#
Bem
Bellefonte, Pa., Oct. 9, 1896.
A MISTAKE.
A tadpole sat on a cool, gray stone,
And sadly thought of his life;
“Alas, must I live all alone I” said he,
“Or shall I espouse me a wife 2”
A wise old frog on the brink of the stream
Leaned over and said, with a sigh:
“Oh, wait till you're older, my dear young
friend,
You'll have better taste by and by!
“Girls change you know, and the polly wog
slim,
That takes your fancy to-day,
May not be the polly at all you'd choose,
© 7 When the summer has passed away I”
But the tadpole rash thought he better knew,
And married a pollywog fair ;
And before the summer was over he sat
On the brink of that stream in despair.
For, would you believe it? His fair, young
bride
Proved to be but a stupid frog,
With never a trace of beauty and grace
Of young Miss Pollywog.
And although the tadpole himself had grown
Stout and stupid, too ?
He only saw the faults of his wife,
As others sometimes do.
To all young tadpoles, my moral is this:
Before you settle in life,
Be sure you know, without any doubt,
What you want in the way of a wife !
—Mary H. Olmstead, in Golden Days.
MELINDY.
BY WILLIE WALKER CALDWELL.
You're a fool, Melindy, to throw away
sich a chance !”’
‘‘That’s what I tells her,” said the sec-
ond of the three women as she plunged her
well-frayed stick into the box of snuff she
was holding in her other hand.
They were sitting on tilted split-hot-
tomed chairs in the shade of a big walnut
tree, which graced even the rough log cab-
in standing on the edge of the otherwise
bare common.
The irregular mountain chain facing the
cabin, its seductive shadows alternated
with patches of glimmering sunshine ; the
quiet tree-begirt village on the left ; and
on the right rolling green meadows, with
here and there a strip of woodland, waving
with slow grace in the cool breeze, made
up a picture good to look upon.
But the women were too deeply en-
grossed with their snuff-boxes and their
subject (even if familiarity and other
things had not blighted their sense of joy
in the beauties of nature) to observe the
fair picture, though in a dim, half-con-
scious way it often whispered to them of
God and Truth and Purity—things of
which they had almost ceased to dream.
Two of the women were past middle age,
and wore that unmistakable look of hard-
ened shamelessness and shattered energies
which told their story at a glance. The
third one was young, and, judging from
her face, had not yet hecome inured to sin
and shame.
“Women like us,’’ continued Mollie, the
first speaker, ‘‘don’t have no chance any-
how ; and since the Good Bein’ give Me-
lindy her purty face, seems to me she got a
- right to make a fortune out of it if she can.”
““Who said anything about a good for-
tune ?”’ scoffed Melindy
“Well,” responded the second woman,
who was the girl’s mother, ‘‘he offered as
a plum support, and promised me you
might wear all the fine clothes you
wanted.”
“I don’t keer if he said two thousand
dollars a year,’’ replied the girl.
“Yes, an’ he said maybe he’d marry Me-.
lindy some day, if his sisters ever got mar-
ried and moved away from here—and I
know they will,” eagerly continued the
mother.
“I see him marrying me now,”’ replied
Melindy. flushing hotly ; “and I don’t
know as I'd keer to marry sich an old, ugly,
deceivin’ critter as he is, even if he was
willin’.”?
‘‘It seems to me like you wuz puttin’ on
a mighty heap of airs, Melindy,” put in
the visitor, ‘“specially after what your
mother’s done for you, and her expectin’
you for to be her support in her old days,
too.”’
‘Done for me!’ exclaimed the girl,
springing from her chair and facing them
with blazing eyes — “Done for me!
"Twould have been a mercy if she had nev-
er brought me into this world, to have
everybody p’intin’ at me and turnin’ up
their noses at me; and men, sich as old
Squire Thompson, a-biddin’ for me same
as if I wuz a filly at the horse fair.”
‘‘She’s a queer girl, Mag, and I can’t
make her out,” said Mollie, dipping snuff
voraciously, as they watched her pink ging-
ham skirts disappear along the path which
led to the woods near by.
“Yes, she is kinder queer,’’ replied the
mother, calmly, as she also took another
dip ; “‘but she’s young yet, and she’s purty
much had her own way ever since she wuz
born. She'll come to her senses before
many months, when winter time comes
and there ain’t no meat nor wood in the
house.”’
Somewhere among the tainted streams
which were commingled in Melindy’s
blood there had entered one purer than the
rest, and by one of those unexplained for-
ces of heredity its influence was more
plainly visible than might ever be again
under similar circumstances.
This subtle force gave to her face a look
of purity, to her air a touch of grace, and
to her manners a semblance of refinement.
