set’ in Stedwell.
“elient upon a lease : but he knew
= ! ois .
3 succession as her mood changed ina he-
emorralic witching, fanciful way ? or could it he her
J voice, so full of melodious inflections, at!
: times 50 piteous and again so utterly weary,
Bellefonte, Pa., April 17. 1896. c were questions which Edgar Thring asked
himself many times ; yet heé could give no
answer to them. All he knew was that he
loved her, as man can love but once :
to him there was no heaven save in her
eyes, no music save in her voice, no. grace
nor beauty save in her every trivial action.
THE CROWN OF FAILURE.
When your leive lived your life,
When yon have fonght your st good tight ld
won,
And the day's work is finished, and the sun
Sets on the darkening world and sl its strife- tated on his, they met opposite the decay-
Ere the worn hands are tired with a1 they've ing, tottering, toiling old mill many times
done, —And the picture progressed but slowly.
ire the mind's strength begins to droop and and the trout, reveling in their freedom,
wine. were caught—not all.
Ere the first touch of sleep has dulled the hain, One day the fisherman was at his post,
armed with a book of flies, his rod, line and
basket, disconsolately flicking the sleepy
waters. for Gladys Grey had not come to
put the long-delayed finishing touches to
her sketch of the old mill. She had told
him upon the previous evening when they
had parted at her garden gate. that she
re the heart's springs are slow sind running dry-
When vou have lived your lite,
TTwere good to die,
LEE may not he so,
i you but fight a fight you nay not win :
Nee the far gos! hut way not enier i
T"were better then to die and not to know
Defeat —to dic amidst the wash and din, 3
but still she came not.
morrow as usual :
: “ Can anything he the
Is she ill»
{matter © =
= —=Qomething
said to himself, uneasily : and his glance
continually wandered to the broken hur-
dles at the entrance to the meadow, through
which she must pass.
He looked at his watch.
hour behind her usual time.
“Iwill wait another ten minutes,” he
muttered, *‘and then—then I will go to her
house and find out what is the matter.”
Perhaps, until this moment—the first
Still striving, while the heart beats high and fast
With glorious lite, If yon must fail at last,
Such end were hest with all vane hope and all
Your spirit in its yonth
Then, when You (alll
[Far better so to dic,
Still toiling upward throngh the mists obscure,
With all things possible and nothing <ure. She was an
Tham to he touched hy glory and passed by,
Fo win, by chance, fame that may not endure,
That dies and leaves you living, while you strive
With wasted breath to Keep its thane alive
And fan, with empty boast and proad regrets,
Remembrance ofa
The world forgets,
— A. Ni J
not fully realized how deeply and honestly
he loved her : how much the dear face, the
dear voice and presence were to him, and
how slender was the tie—if tic there was at
all—which hound her to him.
She had come to the little country town, “What do I know of her—of her past
Stedwell, in the autumn of the previous | life? he asked himself. And his lips
year, when the apples were falling in ved ! framed the answer, as a chill scemed to
and golden showers in the orchards : the strike upon his heart-— nothing, absolute-
sickle had already laid low the yellow corn | ly nothing!" :
crops, and the leaves upon the elms, both | * A fish rose. nibbled at the angler's
young and old, were changing under the © Wickham’s Fancy,” fought shy. and es-
-ouch of annual mortality—from the cheer- caped unheeded. : :
ful green of youth to the sad brown of their | “She must know that
Vdeock in Chaube os" Jour al,
GELADY'S GREY ; A PASTORAL.
I love her,” he
lastdays, ere the relentless winds would | continued, following up his train of thought. |
sweep across them driving them hither and | “She cannot possibly have been playing
thither until they found a sequestered with me. * passing the time, making |
gave in the hollows of the land. : fa © = Oh! God. No! Iam acad, dirty, |
No one knew of Gladys Grey's past— despicable cad to even think such a thing
Mis. Grey, she styled herself—who she was of her.
or whence she came. That she was a lady woman
could not he doubted : hut she was ex- Another fish rose, took a hite at the fly,
ceedingly reticent about herself and her and. with a sharp struggle shaking itself
friends, for assuredly she must have had free, disappeared again. The water bubbled
some prior to taking up her abode in the slightly, and a few circles gradually in-
little ivy-clad cottage at the corner of High creased in size until they touched either
street—and if any of the more inquisitive | hank. and the surface of the stream be-
inhabitants attempted to elicit information came once more as smooth as a sheet of
from her, and to pry into her private af- | glass. But the fisher scarcely heeded the
fairs, she drew herself within her shell and
answered them coldly, a certain haughty © movement of the veel. A
grace accompanying her speech withal. impending sorrow, a
vague sense of
forerunner of the
She had something to conceal. some past | death of hope, the loss to him of this wo-
action—some sin—that would not bear the man. of all that made life
light of day ; and she had come to this irve- seized upon him.
proachable town to hide from the world The ten minutes had slipped away. Yet
and the tongues of those who knew her and nao sign of her for whom he waited.
her disgrace. So said the good, respectable | He put up his tackle, hurriedly. care-
worth living,
and philanthropic ladies of Stedwell-on<the- lessly. Then he strode rapidly across the
Sted. field.
