinks of
Venice and the dapk, languishing eyes
of the Counte inccoli, and through
his head runs the refrain of a song she
used to ging . :
‘‘Barcipa seita muppa ganon me.”
Suddenly the ladder is jerked from
under him and he falls into a bucket of
paint.
He colors quickly and rises to his feet.
The Dukede Rivoli stands before
him.
“Zis ees ze vendetta to ze death |”
hisses the duke between his clenched
teeth. “I have come to keel you.”
“What for ? asks Pete.
“R.-r-r-r-r-evenge |’’ says the duke. -
“Fer what?’ asks Pete.
“1 married ze countess.”
* * # % *
Moonlight on the Adriatic.
The Duchess Rivoli, nee Ginccioli,
waits upon the balcony. A gondola
glides to the steps and the Duke de
Rivoli springs out.
The duchess hastens to meet Lim.
“Did you kill him ?’’ she whispers.
“I did not.”
“What! Did you fail in your mis-
sion ? Is it possible that a . Rivoli could
declare a vendetta and then let it go to
protest ?”’
‘Peace, Fiametta,”” says the dude.
“I do not deserve your reproacha.’’
“What did you do to him ?”
“I left him running a weekly news-
paper in Texas.”
The duchess sinks down, covers her
face with her hands and shudders vio-
lently. :
‘Ob, Luigi!” she sobs. ‘‘Revenge is
all right, but was there any need to be
$0 inhuman? You should bave killed : has a variety of the coat-waist which is
- longer on the hips than at the front and
. back.
bhim.”—Houston Post.
A Good Story.
Her Request Startled the Modest Conductor.
Mrs. —, a lady who has spent a
number of years in Paris, came to Phila-
delphia recently on a visit.
People who have lived abroad for
long periods realize more than others
how unfamiliar certain phrases and cus.
toms seem.
Mrs. —— had been used to the term
‘“‘correspondence,” used in Paris for
transferring on the omnibuses and tram-.
ways, but our term ‘transfer,’ like
Chaucer’s abbess, ‘‘was to her un}
known.”
She had been directed by some friends
how to reach their house by a certain
street car line, and where she should
change cars. She remembered the
name of the street, but she did not re-
member the name of the act. When
she heard the street called, she rose
hurriedly and went to the conductor.
“I want a correspondence,’ said - she.
“What’s that, mum ?’’ said the con-
ductor.
“I want a correspondence,” she re-
peated.
‘Look here, lady,” said the conduec-
tor, stiffly drawing himself up, “I'm a
married man, and I don’t do no mash-
mm.” I want you to understan’ tirat you
don’t git no mash notes from me. See ?
Change fur Old York road and Jenkin-
town. Let them people out there !
Cling-cling !”
And the car rolled on.
New Use For Corncobs.
Frank Shafer took to Dacon, Ill,
recently, a sample of syrup which a
number of experts pronounced genuine
maple syrup. It was nothing more or
Jese than_ corncob syrup, made as fol-
lows: Twelve clean corncobs were
put in a gallon of water and boiled
until soft. Then the juice was strain-
ed off and a-gallon of dark brown sugar
solution added. This is boiled a little
while, resulting in a fine quality of
syrup, bardly distinguishable from the
maple product.
She—**Don’t you think that the best
time to approach a man is after a
hearty meal ?”
He—"“Not neceesarily. If you come
before, he may invite you to join him,”
For and About Women .
Women iz Holland are employed as
watchers at the railway crossings, and
no accident has ever occurred through a
woman’s carelessness.
Swell tailors who have a large trade
in women’s gowns are making up many
| very pronounced check suitings,
The fashionable baby girl will wear
& pique coat this summer, and a very
stylish, jaunty little garment it will be.
These little coats are already appearing
in the shops and are seen in pink, pale
blue, ecru and yellow. The prettiest
have deep sailor collars and gauntlet
cuffs of embroidery. The newest white
pique coats have the collars and cuffs in
grass linen embroidery.
A change to be noted is that the cuffs
are deep and turned back from the
wrist with either square or rounded cor-
ners ; collars and cuffs of white linen
are chic in some instances the ribbon
neckband is substituted for the collar.