It led her to avail herself of her limited ad-
vantages of education, and put into her
heart aspirations after better things than
those she had known. Born to shame and
poverty, reared amidst degrading surround-
ings and destined from the first to a career
of vice, Melindy had not been given a fair
chance in life. Twice her mother might
have secured a home for her with respecta-
ble people, where she would have been de-
cently taken care of and inured to hard but
honest labor, had not her mother’s preju-
dice to virtuous and seemingly hard-heart-
ed humanity led her to fiercely reject such
offers for her daughter, who promised to
grow up too pretty to need to work for a
living. Melindy, also, as a child, had felt
, that her present life—while she could laze
in the sun or shade all day, hunt wild flow-
ers or pick berries, swim, fish, or climb
mountains as the mood came to her—was
far preferable to hard work and strict con-
trol, even though coarse bread and meat
was her daily fare and gaudy calico her
cloth ing.
At fourteen, Melindy was tall and slim,
with feet and hands too big, limbs too long
a tan gle of reddish brown hair and a clear,
healt hy skin, tanned and roughened by ex-
posure and a lack of care. Her large
bro wn eyes softened by drooping lids and
long lashes, a straight nose and even white
teeth, redeemed her face.
- At seventeen she was beautiful, and be-
gan to feel the self-importance derived from
the knowledge of that fact. Her mother
had guarded her thus far with the feeling
that she was still a child. Now, seeing
her beauty to be greater than she had sup-
posed it would be, she valued her accord-
ingly.
an this time a suitor, rich and re-
spectable enough to command the moth-
er’s consent, appeared. Fortunately, he
was neither young, handsome, nor fascinat-
ing. He trusted to his money to buy the
mother and to her to control the girl.
Melindy did not like him ; her self-love
was offended by his mode of proceedure,
and her natural combativeness led her to
resent being made an object of barter by
her mother.
These feelings awoke within her the
half-dormant sense of womanly purity, and
once aroused it proved a wonderful ally to
her unconquered will. Her mother’s tears
entreaties, complaints and threats availed
nothing, though they made her very mis-
erable and finally determined her to run
away from home. She had heard of a
woman boarding at the hotel who wanted a
servant to take back to the city with her.
Having secured the place, she slipped out
one morning, while her mother was still
sleeping, joined Mrs. Winter and took the
north bound train for her new home. She
felt a good deal frightened and a little re-
gretful when she realized that she was rap-
idly leaving familiar scenes and faces be-
hind her. After shedding a few surrepti-
tious tears as she huddled in the corner of
her seat, she began to feel the excitement
of her adventure and to realize that it was
a glorious thing to have her life in her own
hands to make it what she pleased.
Mrs. Winter who kept a second-class
| boarding house for clerks, mechanics and
i other young business men of moderate sala-
ries, was a kind-hearted, easy-going woman
and for two or three weeks she allowed
Melindy to get gradually acquainted with
her new life and duties. The boarders
were much amused by her provincial
idioms and her awkward, country manners
but they liked to look ‘at her pretty, fresh
young face, and did not laugh at her more
than they could help. Most of the young
men alternately flattered and teased her
whenever they met her away from Mrs.
Winter’s presence, and several of them
were inclined to be impertinently familiar
with the poor girl, who hardly knew how
to command respect.
One day, after Melindy had been several
weeks in the house, Mrs. Winter was ill,
and unable to preside at the dinner-table y
so Melindy was entrusted with the duty of
serving the meat, dessert, etc., from a side
table. One young man, a certain Mr. Tom-
ling, who had annoyed Melindy more than
the others, came late and was left in the
dining-room alone with her. While eating
his dessert he amused himself teasing her
until she became really confused and dis-
tressed. As he rose to leave the dining-
room he walked around by her table, and
in pretended kindness put his arm about
her and patted her cheek familiarly, as he
said ; ‘‘Poor little country girl’; she is
really teased. Well, I didn’t mean any
harm, and you musn’t mind me. You're
such a little darling a fellow can’t help no-
ticing you, you know,’ and he stooped to
kiss her.
Melindy’s face turned scarlet, more with
anger than shocked modesty, and, turning,
she pushed him from her with all her
strength. The attack was so unexpected,
and the young man fell heavily across a
chair, his head striking the wall. He lay
there partially stunned for a moment, Me-
lindy standing over him, contempt and dis-
gust in her face. As consciousness came
back to him, and he took in the full mean-
ing of her expression, Tomlins grew fur-
ious, and springing to his feet he seized
Melindy by her shoulders and shook her
until her teeth chattered.