A jury of matrons met together shortly Upon reaching the town. he walked
after Gladys Grey's arrival in their midst, © straight up to the high street, never halt-
at afternoon tea in Mix. Padder’s best | ing until he stood opposite Gladys Grey's
drawing room, and after listening to all | Jittle garden. He pulled the bell violently,
the hearsay evidence against the unwitting as though he had come on a matter of life
absent prisoner. Mrs. Pander summed ap, | and death. A neat, white-capped little
condemning Gladys Grey, and—uwithout | maid opened the door. and tripped lightly
etiving—the jury gave a verdict of *tun- + down the flag-stones.
desirable acquaintance for us, and more es- is Myst, Grey fill =
pecially for our daughters.’” Thus it came **No, sir.
about that Gladys Grey was left severely Is she at home 27
alone, than which nothing could have het- “No, not at home. sir.”
ter pleased her. of “Would vou tell her that 1 called 27°
Yet there was on¢ man within the town Ves, sir.’
with whom she sas more friendly, whom, He turned to go. An oath struggled to
she permitted to constantly visit her. This his lips. His glance had fallen upon the
was Edgar Thring, the solicitor—a desir- little drawing room window. He had seen
able match for the daughters of the “hest her” standing within the voom, her hack
It was through him that to the light. Blindly, as one who has in-
Gladys Grey's own London solicitor had se- dulged too freely in strong liquors, he
cured the little ivy-clad cottage for his made his way homeward.
nothing «He had thought that he was privileged
of her past, he was like the remainder of to call at any time. Besides, she had prom-
Stedwell in that respect, save that he never ised to meet him at the old spot opposite
sought to obtain her confidence : for he saw the mill : and she had not come : neither
that the matter was distasteful to her. and had she sent a word of explanation to him
never broached it. hy the maid. She had fooled him to the top
Notwithstanding they became fivm friends of his bent. and now—now ! Bah Per-
—although she learned nearly all his pri- haps he was making a mountain of a mole
vate affairs, and hers were as a sealed hook hill.
to him. row and she would explain itall away. And
Swnmer, with its dusty roadways, its the look of paini unutterable, which had
pn
he asked.
hot days and its breathless hights, had al- found lodgment in his eyes, slowly left his |
face. He had decided. He would call on the
most worn itself away. Gladys Grey had
been an inhabitant of Stedwell for nearly a morrow. and she
year, and her friendship with Edgar Thring all away.
had gone on steadily increasing, week hy And for three successive afternoons he
week, month in and month out. put in an appearance at the little ivy-clad
Edgar Thring made a discovery. Mis,
irey had a taste for watercolor sketching, answer, “Mix. Grey is quid well, but not
He, thereupon. found little difficulty in at home.” -
persuading her that the old mill upon the “Then on the following day, he sat down
Sted, with the thickly. wooded hills in the aud put pen topaper. to write to her for
back ground, formed one of the most pic- the fist inl He laid bare his whole soul
turesque pieces of scenery formiles around. to her, upon the scrap of paper. He told
He, himself, was exceedingly fond of trout ' her evervthing—that he loved her more
fishing—the Sted was renowned for trout— ' than life itself. That without her presence.
and nothing could be more natural than for” living in this
him to follow the bent of his inclination hy | had suffered the agonies of a lifetime. That
strolling along the winding, rush-grown = he must and would see her face to face, the
hank, whipping the stream leisurely, until; next day. Then he signed it. “Yours till
he came across aslight figure seated upon a death, Edgar Thring.” and posted it with
camp stool—busily plying her brush— his own hands.
amongst the reeds and rivewside grasses. A tiny note, ‘one of the crcamiest of
Then it so happened that the angler disx-' creamlaid note paper. was left at his office
covered how perfect a spot it was for sport, hy a messenger that evening, He opened
and would stop there—neglecting his legal | it with trembling fingers ; but his teeth
business—until the sun appeared to sink, a were hard set, and his eves—although glis-
golden hall of fire, behind the hills of the | tening, unnaturally brilliant—wore a firm, |
steeled
far west ; the gray evening shadows slow- ! oteniyag expression. He had
He was
ly, almost imperceptibly, crept across the himself forffwhatever might hefall.
