Bellefonte, Pa., March 24, 1905.
THE JEALOUS WIFE.
“I wonder what he may be doing now ?
0, if I only could be there to see !
Some woman may have called, and he and
she
Perhaps are making eyes ! She may allow
Her hand to lie in his this minute ! How,
O, how can 1 endure these doubts, ah me!
The brazen thing may flatter him, and he
May listen, heeding not his sacred vow !”
While thus his loving wife in loneliness
Devoted all her eager thoughts to him,
What did he do, the wretch? Ah, nothing
less
Than take his knife out and sit there and
trim
His finger nails and vainly try to guess
How next to meet the landlord, cold and
grim.
—&8. E. Kiser, in Chicago Record-Herald.
A LITTLE TRAGEDY FOR TWO.
That night when Burbank came home
white of face,—the thin whiteness of anger
and nervous fatigue,—his eyes dull with
defeat, bis wife knew she must not speak
to him. Something told her that this was
the crisis, the crisis she bad pleaded for
and prayed against. She stood close to
him, occasionally putting her band on his
shoulder, as he took off his overcoat and
letting the sympathy and loyalty in her
clear deep eyes pour out upon him in un-
stinted warmth. >
Thrussing her arm through his she led
him down their narrow bowling-alley of a
hall to a little red studio and let him sink
down exhausted on the divan.
‘*‘Poor old man,’’ she murmured, patting
his hand and touching his disordered black
hair with the lightest fingers.
Presently Burbank shook himself out of
his apathy of depression and absent-mind-
edness.
“Billy, old lady,”’ be said, trying to
smile.
‘‘Has it been bard, dear.’’
‘“Pretty bard, Billy.”
She sat silently waiting. At last he
spoke.
“I’ve done it, Nan."’
Without a word she put her arms ten-
derly about his neck and kissed him.
“I’ve left him. I’ve left Graydon.
over.”’
‘‘Poor boy—it’s all right—I know it’s
right—you’ll win—I'll not say a word.
We'll go back to the other flat. I'll sew
or paint or wash or do something to make
money. And you’ll write again. Think
of it, dear, you’ll write again—your own
stoff—stories—good ones’’—she laughed
excitedly ‘‘and you’ll be a great, great
man. O, I'm glad.”
Barbank looked at her with pathetic ad-
miration and love.
‘‘Poor old long-suffering Billy. Yes,
I'll write and write and be a great, great
man. Now let’s go and see our boy.”’
Alden Burbank was thirty on his wed-
ding day,—a slim, attractive fellow with
enthusiasms which he tried to conceal.
His friends spoke of him as ‘‘one of the
whitest men God ever made.” There was
a group of them who lived together—men,
careless in living and loving, strong in
their friendship while they lasted, and
decently regretful when they faded, believ-
ing with many protestations in each other’s
work, gladder over the sensuous ecstatic
’ line of poetry, a vivid dramatic bit of prose,
a neat ankle, than of anything else their
shabby life begot for him.
Burbank had lived with the group and
written stories in the days before his mar-
riage,—good, flesh-and-blood tales of the
men and women he met in his newspaper
wanderings about the city.
The group believed in him £0 much that
Burbank in time came to believe in him-
self. And when a notable magazine pick-
ed him up and printed two of his stories,
with pictures, and asked for more, he grew
cocky and talked of ‘‘my prices’’ and
‘‘three cents a word.”’
Nos long after this opulent dreaming he
bad met Nancy Holbrook. They lost no
time in falling in love with each other,—
honestly and obliviously in love. To Alden
Burbank she was the wittiess, cleverest,
tenderest, frankest-hearted girl he had ever
imagined; as she unfolded her heart and
mind to bim, be found her a woman of
naive experiences which she had catalogued
in quaint, unspciled ways,—a girl who
came light-heartedly to the simplicity of
caring and enduring in her husband’s
house.
It was like her, when within five days of
the day set for their wedding, Burbank
wrote ber wretchedly that be had lost his
place on his newspaper and bad no money,
and what should they do, to telegraph
him, ‘‘Come at once on receipt of my let-
ter.