* ‘‘Stop that, you impudent coward !"’ a
clear voice rang out, just as Melindy be-
came thoroughly frightened at realizing
that Tomlins was drunk as well as angry,
and in another minute the unlucky youth
was again sprawling on the floor.
*“This is none of your affairs, Grafton,”
growled Tomlins, ‘‘and I don’t want any
of your interference.’
‘It is my affair.” “I’ll not stand by
and see a man do violence to a woman
while I can lift a hand in her defense.”
‘‘She struck me first,’’ he answered, ‘‘or
I'd never thought of harming her.’
“If I did,” said Melindy—*‘and I didn’t
strike him sir,” turning to Mr. Grafton 7
“I only pushed him off—it was because he
was very impudent.’’
“I only tried to kiss her,” put in Tom-
lins, “and the saucy jade needn’t be put-
ting on airs, for I don’t doubt many a fel-
low has kissed her before now.”’
‘‘That is not so, Mr. Grafton,’” Melindy
answered, her voice getting husky, ‘‘and
besides, if it was,’’ she added defiantly,
“I guess I don’t have to kiss them if I
don’t please to.”’
‘You are right, Melindy,’" said Grafton,
repressing a smile ; ‘and I am surprised at
Tomlins here. I do not believe he would
have forgotten to be a gentleman if he had
not taken top much whiskey this morning.
Come with me, Tomlins,”’ he added, turn-
ing to the young man, who had dropped
into a chair ; ‘‘bed is the best place for you
just now.” :
From that time Melindy regarded Mr.
Grafton with sincerest respect and admira-
tion, and he took a kindly interest in the
friendless girl, whose feet seemed set
among pitfalls. Several times he loaned
her books to read, instead of the yellow-
backed French novels and sensational pa-
pers which were found on the tables in
most of the young men’s rooms, and which
he had seen Melindy reading. Two or
three times he gave her tickets to a matin-
ee, such as he would have taken his sisters
to see, or to a popular concert, when he
learned that Saturday afternoons were hers
and that she did not know what to do with
them.
These kindnesses, which grew out of the
natural impulse to helpfulness, which is
the unfailing desire of a noble heart, more
truly in man, even, than in a woman,
made a still deeper impression on Melindy.
The other inmates of the house were kind,
too, and they often gave her small tips,
but he was the only one who seemed to
care that she should go to the right places
and read the right hooks, and who blended
respect and consideration, such as Melindy
had never before known, with his kindness.
His tall, supple figure, which he clothed,
neatly, but somewhat carelessly as to cut
and fit, his clear gray eves, dark hair, high
bred countenance, and dignified, yet gentle
manners seemed to Melindy the perfection
of manly heauty and grace, and his name
Donald Grafton, the most musical she had
ever heard. °
It was some weeks before she acquired
the meagre facts concerning him known to
Mrs. Winter, which were these : He was a
Virginian by birth, the only son of a wid-
owed mother of limited means, and was
practically acquiring the profession of ma-
chinist, after a college education looking to
that end, in one of the big city machine
shops. . !
It was not long before Melindy began to
dream of the dignified young Virginian by
night, and to build air castles for him hy
day. At first she had no part in these day
dreams. He was simply the hero of the
romances of her imagination, and she de-
lighted to make him perform mighty deeds
of valor and chivalry, such as she read of in
some of the books he loaned her.
After a while she began to imagine her-
self his trusted servant, and thought how
delightful it would be to minister to his
comfort always, and to share in a reflected
degree some of the success and glory with
which she delighted to surround him in
her thoughts. » .
About the middle of December, Donald
was sick enough to he compelled to spend
several days in his room. Melindy, whose
duty it was to wait upon him, was unceas-
ingly thoughtful for his comfort. One day
she went to renew his fire, and, after hav-
ing done so, she said, apologetically :
“I'll wait a bit to take off the blower.”
Donald felt lonely and bored, and re-
sponded, cordially : ”
‘Well, sit down, Melindy, and talk to
me awhile, I am lonesome anyhow.’
The color surged into her face and her
lips parted ina pleased smile as she sat
down at a respectful distance.
“Tell me what you think of the city,
Melindy,”’ said Donald, feeling that he had
not acted wisely, but anxious to ignore the
awkwardness of the situation.
“I haven’t gotten much acquainted with
it yet, sir, but I like the house, and Mrs.
Winter, and—everybody,’’ after an in-
stant's hesitation.
‘Don’t you get homesick for the country
sometimes, and for your people ?”’
“I haven't any people except a mother,
‘Mr. Grafton, and I despised the stupid lit-
tle town we lived in. But I think some-
times,” she added, as her face kindled,
“that I'd give anything to sce the blue
mountains smiling in the sunshine, and
the long soft shadows here and there, |
where the cool, shady gorges are, full of
tall ferns and white laurel blossoms, with
the clear, singing brooks running through
them.”’