valley ; the twilight deepened ; the damp | prepared for anything.
mists hung like a shroud above the surface This is what he read :
of the silent stream ; the huge mill-wheel © “Come to-morrow afternoon at
ceased its drowsy revolutions, the wooden o'clock.”
structure gradually dimming to the sight, © Nothing more. No heading to the paper.
yet still looming out faintly against the | No signature.
distant hills, a gaunt spectacle, as some-' Yet he knew full well from whence it
thing shadowy and long forgotten, and the | came. The handwriting was shaky—as if
shy water-shrew came forth from its hiding | the writer had heen laboring under some
three
place—a tiny subterranean passage beneath strong emotion—although graceful and |
the bank—glancing timidly this way and somewhat uncommon ; and the last word |
that, eve diving to the river's pebbly bed : was blurred over hy a cicular mark into
and then—although his fisherman’s basket which the ink had run pale.
might be empty, although perchance not a It was the imprint of a tear. Had she
solitary trout had risen, although he would ' wept for him. for hewself, or for them
not have observed it had one done so— hoth ? . ’
Edgar Thring told himself that he had had Unseen, he raised the paper to his lips
a good day, and that he must take Yet cand held them for a moment against the
another holiday and come on the morrow. blurred spot. Then he folded it up and
And so they two walked slowly home- placed it reverently in his pocketbook.
ward, across the green fields together. Later he walked to his private residence
Surely never was fairer picture than they with his wonted light step, which had fail-
made, alone in that fair wilderness ! ed him for the past three days and some-
Gladys Grey was beautiful. Yet hers how he kept mentally repeating : ‘Come
was an indescrible beauty. Did her blue | to-morrow, ‘‘Come to-morrow,’ as though
eyes lend that charm to her whole face— | there was exquisite music in the words ;
that strange mingling of hauteur and ten- and the sky seemed to him to he much
derness, sweetness and severity—that grace- | clearer, upon that autumn evening, than it
ful sadness to her every look and gesture ? | had been for ‘many a long day ; and the
or was it her sensitive mouth that appealed nightingale in the shrubbery burst forth
to one as so lovely, yet so very uncertain, | into melody. ‘‘link’d sweetness,
like an April day ? or was it due to those | drawn out,” as Edgar Thring strolled up
richly glowing cheeks, over which the dif- | and down betwixt the rose trees in his gar-
ferent shades chased one another in guick ' den—surely it had not sung since last he
L
which beautitied the whole woman? These |
that |
Thus, unsought on her part, premedi-
would he there hy the river side on the |
must have occurred,” he
time she had failed to meet him—he had |
She—so0 pure, so good. so true a!
sudden jerk upon his wrist, nol noted the
He would call upon her on the mor- |
—she would explain it
cottage. each time meeting with the same =
uncertainty, this doubt, he
long :
saw Gladys Greyv—and when night had
spread its dark mantle over all he went in-
doors and prepared some flies for the fu-
ing it ready for any suddenscall upon it, as
want of use for many months past, instead
row,” “Come to-morrow.’
Punctually at the appointed time [d-
gar Thring was ushered into Mix. Grey's
dainty little drawing room. She was stand-
ing by a table, her long, slender fingers |
toying nervously with a paper knife. Her
face was white and waxen-looking as the
purest alabaster, and might have been
fashioned from it, so «till, so immovable
swans every feature ; but her bosom rose and
fell, like the turmoil in the breast of a
slumbering sea. “over which the cruel tem-
pest suddenly swept.
For a moment he hesitated. standing in
the doorway. Then he advanced with out-
stretched hands.
“I have come, Gladys.” he said.
She turned and faced him fully. For
the first time he noted the change that had
taken place in her since last he set eves
upon her lovely face.
cled the worn, weary eves : the mouth was
drawn at the corners. with pain, mute
“agony, and the utter hopelessness of de-
spair ; her beautiful dark-brown hair hung
in a tangled mass about her shoulders, as
though she had lost the energy, the heart
to dress it, and the dimpled cheeks had
crown pinched and. wan in those few days.
“Gladys! Gladys! Oh,my God! Tell
me—tell me what has happened.’
His voice sounded strange in his own
Tears. Involuntarily he recoiled.
“I have to ask your forgiveness—'" she
began, in a low, hard tone.
“I have forgiven that
broke in.
- He alluded, in his ignorance. to the fact
i that she would not see him during the past
few days.