The letter found him swearing disconso-
lately over a pile of cigarette ends and a
story that would not let itself be written.
Is contained some words that he kissed
raptuiously and a check for seventy dol-
lars, the money Nan had set aside for an
extravagant luxury or two in her new
home, though he never guessed that. So
he took the most respectable member of
the group as his best man and went to his
wedding, divided between ecstacy and
misgiving.
After the wedding, the two came to New
York, and Barbank, with Nan’s anwaver
ing admiration and stimulating oriticism
back of him, wrote three more stories—the
best he had ever turned ount—and sold
them for good prices.
Life grew very kind to them. The stories
paid the rent of the modest little flat they
bad intrepidly rented, and made friends
for Burbank. People began speaking of
him as a man with good stuff in him, ‘‘a
mau with a style, by jove.’’
A publisher offered him a place in his
house as a reader of manuscript. Both Nan
and Alden agreed that it was the wisest
thing to accept it for awhile until shey got
safely on their feet and had some of their
debts paid. Then he could go back again
to free-lance days. z
But out of that position grew another,
and still another, and it did not seem quite
pradent to stop working at a regular ealary
juss then because—well, because of what
Nau confided one day to Alden with a hap-
py langh. It wasa baby, another Alden
Burbank. That meant a nuise and a thou-
sand bewildering other things that Bar-
bank bad never guessed accompanied the
advent of such a tiny lump of pinkness and
lungs. He eaid to himself regretfully thas
he eurely could not give up that salary
now.
With the old friends thas stili dropped
in on ‘them, and with the few new oues
they made, the Burbanks used to talk long
and seriously of the sad lack of good ma-
terial in the modern short story, ‘‘rotten
stuff’’ they called most of the things they
read. ‘‘Lord, it's a sbame’’ they said,
*‘that some new people didn’t arrive.”’ And
It’s
sof
gradually the talk would drift around to
Barbank and the stories he had written.
“Corking good stoff, old man, why don’t
you write more, eh?’ Burbank’s eyes
would grow brighter and he would sit op
alertly in his chair.
‘Gad, I'm going to; I’m going to, just
as soon as Ican get settled a bit. Yon
can’t work, youn know, when you’re hold-
ing down a position like mine. A chap,
you know, can’t come home froma hard
day’s mental labor and start in writing,’
*“Well, give up your job, then, and free-
lance it. Look at Gracely; see how he’s
getting on, and his stuff isn’t ace-high
with your stories.”’
And after the guests had gone, Nan and
Aldan, in the disordered little apartment,
thick with cigarette fumesand the smell
of the bad claret, talked on with rose-
colored words of Burbank’s talent, and a
thousand times they almost decided that
at the end of the week Alden should really
give up his position and write. ‘‘My dear,
it’s an affront to Providence not to do it,”’
Nan would ory, and her husband would
kiss ber tenderly and on the next free Sun-
day made a great show of getting endless
sheets of paper and a dozen fresh pens to
begin the famous story.
Bus some way it never came—that story.
The baby cried uproariously,or the plumb-
ing got out of order and the pipes leaked
in the kitchen, or they had to go out to
somebody’s dinner—simply had to go—or
Browning came, good old Browning, who
was awfully lonely and needed cheering
up, and the writing was put away.
There were bitter days of depression,
too,—days when there stretched out before
Burbank such a deadly length of office
hours and unpaid bills that he lost faith in
himself and vowed be should never be able
to write again. Nan’s clear eyes became
troubled seeing before her the endless as-
severations of latent energy which never
came to the accomplishing of any result,
and sighing for the old gay days of rejoic-
ing when Alden had a story accepted. Once
when Alden flung himself miserably down
on his bed and almost wept out that he
knew he couldn’t write if he tried, she pus
her bands quickly over his mouth with a
little cry, bus ever after that the prickling
suspicions irritated her. What, O, what if
it were true—Alden never to write again !