‘Are you your mother’s only child 2”? he
asked.
~ “Yes, sir,” replied Meclindy,
with her apron string.
“Then she must miss you very much,
and you must want to see her sometimes.”’
playing
A hard look settled about the young face |
as she answered : “I don’t know how she
feels, Mr. Grafton ; but I know that I hope !
never to see her again.”
‘But that isn’t right, Melindy. She's
your mother, and you ought to love her.” |
“Mrs. Winter says the same, sir ; and
she says that God says so, in His book.
But I don’t think you and her can under-
stand about a mother like mine—that don’t
care nothing for you except to make money |
out of you; and I don’t believe God ex-
pects me to love her either.”’
*‘Well, perhaps not, Melindy. I don’t |
know your mother. But whether you love
her or not, you ought to write to her some-
times and send her part of your wages, and
maybe you could help her to bea better
woman.”’
‘Do you think so, sir? Then I'll do it.
I’ll do anything you tell me,” she added,
eagerly, as she looked up at him in undis-
guised admiration, for you have been a
good friend to me.”
“I'm glad to have befriended you, Me-
lindy ; and I'll help you any time I can.”
‘Oh, thank you, Mr. Grafton; but
you’ll go away some time, and I don’t
know what I should do without you, sir.”
Just then, to Donald’s relief, Mrs. Win-
ter called : ‘‘Melindy, Melindy, where are
you ?”’ and her hasty departure rendered
an answer unnecessary. On the next day
Donald felt languid, sick and nervous.
Melindy again came in after her morning
duties were ended to replenish the fire.
This time the blower was not needed, so
after straightening the room a little and re-
ceiving no notice from Donald, who lay on
his couch before the fire with closed eyes,
she stopped near the foot of the couch and.
said, in low, beseeching tones :
“Would you like me to shake up your
pillows for you, Mr. Graiton? I can make
you more comfortable.”
With a languid assent he sat up to al-
low her to rearrange his pillows, which she
knew how todo quickly and deftly. As |
she did so, the graceful and slightly vo-
luptuous curves of her figure, the soft pink
flushed cheek and the full red mouth were
temptingly near him. He thought she lin-
gered over her task, and, resenting the
temptation which willingly or not she
threw in his way, he closed his eyes, set-
tled back on his pillows as quickly as pos-
sible and said somewhat irritably :
‘That will do, Melindy, and I don’t
want anything else this afternoon except to
be alone.”
He saw her eyes filled with tears, and
her lips quiver as he watched her, under
half shut lids, turn slowly away and leave
the room.
All that afternoon her pretty pleading
face haunted him, and when he fell asleep
her image, now dim and ethereal, now life-
like and very human, filled his dreams.
She looked so grieved and humiliated and
so physically lovable that evening, when
she came up to bring his tea that it was on-
ly by a strong effort of self-restraint that
he controlled the impulse to put his arm
about her and caress her into smiles and
happiness again.
The dangerous knowledge that he could
do so had come to him that afternoon. If
another ingredient is needed in the cup of
temptation, which the devil mixes for a
man when he puts a young and beautiful
woman in his power, it is the consciousness
that her happiness is bound up in his fa-
vor and that she will find joy in yielding
all he asks without thought of ‘sacrifice
or fear of reckoning. Few men can
resist the cup so flavored, and with the
incense of adulteration filling their nostrils
and turning their heads even before the
cup has touched their lips.
Lying awake that night Donald saw how
near he had come to the edge of a precipice
and realized that it would take all the self-
restraint upon which he prided himself,
backed by all the remembered admonitions
of his dear, wise mother, to help him
through the days which must intervene be-
fore he should be strong erough to £0
home.
But Donald Grafton’s Scotch blood gave
him something of that stubborn defiance to
that which his sense of right condemned
which characterized Jobn Knox. He
knew, too, what his mother expected from
him, and he remembered the evening when
both his sisters being absent from home
’
he sat on a low chair by his mother’s side |
in the firelight, and as she stroked his hair
with soothing, gentle fingers, as he had
loved her to do since his earliest recollec- |
tion, she told him of his father, who had |
been killed in the Civil War before his |
children were old enough to remember him.