“No, no," she said, shaking her head,
wearily, and motioning away his proffered
hand. “No. it is something else. 1 never
thought, or I would not think, how badly
I was treating vou. until-—until he came.
and-—""
“He! He! Whois he?!
Edgar Thring almost shouted the last
word. 1is eyes flashed, he clenched and
unclenched his fists, as one who can scarce
control himself.
SAR God is my judge, T did not think
vou meant—meant amything,”” she con-
tinued : “hut when I got that letter, I saw
it all—saw that I had done wrong, very
"wrong—saw that 1 ought to have told you
long ago.’ he
that I was married. that my husband was.
alive.”
SMarded'! Alive! | thought — |
Shought”—words failed him, he staggered
back with half-closed eves, his brain reel-
ing, like i man who has heen struck upon
i the face.
He leaned against the wall. exeing her
almost incredulously.
Then she went on speaking in a low
monotone, like a little child repeating a
lesson, :
“He isa erviminal ; that i why I have
never spoken of him. His name is Bar-
Cgrave—that is my real name, not Grey—
he avas manager of the hank, and falsified |
He was sentenced to ten years’
I dare say vou may re-
the hooks.
| penal servitude.
member the case : and then the other day |
| —the day on which I did not meet you—
‘he came here. He is here now.
{ have allowed him out—out of prison—
“upon a ticket of leave.”
Her hand was pressed tightly against her
heart, as though to stay its throbbing.
Her blue eves wore the look of a hunted
animal, an animal that had been
down—down to its death—and was endur-
ing the tortures of its final worrying.
“Can you forgive me?” she asked. and
the sound of her voice was like a long, low
cry of pain.
Hix head hung down.
ered it, more and more, until at
"head fell into his hands. He was dazed,
stupetied. like one awakening from a
dream.
Still he made no answer.
“Can you forgive me?” she repeated
softly, turning her great sad eyes upon his
bended head. Unwittingly he was trying
her feeble strength too far. He did not
see that he must answer soon, or his voice
would fall upon ears that heard not.
She tried, vainly to plead with him
ain, and. failing, shivered from head to
foot, a dry, helpless sob escaping her pal-
lid lips.
A Jeng silence.
“sad” suddenly. in a husky tone :
Ais head and drawing himself up to his full
height. “I came this afternoon ready to
throw myself down on my knees and kiss
our feet. * I believed in
: I thought you one of the truest
Slowly he lTow-
women that ever breathed God's air.
“I would have died for you gladly.
©“ But you—you have deceived me.
Would it not have heen better to
“have heen honest with me? Did
vou think it fun to play with me? Eo
I loved you, in spite of all that Stedwell
might say of voy. = # # ] peyep
sought your confidence : but vou should
“have given it to -me.
now—now—when it is too late.
{-I loved you, Gladys. = = *
me. [I love you still.
God help
She put up her arm across her eves, as |
| though to ward off a blow.
Edgar! I cannot bear it.”
He ceased as suddenly as he had com-
“Stop! Stop,
menced, and stood before her, his breath |
coming and going in quick, short gasps.
The mention of his name, upon those
i dear lips, seemed to calm him for a mo-
ment. A little latter he went on :
“You want me to forgive you ! It seems
to me that you have something to bear,
ftoo. Yes! 1 forgive you, Gladys, from
the bottom of my heart.” His voice sank
almost to a whisper. The sudden revul-
sion of feeling had proved well nigh too
much for him. His face sank again into
"his hands and rested there.
Once more he lifted up his head and
looked upon her pallid face. ‘Gladys, if
you had met me before—if you had not
married him—if he had died in prison— |
would you—would you—-?""
She checked his mad words with a gest- |
ure. ‘You have no such
things,’ she said.
“No! no right!" He laughed bitterly.
Then for one fleeting moment their cyes
met, and in hers he read the answer that
“her lips would not tell him. He
then that she loved him.
The door-handle rattled.
i the occupants of the room heard it.
door itself was slowly pushed ajar.
It was Bargrave, her husband, who stood
without. oe
I Something, a sound caused him to draw
he door to again. It was an unusual, a
| heart-breaking sound—that of a man sob-
| hing. .
Gladys sank, unconscious, into a chair.
| The icy band that had held her senses fast
I had suddenly given away.
Striving to calm himself hy an effort of
right to ask
Yet neither of
The
ture fishing, overhauling his tackle, mak-
though the different parts had been put hy |
jand had become tangled and rvusted for
Dark rings encir-
They
hounded |
last his ©
Then— Listen hel
ising
you— |
You have done so |
knew |
fwill power. Edward Thring advanced to
where she half lay. half sat. huddled, as
she had fallen. His face was distorted, the
pupils of his eyes seemed to have grown.