And it was her fault; she had spoiled a
career !
In the spring of their fourth year of mar-
ried life—a sickly,sultry,enervating spring
such as comes often to a great city—Nancy
fell ill of a low fever. It needed to the
very last crumb Burbank’s store of optim-
ism, and good humor, and faith, and love,
to keep his wife from sinking toa brood-
ing, melancholy and bitter self-acousation.
And the pity of it all was that he did .nos$
much deceive her with his gaiety and fair
outlook. Women know too well whence
come the springs of joy.
They were very poor in those days.
In June when Graydon’s offer came,
Burbank accepted it stolidly, without
thanking God. He knew Graydon. Every
one in Burbank’s line of work did know
him.
The great man drove up in a cab one
night to the Burbank’s apartment house
and asked for Mr. Burbank. Nan lay
weakly in her bed and beard the prolonged
murmur of voices in the next room, won-
dering who could be talking so loud and so
decisively to Alden.
‘Burbank, I want you to be my editor,”
Graydon spoke in neat, choppy phrases
with a full emphasis on the personal pro-
nouns that seemed to Burbank an omen of
his coming servitude. ‘I’ve seen your
work. I like it. I want you with me.
Will you come ?”’
When he mentioned the salary, Baor-
bank’s heart gave a quick jump. His eyes
turned to Nan’s sick room, to the baby’s
tiny, esonless bedroom, to the shabby,
cramped flat that held little more furniture
than bad come to them in the uncertain
outbursts of wedding gifts. And he caught
sight, too, of his untidy desk where lay the
pages, scrawled over, lined, interlined, and
erased, of the last story he bad attempted.
So he sighed and swore softly under his
breath and accepted Graydon’s offer.
When his bachelor friends heard of it,
they congratulated him perfunctorily and
after that was over, stopped in at the cor-
ner saloon where they discussed the matter
with considerable freedom of speech.
“ **Poor devil’’—they said. ‘‘He’ll never
get out of it now. Burbank used to write
good stuff once. Wonder why he hasn’s
tried to get in a little time for story writ-
ing ? But that’s the trouble—wife, baby,
nurse, flat. Can’t buck against those
things.”
The married men who knew Barbank
inquired eagerly what salary he got. When
they heard, they said, with a tinge of
jealousy, that it was certainly a good thing,
but added virtnously that they thanked
God it wasn’t they who bad to work for
that Indian, Graydon.
The Burbanks moved to a better flat ;
Nancy, with the baby, went to the conntry
for the summer and grew strong and brown
and almost light-hearted. Alden staved
in the hot, parched town and worked—
worked for Graydon.
His wife never knew until she came
home, radiant with joy at seeing him again,
just what Burbank had suffered during
those weary months.
‘What is it, dear ?’’ she asked piteous-
ly, her bands on his shoulders, and ber eyes
looking clear down into his tired, nervous
brain. He tried to evade the question but
his overwrought nerves and his wounded
pride rebelled.
“My God, Billy, it seems to me I can’t
bear is another day,’”’ he cried hopelessly.
And then he poured the whole pathetically
tragic story into her ears. The daily insult
and humiliations, and reversal of judg-
ment, the crushing hours of work, and con-
stant bickering and petty misunderstand:
ings.
“Billy, girl, don’t mind me—I'm tired
out, and I don’t mean all I say,’’ he ended
weakly.
‘*Give it up, dear, youn shan’t live this
way, you just shan’t,’”’ she wept. “We'll
go back to the old flat and—Alden, you
shall write again—free-lance it—and you’ll
grow famous, dear—and everybody will
be proud of you. Alden! Come, let's
do is.”
They stood together with clasped bands
and a fine light of purpose in their eyes.
Then Alden shook his head with a little
sad smile.
“Not yes,
You forges.”
Nan bens her head slowly till it rested
on his neck, and sobbed convulsively.
“Poor old boy, my poor old boy ! And I'm
going to add still another life to yoor bur-
dens. Poor little unwelcome, unborn
stranger.”
‘Hush, dear, hush."