She had told him of his bravery and hero-
ism and of his gallant death while leading
his company to the charge at Chancellors.
ville ; of his lofty principles and knightly
| chivalry, of his loving heart and pure life.
| “If you are to be & worthy son of your
father, my dear boy,’’ she had said, ‘you
cannot sow any wild oats as most boys do,
for there was not a smirch on your father’s
| manhood, nor a stain on his honor. If I
| can persuade you to exemplify to the world
| as he did during his brief life, what a God-
| like thing is a noble manhood ; and if you
| shall some day crown a true woman’s life
jas he blessed and crowned mine, then I
‘have not lived my lonely widowhood life
{in vain.”” Donald’s soul kindled as he re-
! called his mother’s words, and once again
‘he vowed never to grieve and disappoint
* her.
i For the next three days Donald talked
. very little to Melindy, and was always en-
gaged in reading or writing when she was
iin his room. On the fourth day he was to
| start home. His train left at mid-day, and
| he spent the forenoon making purchases for
his mother and sisters, returning to the
| bearding-house just in time to lock his
trunk and take a hasty lunch. He called
te Melindy, who was dusting the room at
| the head of the steps :
“I have a package for you.’’ he said,
| when she came, ‘‘but you must not open it
[ until Christmas Day."
| As she took the package out of his hands
| and looked up at him, trying to say thank
| you, she burst into tears.
“Why Melindy," what’s the matter?”
| asked Donald. ‘‘Has Tomlins been annoy-
[ing you again, or has Mrs. Winter been
| scolding you?”
| ‘Neither, Mr. Donald ; it’s because you
are going away. Christmas won't be any
| pleasure with you gone.”’
“That’s foolishness, Melindy,’’ he ans-
. wered, some impatience mingled with the
{ kindness of his tone. “I'd have nothing
I more to do with your Christmas than the
| rest if I stayed.”
‘Oh, yes you would, sir, for I'm happy
| so long as you are here, and I cannot hear
| to think of anyone else waiting on you for
i two whole weeks.’
“You must not talk that way, Melindy.
| You are a pretty, smart girl, and if you try
| to he sensible and good, too, you will mar-
ry a worthy man some day who will be
! very proud and fond of you-and make you
| very happy.’
“I'll never marry, Mr. Donald,’ she re-
plied, as she threw herself on the floor be-
| side his chair and seized one of his hands
| in hers, still erying as if her heart would
| break. *‘No man who respects himself
will ever want me, born and raised like I
have been ; but if I ain’t got a right to be
respectable and to hold my head up like
other people, I've got a right to be happy
| in my own way, and that’s what I'll be i
only you let me love you and wait on you,
{ Mr. Donald.”
As she poured out this wild talk she
looked up at him with tear-filled eyes, and
| then in an abandon of childish grief laid
her head on his knee and sobbed. Invol-
untarily Donald stroked her hair with a
| sort of tender, pitying touch, and in anoth-
er irstant her head was on his breast and
i his arms about her. For a second of time
| Melindy’s whole being thrilled with su-
| preme happiness. In that second the clock
I struck the half-hour, and Donald’s con-
"science awoke as his mental faculties re-
turned, telling him that he had not more
| than time to make his train. With an ef-
! fort that made his nerves feel tense and vi-
| brant, he put her gently away from him,
| rose from his chair and turned to lock his
| trunk.
‘Good-by, Melindy,”” he said. “You
will have forgotten this folly by the time I
| come back, but if you think as much of me
| as you say you do and want to prove it, be
| a good girl and some day you will thank
| me for seeming unkind to you now.”’
{ Donald’s victory was not yet won, how-
| ever, and for the next two weeks the battle
{ was renewed whenever he was alone.
{ “Why should you set up such a lofty
standard for yourself 2’ the devil would
| say to him. ‘‘Are you wiser and better
‘and stronger than many wise and great and
even good men who have yielded under
less temptation? Men of experience, men
of the world would laugh at you for a
prude and a narrow minded ascetic. Be-
| sides, your squeamishness is mere folly and
| to no purpose ; that girl is sure to throw
herself away on somebody ; she was born
to doit. Providence, not you, is responsi-
* ble for her tendencies, and if vou don’t ac-
cept her affection (and she is evidently de-
| voted to you) some other man, who will
' not treat her with half the kindness you
would, will make her his victim. She is
| as pretty as a woman can be, she will be
| your humble slave all your life, and will
| not expect or require what a wife would.
| Besides,’” the devil continued adroitly to
| suggest, ‘you cannot afford to marry for
| yo
| several years yet, and in the meantime you
must break this poor girl's heart and wor-
ry yourself sick in order that you may not
disappoint your mother’s quixotic ideal
(and she need know nothing about 1t) and
i may be entirely worthy the exalted type of
| womanhood you hope to marry some day,
i but who will think none the less of you be-
{ cause you do not tell her all your past.”