He stooped down and kissed her hetween
the eyves—a long, sweet Kiss. Then he
the house, down the flagged pathway into |
The black rain clouds chased one anoth-
cr in quick succession across the darkened |
‘sky. The pale moon now and again glane-
ing fitfully between the fleeting, sullen
masses of vapor. The stars were entirely
Lobscured. At intervals vivid
lightning lit up the sky. No sound could
be heard save the groaning and gurgling of
the Sted, the moaning wind, the swishing
of the rain and the creaking of the old mill,
which exhibited signs of heing wrecked en-
tirely by the forces of the gale and rushing
current.
Edgar Thring, heedless of the elements,
made his way leisurely in the direction of
the mill. He could not sleep, he could not
stop at home on such a night : and, move-
over, something seemed to impel him to-
ward that bight in the river side. where
the waters lay undisturbed hy the mill
wheel, where he had played at catching
trout, and she had deftly plied her patient |
brush, and where both of them had learned
to love.
A lightning flash “illuminated the
and sky. He saw the broken hurdles
straight before him, His mind conjured
up a vision of her,”” passing through them,
smiling, beautiful, as in the old days, with
her drawing block and camp stool under
her arm. Then followed the deep. ramb-
ling thunder peal.
The rain fell in torrents, the wind whis-
tled and sighed ; but still he plodded on,
almost finding something congenial. suita-
ble to his frame of mind, in the wildness of
the night. At length he reached the river's
bank, where the long reeds collided one
with another with the violence of crossing
cutlasses.
He walked along the hank, following the
curves and sudden bends, fearlessly, reck-
lessly, with only the livid whiteness of the
foam-tlecked viver to guide him. And it
seemed to him the whiteness of death.
Another flash of lightning lit up the
scene from the zenith to the horizon. fe
saw the old mill, standing out gaunt and
gray to his right. And once again his fan-
cy played strange tricks with his vision :
he thought he saw ‘her’ frail, girlish fig-
ure to the left, seated upon the camp stool
near the water's edge, as in the past,
sketching the scene before her. Once
ain came a loud thunder crash.
Then darkness, inky darkness, prevailed
again, and he sew nothing but the troub-
led waters washing by his feet, heard noth-
ting but the shriek of the tempest and the
deafening plash of the rain. Yet he dog-
gedly went forward, without any purpose,
save that of standing where Gladys and
himself had so often stood. on the brink of
that tiny hay.
Another flash of lightning. He stood
immediately opposite the little bay. with
the old mill in the background. He
started back with blanched cheeks and star-
ing eves as the thin, electrie streak ran
with velocity through the air, rendering
the scene as light as day.
What fearful trickery was this? What
| ghastly power was at work to fool his eye-
‘sight thus? His mind must have heen
wandering-—yet he had seen it! A
sweat broke out upon his brow.
The thunder boomed with the strength
of 40,000 guns, above his dazed, terror
stricken head.
Beneath his feet in that brief moment he
had seen a human form. clad in
| soaking drapery—a human face, white with
the pallid hue of death. turned upwards to
the sky—the eves fixed, glassy, staring yet
sightless—the form. face and exes of Gladys
Grey. -
He stepped down the frank into the shal-
low water, and. bending over the spot
where he thought he had seen this drowned
object, groped about blindly with his
"hands. Phey touched something—a damp
piece of muslin : another movement and
his Hand clasped a tiny cold, clammy one.
It was the hand of the dead.
A piercing shriek rang through the air,
outsounding the roar of the wind and the
angry voice of the rushing flood. He
dropped those icy fingers as though they
froze his own. Then he walked on, on,
until the waters reached to his waist, his
shoulders and surged above his head.
And in the hush of the morning the mil-
ler found two corpses amongst the rushes
in the shallow bight : and their shroud was
the saffron of the dawn. and the river sadly
sang their requiem. d
ay
ag
Wild Horses.
When President Cleveland
in 1892, with an unwieldy Democratic ma-
jority in the House of Representatives, his
defeated opponent found grim satisfaction
in predicting the troubles ahead in manag-
ing the wild horses to whom he likened the
unfledged lawmakers of the Democracy.
The Harrisonian prophecy was more than
fulfilled. There was trouble, indeed : and
not much else. What good might have
been accomplished by the neophyths in the
House was balked and baffled by the hell-
| gramites in the Nenate. In vepudiating
the Democratic Congress of 1892, however,
. the people filled the vacancy left by the re-
tirement of wild horses with wild asses. :
| Consummate a manager of men as Speaker
| Reed has proved himself to he, when he!
came to the work of making up his com-
mittees from the material on hand he was
in despair.