She left him alone at his desk that night
where he worked far into the morning. The
tears on her cheeks were not yet dry when
he lay down beside his wife and she shook
in her sleep with racking sobs.
It was Javuary when Burbank, desper-
ate, half sick, careless of consequences,
dear. We can’t afford is.
resigned his position as editor of Graydon’s
magazine. At the end of the week he left
the place. It seemed strange not to hurry
off in the morning to the elevated train ;
be almost missed the feel of the strap in
his bands to which he used to hang in the
crowding, noisy, good-natured carloads of
workers. Instead, he stayed about the
house, rising late, and after breakfast play-
ing with his little son, before he wens to
his desk to write. After a time he took to
doing the marketing for Nao. It settled
his mind, be said, before getting down to
work. Sometimes the entire morning fled
by and Burbank bad done nothing.
He did not confess it to Nap, nor admit
it to himself, but the stories would not
write themselves. He could not think out
plots; he had forgotten his technic. He
failed to get into (he swing of it; his mood
was at variance with his desires. He would
write a laborions page and tear it up as
soon as it was finished ; or he would sit for
hours idly looking into the area ways. Oc-
oasionally Nan crept up with a smile of en-
couragement and a whispered question and
then left him alone, hating himself for his
inability.
For a month he struggled, furiously,
spasmodically, despondentiy, confidently.
At the end of that time he had written not
a line worth saving.
There came the night of reckoning. Bai-
bank sat alone in the little red studio be-
fore the gas-log fire. In Nan's bedroom
there were sounds of quick subdued steps
and hushed orders; a trained nurse, com-
posed and irritatingly competent, appeared
and disappeared; the portentious activity
that accompanies birth and death was over
the house.
Straining his anxious ears, Burbank
heard a feeble little ory and presently the
nurse came to tell him that the danger was
over and that his wife had brought into
the world for his care and protection and
support another life. He bowed silently.
Then he faced the truth. He should
never write again—the virtue seemed to
have gone out of him. He dared not stop
to recover it; indeed he did not strongly
believe that he could recover it, try as he
might. The well-beloved craft was his no
longer. He must go back to an office desk.
The long dreary days of office work stretch-
ed out before him till he shuddered. That
little wailing voice in the next room fretted
his nerves. If only—
He shook himself together with a start.
The picture of a woman, tender-eyed and
faithful, trembled luminously before him
—his wife—dear old Billy.
“Billy is better than books,”” he mur-
maured.
A shadow of a smile lingered on his lips.
“I musn’t tell her that I’ll never write
again. She musn’t know; ’twould break
her heart, poor Billy.”
But in the inner room, exhausted and
ill, Billy knew. Itseemed to her that she
had known ever since the first baby came.
The next day Graydon asked Burbank
to come back to the magazine.—By Ewery
Pottle, in the Pilgrim.
Don'ts tor Boys and Girls.
BOYS.
Don’t wear your hat in the house.
Don’t sit while a caller stands.
Don’t get into the babit of using slang.
Vulgar expressions denote degeneracy.
Don’t be ashamed of gallantry toward
women and girls. A gentleman is always
courteous toward the opposite sex.
Don’t fall into bad habits with the fixed
intention of ‘‘swearing off’’ as you grow
older. Habits formed in youth accompany
one to the grave, bad habits often hurying
their victims before their time.
Don’t speak of your father as ‘‘the gov-
ernor,”’ nor of your mother as ‘‘the
madam.’’ If you do not show respect to
your parents you must not look to the
world to respect you.
GIRLS.
Don’t be rude toward your brothers.
Boys’ feelings are as sensitive as girls’.
Don’s forget that you owe the same re-
spect and obedience to your father that
you do to your mother. Often the right-
ful head of the bouseis placed at the foot | vr
through sheer thounghtlessness on the pars
of his family.
Don’t forget that it is in most cases the
father who devotes his life in work and
worry to provide for his family, and show
him the gratitude he deserves.
Don’t have secrets from your mother.