Afterward Donald feit very thankful that
the struggle took place amidst the scenes
| of his innocent aspiring boyhood, and with
| his mother’s loving, trusting presence to
unconsciously help him.
On his return to the city he secured an-
other boarding-house, and only twice dur-
ing the several months he remained did he
visit Mrs. Winter’s. The first time, soon
after his return, Melindy was lingering in
the hall as he took his departure. and pro-
ceded him to open the door for him.
“I just wanted to say, Mr. McDonald,’
she said; in low tones with downecast eyes,
“that I know you did it all for kindness to
me, and I am grateful to you.”
‘I am glad you know that, Melindy,”’
and then, driven by an impulse to show in
some way his interest and kindly feeling,
he drew a small picture of his mother and
a tiny Testament she had marked and giv-
en him from his pocket and handed them
to her. “I want you to have these, Me-
lindy,”” he said. ‘‘Maybe they will help
you sonetime.”’
He hardly knew afterward why he had
given her the photograph of his mother,
but on analyzing his motive he found that
he had felt by a woman-like intuition that
Melindy could not look often on so pure
and noble a face without being subtly in-
spired to purer thoughts and nobler living.
His next visit was to say good-by. It
was June, and Melindy was watering the
plants in the tify green yard as he was
leaving. He offered her his hand in fare-
well, and as she took it she said, feelingly:
i little book on the table, Mr. Donald, and
i look at them every day. I know why vou
| are different from other men, and T am
trying hard to be the sort of girl I might
have been if she had been my mother.
| That is what you meant by giving her pic-
| ture to me, wasn’t it, sir ?”’
| ‘‘That was it exactly, Melindy,"’ he said,
| shaking her hand heartily, ‘‘and with the
{ book to help you I know you will sue-
| Afew months later Donald secured a lu-
| erative position in Chicago. Reluctantly
i
| they soldgheir dear childhood’s home, and
*‘I keep your mother’s picture and the |
" ~
Sia tA.
| his mother and and unmarried sister mov- |
! ed to the big West with him.
| Three years of energetic effort brought
| success and prosperity. About that time
| Donald married a woman who was entirely
satisfactory to himself, and, which is
much more suggestive, was equally to his
mother. Among other Eastern friends he
sent cards to Mrs. Winter and Melindy.
In response he received a present for his
bride from Melindy and a long letter for
himself. In the letter she told him some-
thing of her life since he had last seen her.
How Mrs. Winter had broken down in
health. and she had become her house-
keeper. How, about two years before, a
young carpenter from the country had
come to the boarding-house. How he had
| been nice to her, and they had fallen in
| love with each other and only a few weeks
| before been married. That she had want-
led to write to him to tell him about it
| but that she did not know his address.
| That Mrs. Winter was going to close her
{ house soon, and her husband, who had
{ been successful and was. getting small
| building contracts now, was building a
| pretty little cottage in the suburbs, and
| they would begin housekeeping in the
| spring.
| The letter needed no comment to prove
i that Melindy was a good, true womau and
i a proud happy wife.
There was but one note of sadness in the
{ letter, and that was in the lines which
| said : “My mother died more than a year
| ago, and I went back to the village to see
FOR AND ABOUT WOMEN.
Mrs. Henry Ward Beecher has just en-
tered upon her eighty-fifth year and is re-
markably well preserved and vigorous. All
the little adornments of her toilet are the
work of her own hands—the graceful lace
caps trimmed with ribbons and the soft,
fleecy lace arranged at the neck and wrists.
The most stylish gowns this winter will
have a long basque or jacket ; the round
waist seems to have entirely dropped out
of fashion’s notice.
Never sweep dust from one room to an-
other nor from upstairs to the lower part of
the house. Always take it up into a dust-
pan wherein you have previously placed
some tea leaves, which prevent the dust
from scattering again and returning to its
old haunts. A clean sweeper will burn
the contents of the dustpan when she has
done sweeping.
Few will deny that the one-gown woman
is now-a-days the well-dressed woman.
The one-gown woman may have a dozen
house dresses, but she boasts of but one for
outdoor wear. And a very wise woman
she is! Her motto is “tailor-made, ’’
again tailor-made and always tailor-made.”
Knowing the vagaries of Dame Fashion
she dare not invest in anything ultra. She
longs to be well-dressed, this woman of
moderate means, and so she sacrifices her
love of change of costumes and squanders
her decently buried. I have tried hard to
| forgive her, and I pray that God has done
{so. Thank you, oh, s0 truly, Mr. Donald,
{ for all your goodness to me; and thank
God for having given you such a mother."