There are huvenless ships on the sea,
Wind-whipped to a treacherous shore :
| and, no doubt, he wished himself on hoard
of one of them. The only safe thing to do |
| was, as he declared, to ‘lay to” and do!
nothing. Thus far this policy has sue- |
ceeded pretty well ; but there are signs of |
mutiny. Only last week the wild asses |
kicked up their heels and got away from
Mr. Reed, It remains tobe seen whether he |
will be able to turn them loose, as pro-
posed, in May, before irreparable injury |
shall have been done to Republican pros-
pects.— Phila. Record
Nothing Above the Table.
i A popular and well-known lady of cen-
tral Mississippi visited New Orleans at the |
last Mardi Gras for the first time. She |
was delighted with the city, but was con-
siderably shocked at the ‘‘decolleteness,’’
of some of the costumes at the balls.
One day while here she was entertained
at a fashionable dinner, and upon her re- |
turn to the house of the friends whom she
was visiting, she was asked to describe |
some of the costumes worn.
“What did Max.
her friend.
“T didn’t look under the table :
didn’t have on anything above it.”
wear 27 said
a
but she |
——Some say that a man who would |
“heat an egg” would be so cruel as to |
“whip cream,’ ‘‘thrash wheat”? or even
“lick a postage stamp.’
turned away, pulled the old-fashioned bell |
rope mechanically, and staggered out of !
of a matter of a few days ; and throughout |
{ the burden of his song was ‘come to-mor- © the sunlit street. i
carth |
arid soil.
cold !
white, ~
was elected
tributary to the large vives.
Our Pennsylvania Forests,
Extracts fron Gov. Hastings Arbor Day Address—
Delivered at Drexel Institute, Philadelphia. Friday
April 10th.
The name “Arbor Day" was first
gested hy the present United States Nec
tary of Agriculture, and was first observed
n 1872 in his own State of Nebraska.
Since that time, public interest in Ameri-
can forestry has been growing.
fluence of the publie schools, of the several
State agricultural departments and the gen-
sShg-
value of control of
eral trend of publie interest have heen such |
| that to-day but two States and one Terri-
flashes of |
tory fail to observe ‘Arbor Day.” The
aim and purpose of the movement are two-
fold, tree preservation and tree planting.
The necessity for the preservation and
reinforcement of our forests is no longer
open to argument. Our national existence,
FOR AND ABOUT WOMEN.
Clover tea is excellent for purifying the
blood, clearing the complexion and n-
moving pimples. Dried clover may he
used for the tea.
Dr. Alice B. Foster, who has charge of
the physical training at Bryn Mawr, Ie
lieves that physical education. besides de-
The tn. veloping the body. has a moral and phys-
ical effect. Tt teaches young women the
emotions, it imbues
them with a healthy idea of life, and does
away with the morbidness and <enthinen-
tality so common in boarding schools of
generation ago,
Health, according to Doctor Foster's
theories, is the foundation of happiness :
therefore, her work is far-reaching indeed :
“the college student, owing to her training
being in its youth, we have not gathered all |
the experience of the passing generations
at home. Most of it came from other
countries. At the time when our land was
covered from Maine to the Gulf and from
the Atantic to the Alleghenies with un-
broken forests; which disappeared before
the woodman’s axe and in response to the
demand for ¢leared land wherein to
corn and wheat and whereon to build
towns and cities, the older civilizations of
Europe were studying a different lesson.
We were developing a tree-destroying in-
stinct, while France, Germany. Spain and
Switzerland were realizing that there were
in each country certain exposed areas from
which, if the forests were removed, those
and adjacent regions would cease to be pro-
ductive and consequent famine would com-
pel the populations to seek homes else-
where. The destruction of forests produces
Arid soil is the father of desola-
tion : desolation is the forerunner of de-
population.
France simply formulated her expe-
rience, when by her laws she declared that
trees were more necessary to the State than
to the individual and therefore the latter
should not he allowed to destroy them at
will.
The inhabitanms of Persia, Egypt and
Mesopotamia perished, in a national sense,
with their forests ; and both. in’ the ruins
of their former glory. were a warning to
after generations.
Turning to our own land. a0 country
cqual in extent was ever better timbered,
if we except that territory reaching from
Lake Michigan to the Rocky Mountains.