Remember that she was a girl once like
yourself, and that she will prove the most
sympathetic confidant in the world, for she
holds your happiness and welfare at heart.
— Pittsburg Dispatch.
Essays of Little Bobble.
lawyers is men wich git foaks in trub-
bel & then charge the saim whether thay
git them out or not. lawyers is of 2 kinds :
1. good lawyers.
2. cheap lawyers.
the cheap lawers cost you more than the
good lawyers, the only trubbel is that you
never know the good. lawyers sil yon try
them and then may be they aint vary good
after all.
lawyers is made in 2 ways. One kind
goes to college and plays foot ball & the
other kind works for a lawyer & studies
law books at nite, Mister Lincoln was the
last kind and the first kind is easy to find
anywhare, vou can git them to try a case &
lose it for you any day. Som of them is
good, tho, but not a grate many.
lawyers git mad at eech other when thay
are trying a case, but after the case is over
thay call eech other Old Chap and say Lets
goin & havea drink. Then thay stay
thare till they have 8 moar drinks and then
they call eech other ‘‘dere old chum.”
— Milwaukee Sentinel.
Over One and One-half Millions of Dol-
Iars in Pension Allowances.
The statistics of the Pennsylvania Rail-
road Pension Department, compiled as of
December 31st, 1904, show that dur-
ing the five years of its operation there
has been authorized $o be paid in pension
allowances to the retired employees of the
Company, the sum of $1,614,087.59, made
ap each year as follows: 1904. $390,000.00;
1903, $359,374.32; 1902, $328,403.10; 1901,
$202,290.20 and 1900, $244,019.97.
The above expenditure does nos include
the expense of operation of the department,
which is also borne by the Company.
Daring the five vears application of the
pension plan 2,418 employees have been
retired as pensioners from the active ser-
vice of the Company, of which number 700
have died. Of the total number retired
568 were between the age of 65 and 69
years, of whom 439 were retired on their
own request with the approval of the em-
ploying officers.
Justified.
*‘I wish they'd invent a new expression
ocoasionally,”’ said Top as he perused the
account of a recent wedding. ‘'It’s always
‘the blushing'bride.’’
“Well,” replied Mrs. Top, ‘when yon
consider what sort of a husband most girls
have to marry youn can’t wonder at their
blushing.”
Jurors for April Term of Court.
There will be three weeks of court next
term commencing the fourth Monday
of April.
GRAND JURORS APRIL TERM.
Fred Shontz................Philipsburg
John B. Miles. ......cccccceeuunrenae. Huston
ears zeeraneene POOL
Joseph Ceader..................... Bellefonte
J. C. Thompson............ Philipsburg
James M. Shook.................Bellefonte
Fo HB Nol ri nines cnr Miles
M. J. Yearick.................cccineenn Walker
W.C Farner............cooooon....... Poller
John H. Hartsock. «......Spring
N, J. Hockman........ wees... Walker
Frederick Karichoff............ Curtin
Hamill Bathgate.........cccee....... Harris
‘Wm. H. Derstine. Sr............ Bellefonte
Benjamin Gordon.................. as
Walter Heaton ...................Huston
W. W. Bible......... essasinas .. ...Bellefonte
John H. Wagner...................Potter
Monrce Armer.. | ...as.. Bellefonte
John A. Kelley........ ..Snow Shoe
David Wensel........ taeeennen. BOGES
Owen Underwood...... ....... as isvie Union
R. C. Thompson ......ccc.veee..... Worth
TRAVERSE JURORS FIRST WEEK APRIL
TERM 1905.
David Harpster................Ferguson
Edward Richards...............Bellefonte
JA. Confer... .... ...i. iii. Boggs
Enea A. AUmMAN.....cccoevv noes ous vad Gregg
Scott Holter..................... Liberty
AE Strayer.........................Miles
John A. tonfer..... ..........
Jesse Klinger........... «i...