— Frank Leslie's Popular Monthly.
| Danger of Unlimited Promises to Pay
| Gold.
|
|
|
| I desire to call your attention to two
conflicting assertions regarding the free
! coinage question that are circulating
| through the press of the country—the con-
| tradictory nature which must become ap-
{ parent to any but the most predjudiced
| reader. Tt is stated that free coinage of
| silver at the ratio of 16 to 1 means that the
| owners of silver will make a profit of 87 per
| cent by taking silver bullion to the mint
| and having it coined into dollars. On the
{other hand, it is claimed, that free silver
| coinage means a debased currency and a |
| reduction of the present purchasing power
{ of the dollar to one half. Now if the latter
| statement be true, the former is untrue.
| If the coinage of silver adds nothing to its |
| purchasing power, then its owners can
i make ro profit by passing such a measure.
[If on the other hand, free coinage raises
+ the purchasing power of silver so that sil-
ver owners make the profit of 87 per cent,
it follows the assertion of silverites—that
coinage governs bullion values—is correct.
Hence the charge that free coinage means
a depreciated currency is unsound. The
circulation of these two opposed statements
sist the cause of sound-finance.
Again in te-day’s issue of the Philadel-
phia Ledger, Mr. Stuart Patterson assures
us that law cannot add to the purchasing
power of silver and gold, which must at all
times be governed by their market values ?
But what governs their market values?
Supply and demand hoth of - which are
very greatly influenced by legislation.
When the law declares that so many grains
of gold or silver shall constitute a dollar
and become legal tender it at once opens
up an enormous field for their employment
and creates for them an almost unlimited
demand. Hence market values are govern-
ed by coinage laws. Of course, if the coin-
age of a metal were fixed below what its
bullion value was before the coinage law
passed, the law would be inoperative, for
no one would wish to sacrifice part of the
commodity value of his possessions. That
day no one who has studied the question
and who understands the law of supply
and demand will deny. The value con-
ferred by law upon gold is a monopolistic
value, by which itis given an exclusive
privelege of settling debts. Abolish that
legal fiction called the standard of value,
and all laws restraining the issuance
of paper money universally, and it will
then be possible to ascertain the true com-
modity value of both gold and silver.
The present contention regarding the use
of two metals for monetary purposes is
hardly creditable to our much vaunted
civilization. Back in the Lycurgan age
it was known to the ancient Greeks that
the purchasing power of money had little
or nothing to do with the material compos-
ing it ; that the unit of value or purchas-
ing power was not a certain weight or a
mass of metal, but depended upon the
number of monetary units in circulation,
and hence was constantly fluctuating with
their supply and demand. Consequently
the people of Sparta, Bryzantium, Athens
and other nations made their money of a
cheap material, but rigidly restricted the
number of pieces issued. Discs of iron,
bronze and leather were used, and all sub-
stitutes were prohibited. This system was
in use for many centuries, and existed in
Rome during the best days of the Re-
| public. °°
The money question is not a metallurgi-
cal question. It is purely an arithmetical
one. And the fight to-day is a monopolis-
tic one for the control of credit, and this is
based upon a contention solely over the
number of dollars that shall be placed in
circulation. The very men who are fight-
ing silver to-day would fight gold should
its supply suddenly and materially increase.
Considering the scarcity of gold, that it
is controlled by a powerful syndicate that
can hoard it, take it out of the country or
send it back whenever they wish, it does
seem toany unpredjudiced thinking man
the height of folly to build a nation’s indus-
tries upon so insecure, so fickle, so insig-
nificant a basis. It leads to the issuance
of unlimited promises to pay gold—since
the quality of metal is far too small for
commercial transaction without credit—
and hence the world is always within sight
of a panic, contingent upon whether credi-
tors demand gold or not.
Professor Jevons once said that the Eng-
lish gold standard monetary system would
end if 5 per cent of those entitled to gold
should demand it one time. Surely such
a system is hardly worthy the applause it |
is now receiving as a safe, sound honest
monetary system. ARTHUR KITSON.
i
i
|
——The Kane Republican states that
John Byers, of Renovo. while out chest- |
nutting a few days ago discovered a large |
rattlesnake coiled up and ready to spring. |
He killed the rattler, which measured four
| feet and eleven inches !
twenty-eight rattles and a button, making
its age 31 years. It was the largess rattle-
snake ever known to have been killed |
along the Susquehanna. !
his salary only amounting to $500,000.
side by side can hardly be expected to as- |
gold owes to legislation its high value to- !
her all on ‘‘the’” gown.
She never selects a novelty material. She
knows she might as well have the date of
its purchase embroidered all over it. In-
stead she contents her soul with a staple—
‘a serge, a whipcord, or if her means per-
| mit, a fine broadcloth—and if she can af-
| ford it, she further buys a really good silk
{ lining. A cheap one never, better a good
{ quality of cambric.