For the past two huudred years the Ameri-
can people, axe in hand, have waged a re-
Tentless warfare of extermination. They
have devastated the forests of New Eng-
land. They have swept away much of the
value and beauty of the forests of the Mid-
dle States. They have crossed the Alle-
chenies and attacked Ohio, Indiana. Mich-
igan, Hlinois and Wisconsin in their west-
wand course until they found the timber
less plains of Nebaska and Kansas, and
the treelees territory lying
Mississippi and the Rockies.
The trae American likes to follow those
pursuits or engage in those business enter-
prises which pay. [He has studied into the
forestry question, has gathered the statis-
ties, and is prepared to say that the gen-
eral welfare of the country is move identi-
fied with the forests which eover the land
than with any other featwre of the carth’s
surface : that trees are” the best friends of
the soil in which théy arow : that they are
the guardians of” its fertility ; that they
protect the ficlds from devastating floods | lawn and dimity frocks and Luge collar
{ i \ Sd ary ars
made of alternate rows of
and ‘‘cherish the springs that feed the
streams
a commercial point of view the forests
of this country present the most valuable
crop raised in American soil. 1 have the
authority of the National
agriculture for saying that if you stripped]
the American forests of their natural
beauty : if you take from the American
home the shelter, the shade. the beauty of
in physical culture, is healthy and there-
fore happy. she makes the best of things—
fatter all, probably the secret of the art of
plant |
living.
My riads of small nus buttons are seen
on some of the smart spring goods. a fash-
ion, however, savoring too mmeh of soldicr-
dom, unless artistically careied out hy a
master of tailor-huilt gowns?”
— /
"ny . . . / . .
Lhe Spring girl whos bodice is not fin-
ished with a belt gf<ome kind is notin the
swini. The fiat%of fashion says helt or giv-
dle. The only question is which shall it
he v
The girl pupils of the Osborne, Kan.
High School have two excellent hase hall
teams,
Good-bye to the broad helt. Mepe
twists of ribbon band the waist of the mod-
ern gown. If trigly worn they give the
Frenchy long-waisted effect <o much sought
after. but when a large woman with clothes
by no means snug in fit puts on a narrow
ribbon-twisted belt she has very much the
appearance of a hag with a string tied in
the middle.
Miss Frances Eo Wilkud is back in
Chicago. after a lecture tour of tive months
through the South. She will sail for Eng-
land the latter part of April. to be present
at the annual meeting of the British Wom-
an’s Temperance Association. She will
~ then visit Norway, after which she Will vo-
black satin.
turn to this country.
Cuffs are the correct thing now. The
Marie Antoinette sleeve that is shorter on
the inside seam than it is on the outside
has a cuff that faves and is about” four
inches wide. A band of trimming or a pufl-
ed piece around the hand is also admissible.
A new thing in the collar-Tine is made of
It is a stock with a small tic
attached that appeais to come from the
between the!
Chesworn with it ir desired. It
~Hought
back of the stock and tie in the small but-
terfly how infront. It has a white satin
cording at the top edge so that there is no
necessity for adinen collar, though one can
can he
mado
for ninety-five cents, but
much cheaper.
One of the ways of trimming next sum-
mer's thin gowns will be with Ieetelles of
ribbon some of these bretelles extending
|
Cina how.
the edge.
down on either side of the skirt to the knee
or even to the hem, where they terminate
Valenciennes lace and insertion
are to be much used for trimming flowered
colored ribbons
and lace insertion with a frill of ribbon
and lace around the edge, ave a pretty ad-
dition, which makes a plain full waist very
Depnstment of) dressy, expecially when it iscut a little low
in the neck and the collar turns over from
Some of the thin dresses ave he-
cing made with a low-necked under bodies
form, of blossom, leaf and fruit : the har- |
monious relation with sky, sunshine and
cloud, and estimate the value of American
forests and then compare with other
sources of wealth, the strength of the com-
parison will be all on the side of ihe for-
ests valuation.
annual
In Pennsylvania the average
[waists is to set in
“color which
value of the timber crop for the last ten
vears has been $22,000,000, according to
’rof. Rothrock, the Forestry Commissioner,
who is undoubtedly the best authority and
of white lawn finished with a narrow eda-
cing, and the high-necked waist has the
usual stock collor of ribbons, Another
fancy for trimming dimity gowns, which
ready been carried out in black silk
insertions of lace to
form large plaits over the entive waist and
sleeves. Dimities with colored grounds
patterned over in seroll designs of white.
and made up over dimity in white or plain
matches the gown, are very
stylish, with white lace and white satin
1ibbon trimmings. One white dimity
skirt will answer the purpose of under
dress for several thin gowns, and should he
at the same time the most enthusiastic for- |
around the bottom and more closely gored
ester in the State,
Most of Pennsylvania's timber crop. for
many vears, floated down our rivers dur-
ing the spring freshets in the form of logs,
afts, arks and other floating combinations |
of native wood on their involuntary way to
market, piloted hy a brave, reckless and
ronadtic class of young men
Pennsylvania lambermen. The spring
freshets brought forth these hardy men
froin their winter's obscurity in the forests
where they prepared the timber for market
and conveyed it to the hanks of streams
The
Branches of the Susquehanna.
and West
the Allegheny, the Monongahela, the Dela-
ware and the many smaller tributary
streams have presented thrilling pictures of
the passing of Penusyivania’s forests from
headwaters to market.