John Smith. coe nniiiiii....d 22
Cyrus Hall ............. or iypanees Philipsburg
I. Biake Ayers............... £
Daniel I. Johnson.................. Ferguson
Robert Sloteman....................Spring
Henry LL Barger................ Snow Shoe
Daniel C. Bohn...........0..ciivier saens
James ¥cCool................ :
Geo, R. Williams........
GW Hazel.....................00L ....Miles
George B. Simler.............Philipsburg
Adam WO ...ciln cis a vvinsasci nines. Mile8
Geo W. Markle......................Benner
Geo Weaver...... ......... ........ urtin
H.C. Pravel....................... Snow Shoe
David Mctloskey................. Howard
Albert Scott......coreereernnnnnnn. Philipshars
Isaac Armstrong..................College
David Haines .....Bellefonte
Edward Gehret ot
Wm Bell...............ccoviinin ii Rush
Harry Smull..c.... -. oo vicenis 2.00 Miles
James Nolan.... ....cccuee........ Walker
J. W Luokens...... ..... -.o... Philipsburg
James A. Quigley....... ............. Liberty
John G. Rimmey ............... .Spring
J A. Witmer.............. . ..... ...College
W. LL tinbler........cinsne een. -- 2000. Miles
Michael Shields. . ........Bellefonte
H D Meek.......cccer......State College
John WOOmer....... ...ciivinncisnasness Boggs
James Swabb...... ............... Harris
E.D. Thomas........cotcaeeerese steven Haines
Pater Park..... ...........0...... Snow Shoe
Victor Wav............. a5, Half Moon
BE. R. Williams.. ..... ............Patton
Andrew Hunter........... Philipsburg
James . Rider............." alf Moon
Christ Decker.................. Walker
Wm. Everhart. ..............0... College
TRAVERSE JURORS SECOND WEEK
APRIL TERM 1905.
John Q. Miles..................... Huston
C. F. Montgomery.......... Bellefonte
Wyn, Halnes................... Liberty
Wm. Poorman. .......... 5.5, Boggs
J. A. Hagel.......i.............. Spring
Wm. OcRer..... viva ive cldh, Haines
C.H. Stover... .:.vconnsric gis *¢
Robert YOUng...... :iccvescsressovesss Rush
A.C Musser................ Millheim
Jacob Heller.......... So. Philipsburg
(A Weaver............n iia, Penn
Christ Reese...................... Worth
PerryHall.........................Onion
CP Iong. .................0. Gregg
John Turner....................Howard
Clayton torl..................Ferguson
oA Alezander............... Union
Robert Diehl......................Miles
Charles R. Custer.. ....Philipsburg
Wm. Aikey..............cceee.. Howard
Samuel Sankey............ Philipsburg
Michael Kerstetter......oooeruennennns Spring
H.O Feidler............corccecceienner Haines
Carl Motfz..........cc.ceeevnreens ereirens ve
Clarence Isenberg......... So. Philipsburg
D.G Meyers....... sesesssere aaveesasts College
Stanley Hudsob................ Philipsburg
Daniel M Stine........ ai ge
J.J. Stein.......ccceierenrenne. .. . Walker
James I Crotzer............... Benner
Harry Badger............... Bellefonte
Isador Baum............
Ira Howe... lv. 0d ipsburg
Wm Quay... iii, 4 .Curtin
Samuel Fetters.............. Bellefonte
Thomas Quick......................Boggs
E B Weaver..................... Ferguson
ThovasDeakin............ Philipsburg
Daniel McKinley...............Milesburg
R.A. Gilli.ciesiinninieidin Re Rush
TRAVERSE JURORS (SPECIAL WEEK)
‘COMMENCING MONDAY MAY 8th.
1905.
John H. Spicher, «+ v..ee..Centre Hall
Samuel Hollobaugh...............Huston
John E. Miles.................Milesburg
M. J. Barger.........onvee. ions Gregg
Harry H Haag................Bellefonte
Jacob F. Hoy.......eo00eveeee...... BONNET
Henry Lewis..........ceo ovo eevee... Taylor
James Schoefield..................Bellefonte
Dr. E. S Dorworth..... can nd ays
3€0. DBCHET....oavivs cosnniv vs ...Penn
Henry Brown.......