Made then in the hest style—by no
means always the latest—she is secure in
the consciousness that she is a well-dressed
| woman, and with the aid of a waistcoat, a
lace jacket or two and her pretty shirt
waists, she varies her toilette to suit various
needs.
When crushed or slightly worn about the
| edges, it may be sent back to the tailor,
and lo! he sends it home like a new gar-
ment—pressed, sponged and rebound, it
deceives the most critical. And so it wears
and wears, and never really grows shabby
or out-of-date ; the sleeves may be altered,
the jacket shortened, or tightened, to suit
the exigencies of style, in all of which
| changes the tailor evinces a paternal inter-
est ; unlike a dressmaker, he seems to take
a pride in making his handiwork last as
long as possible, and when eventually the
gown is really impossible he suggests that
it be fixed over for a bicycle suit !
“How shall I perform an introduction ?*’
inquires a girl who likes to do things grace-
{ fully and whois entirely right in her notion
that for most things there is a right way
and also a wrong way.
Introducing people is neither difficult
nor occult and it requires no special train-
ing. There are very few simple rules to
be observed. You present a gentleman to
a lady, and a younger to an older person.
You are careful to speak clearly and dis-
tinetly, for nothing ‘is more embarrassing
| than to have a stranger’s name mumbled
so that it remains unknown, thus defeating
the end of the introduction. You do not
say : ‘‘Mamma, let me present my class-
mate,’’ leaving your mother to guess at the
part of your speech which was really the
most important ; you say : “My class-
mate, Miss Leonard.”” ~ And, equally,
when you are introducing Miss Leonard
to your friend, you do not say : “Alice,
may I introduce my cousin Sophie?” in
which case neither young woman would
have the least idea of more than the other's
Christian name. If a person is a person-
age—a professor, or doctor, or clergyman,
or in any way noted or famous—the tact-
ful young girl makes the title a part of her
introduction, so that the people presented
to him are aware that they are honored by
the new acquaintance.
The latest way to wear a veil is after the
fashion of an English “fall ;”’ not gathered
tight up around the chin, but allowed to
fall straight down from the brim of the hat.
Even the decollete evening gowns have
long sleeves this winter.
‘‘The secret of a bad complexion,” said
a well-known physician recently, ‘is a bad
digestion, and we. generally trace that to a
bad liver. One of the best remedies for a
sluggish liver is cheap and pleasant. Diet-
ing is the secret of the cure. The best
liver regulator for persons of sedentary
habits—and those are the ones whose com-
plexions are muddy—is to be found in
apples, eaten baked if they are not well
digested when eaten raw. I attended the
pupils of a well-known boarding school,
and among them was a country girl whose
complexion was the envy of all her asso-
ciates. I found that she was a very light
eater at her meals, but she had a peculiar
custom of taking a plate of apples to her
room at night and eating them slowly as
she studied her lessons. This was her
regular practice. Some of the other girls
in the institution took it up, and I know,
as a result of my personal investigation,
that the apple-eating girls had the hest
complexions of any in the school. ”’
The short tailor jacket is the newest
form of wrap : to be perfectly correct it
must be of so pale a shade of tan as to be
but slightly off the cream, and of the
heaviest and most velvety of meltons.
Another necessary [feature is a wide
open front, with rolling collar and narrow
revers, showing a fitted vest of the same
shade of melton, finished with sets of small
mother-of-pear buttons. The corners are
all curved, and every seam is beautifully
strapped with the goods.
The gigot sleeves have no fullness at the
elbow, and a snug lower arm finished with
buttons.
Inside the vest is worn a smart front of
linen, a high collar and bow tie of scarlet
satin. The skirt may be of any of the
swell new plaids in the rich, subdued tints,
all covered with long silky hairs, or in any
f the new colored crepons, lined with
silk.
This maiden may have the choice of two
hats, ‘he first to be a sailor, of butter
colored straw crown, and brim of black,
slightly rolling ; a wide, folded band of
bright scarlet ribbon encircles the crown,
| while a bunch of curled coque feathers are
in length, had | stuck in at the side.
The second choice, more suitable for a
| genuine fall day, is a long shaped turban,
with a crown of tan, fuzzy felt, and rolling
brim. faced with smooth black silk, finish-
ed with a cord at the top. A knot of black
Ta | taffeta ribbon holds a bunch of long, droop
——The king of Greece receives the | ing green-tinted cock’s feathers at the side»
smailest income of any European sovereign, | arranged £0 as to droop softly over the
1
hair.
An excellent economy such a gown is.