You will never be in good health and
never do your best work if your feet are
constantly cold. Grave diseases of the
throat and lungs are caused by cold feet
alone, and these troubles are always
aggravated by a frigid condition of the
lower extremities. If proper footwear
does not give relief, consult a physician,
for the chances are the system is ‘run
down’ and radical measures are neces-
sary. For cold weather, leather should
always be lined with woolen cloth, or,
better, wool felt. In fact, for all cold
climates and for winter wear in all cli-
mates where there is any winter a foot-
gear made of all-wool felt approaches
the ideal.
A despairing plump woman once said
tome: ‘All the fashions are made for
you thin people. "We who are inclined
to embonpoint fare hardly indeed.” In
many cases 1 fear this conclusion is ar-
rived at because our heavy-weight sister
does not know how to dress. She is toc
often a patron of the huge boss, two
yards long and of gross thickness, a pur-
chaser of plethorie shopping or chaste-
laine bags that hang at the belt as if to
weigh their wearer down, a buyer of
large hats over-trimmed with feathers,
etc. All these adjuncts emphasize her
weight. A stout wowan cannot wear
too plain clothing. In no color does
she appear so well as in black, but even
this must not be black satin, essentially
a material for the slender. “Huge hats
are not for her, nor double-breasted
eoats, large ruchings, heavy stock col-
lars, nor much bodice trimming. She
will also do well to avoid bulky lingerie
and jewelry. Rough cloths will increase
her apparent size, and horizontal lines
will make her appear shorter. But
there are many pretty things she can
4
Wear. |
Gloves, if soiled and buttonless, speak
"plainly as words the word ‘‘slovenly,”
which if cleaned with a bit of gasoline
and repaired would give many days of
wear. And old hat carefully cleaned of
dust can be disguised by a fresh veil ;
thus a whole turnout, though it has seen
its best days, need not chronicle the
fact to the casual observer.
Vaseline, a cheup article is a wonder-
derfully good dressing for women’s
shoes. Rub plenty of it into the shoes,
let it stand awhile and then polish off
with a clean cloth. Shoes treated to
this dressing will last and look new in-
finitely longer than neglected footwear.
On removing the skirt brush all soil
and dust from the folds with a good
whiep, turn the garment and hang it up
by two loops that should be sewn to the
belt, and the garment will repay the
trouble by keeping its fresh appearance
indefinitely.
A blue and black-figured taffeta gown
The upper part of the front is
cut away, leaving a sort of pointed cor-
selet, from which bretelles start up-
wards and meet in a knot with similar
bretelles at the back. The space en-
closed is covered with cream guipure
over blue silk.
Have you ever noticed how few
women walk well ? Nowadays, when
the streets are full of all sorts aud con-
ditions of women, you have a good
chance to watch thé varieties of gait.
Very few walk gracefully. One gives
you the idea her feet are too heavy, so
unelastic is ber tread ; another walks as
if she was pursued. Yet another walks
as if every step would jolt her to pieces,
and there are some students of Delsarte
who are thinking all the time just how
they must do it, and the result is an af-
fectation worse than any awkwardness.
French woraen have a special style of
walking, pretty enough in its way, and
which makes their dresses hang better
than they do in America. They throw
their whole bodies forward, keeping
them quite erect all the while, so that
a line dropped from -the chin would
touch the bosom and then fall sheer to
the toes. The difference is so marked
that American women are known at
once in Paris. Most of the girls who
stay long enough in Paris, however,
adapt themselves to-the French manner.
It is strange that women doesn’t
realize that it is her mission to be grace-
ful. We cannot all be pretty ; but the
charm of grace even more potent than
that of beauty, can be acquired by any
one who will take the trouble. = Why
should any woman be willing to make
herself ridiculow®? If you want to walk
well, hold yourself erect ; don’t throw
your shoulders back, though you have
probably often heard that piece of er-
roneous advice. Just keep them in a
natural position Don’t put your toes
down first, like a dancing master, but
try to make both heel and ball of the
foot touch the ground at once. Hold
your body firmly, your head up, your
chin in, and walk a great deal with
these things in mind.
“High and higher” is apparently the
watchward of collars ; they are already
stiffened with whalebone, so that they
bury the head within all imaginable
kinds of material--laces, ribbons, feath-
ers.