So profitable has heen the timber crop of
the State that fully three-fourths of it have
heen brought to market and: but Jittle now
remains of the grand timber pre ct of a
century ago. The railroads have invaded
the forests where the streams were not
"large enough to float the timber, and the
portable saw-mill has made havoc with the
smaller timber growth as well as with the
fish in the mountain streams.
known as |
North |
C—way up at the back,
“top-heavy.
the idea that a high
There cannot be much objection to the |
removal of a tree after it
growth, if the removal he for a lawful pur-
pose.
Jand to the raising of a timber crop that
‘must take fifty yews or more to mature.
This is not what is asked for by the friends
of the Pennsylvania forests.
is to see that all the land of the State,
which is absolutely good for nothing else
be utilizéd in growing timber. Commis-
sioner Rothrock estimates that there ave in
wets its full !
Their desire !
Nor is it reasonable to expect the |
farmer or the landowner to give up his |
‘the sensible
allowed, one on each
made with a rufile edged with narrow lace
around the hips than the owside skirt.
Rather military is a tailor-made gown of
tan, finished with & high flaring collar.
Down the front and on the cuffs are little
straps of a davker hrown, cach dotted with
a wee pearl button, This gown is made on
plan—therefore, pockets are
side of the front, and
finished with regular tailor-jacket flaps.
“Nose hats isa term which suits the
headgear referred to admirably, for the new
fangled hat is tilted at an angle of 30 de-
grees with the level of the top of the head
and a way down
over the nose in front. It is a fashion that
will he welcomed hy the tall giv] or the un-
fortunate damsel who is possessed of a high
forehead. These are the givls who appear
to advantage with their hats on. It is the
short maid who looks best in no hat at all.
Headgear of any kind makes her appear
She may delude herself with
hat makes her look
tall, hut it more often has the suggestion of
half-and-half about it—the girl forming the
lower half.
Ideal gowns for the coming sunmer are
alveady displayed in all the importing
houses of the city. those made of sheer
arass linen, silk striped. silk barred, dotted.
or embroidered or of organdy in new
shadowy exquisite Watteau patterns of
finest India muslin, with printed flowers or
stripes, and tamboured in dots, or else in
single stitch arabesques of many graceful
devices. The gowns are made up over silk
Lin monochrome or else of changeable tints,
i repeating those in the figured muslin, If
the State a little over nine million acres of |
woodland at the present time.
timates that at the present rate of market-
ing, it will not he more than from
=)
twenty |
He also es- |
to twenty-five years until the marketable |
imber will be practically exhausted. He
asserts that if the State, that is, land unfit
for agricultural purposes and not worth
more than an average of one dollar per acre |
were protected from further destruction hy | ©0070 | ar
the hand of man, and from forest fires, the | glove-fitting, honed lining.
timber value of the crop produced at the
end of fifty years would be worth, at pres- |
ent values, a billion and a half dollars, or
an average of thirty million dollars per
year.
Aside from the money value to the State
and the people, there are other and proba-
bly greater considerations to be taken into
the account. This is perhaps the first gen-
eration in this State which has been
Concluded on Page 6.
| silk ix not desired. moired
perealine lawn,
batister or silk gingham is employed. Lace
trimmings are used. but these are vivalled
this year by the very beautiful embroidered
insertions and edgings wrought on mae
terials matched to the dress itself, being
made also of tiny frills of the muslin,
edged with very narrow Valenciennes lace
The full waist, either round or pointed. is
invariably used for these transparent
{ dresses. This is nearly scamless over a
Nome of the
muslin gowns over crisp taffeta silk linings
i have a very full, flaring, nine-gorved skirt,
with very full kiltings at the back. Other
models for slender young women have four
straight breadths abeut 32 inches wide,
with tucks alternating with lace insertions
to the knee. Another skirt has a Spanish
flounce of the muslin, finished simply with
a deep hem headed by a single band of rich
lace insertion. Many of the gored skirts
have bands of embroidery laid over the
side seams from belt fo hem.