Maynard Meeker
Jonathan J. Tressler........... College
John L. Dunlap............. ..Spring
John Hoy, Jr........,. ‘Walker
Emanuel Shuey.... State College
TP. Ctowher.."............. .......Taylor
( has Johnsonbaugh................Spring
Eugene Krone...... exunnisanishee Snow Shoe
Claude ('0ok...................Bellefonte
A. A. Stover....................Haines
Frank H. Robb..................... . Walker
Frank M Fisher............ . «ceive. GrrOgg
David Rothrock............... .... Benner
J. .L. Shafler...... .covs. -.c cosnsasss: Marion
Howard Strable.................... Wr1ker
LW. Nee. ila nian
H. B. Pontius......... ... .......Bellefoute
dF. TapIor....coccicveviiiiinniannisien: Gregg
Daniel Robb......... Liberty
Clinton Markle.........i.... ..Benner
J.C. Fehl............0.... Sideares Haines
George Hart ... ..........oeovivees Bellefonte
Emanuel Garbrick................ Walker
Wm. Miller.....................Philipsburg
James Hoover.......... ..... wissascens Union
After the Consultation.
‘‘Well, Drs. Brown and Smith are going
to operate upon old Gotrox.”’
‘Is the operation necessary ?'’
‘Why, yes ; Brown has a note coming
due, and Smith wants an automobile.”
— Puck.
+ —=—The onion is the most nowishiug of
all vegetables.
FOR AND ABOUT WOMEN,
All Through Lent, diessmakers and
seamtresses work at fever heat, leaping
over a reason and getei g most of the snm-
mer diesses well out of the way hefore they
do much with spring clothes—exeeps those
to be worn on Easter Day.
And zlmost evershody is making at
least one costume of linen. Snits and
dresses are made of it; shirtwaiss snits and
blouses, and even those stunning three-
quarter separate coats, be-laced and be-
trimmed until they are ‘‘dress’’ affairs.
Styles for the linen suits are most varied,
coffee jackets hobnobbing with three guar-
ter coats and blouse jackets. Skirts show
listle change, except thas more and more
fullness has been crowded in aboat the
feet, and that about half of them are tiim-
med and trimmed, with embroidery and
eyeletsand even with inserts and wide
edgings of lace.
Paris has declared berself ‘‘for’’ very
much trimmed skirts, but plainer skirts
will share honors here with trimmed;
only everything (and thatincludes coats
and dresses as well as skirte) must he cat
with plenty of sweep.
LINEN SUNSHADES.
We are promised linen-covered snnshades
to match oar summer frocks. All blue, all
sage green or all tan or all white the dress
may be, and your morning sunshade is ex-
pected to be ‘‘en suite.”
The parasol cover can be quite plain, or
it may be treated to a border of ornamental
needlework. Indeed, such a design bas
been the ‘‘pick up” work of many a girl
since New Year’s. Perhaps the sobrieties
of Lent will give her time to complete the
embroidery aud have the cover fitted over
the Same by someone cunning in such
work.
Plain sticks are seen ou linen sunshades.
Some of the plain liven covers have an
applied border of ‘‘a jour’’ (that is, open-
work) embroidery, and come show a scanty
fiounce of English eyelets work, or ‘‘borde-
rie anglaise.”’
Sleeve styles show more pronounced
changes than any other part of a blouse,
or, indeed, of a whole gown; and these
changes have resolved themselves, in nine
out of ten sleeves, into the wide, full puff
to the elbow, with the long cuff.
The style that threatened had all the
fullness branching out stiffly at the top
of the sleeve in an ugly way. ;
We've had these puffed sleeves with us
before, but their coming again is with a
host of differences. Instead of that plain
puff, which was unattractive and short-
lived, by reason of its wide expanse of un-
trimmed material, comes a puff trimmed
in any one of a hundred distinctive ways.
Sometimes the only trimming of the puff
is in the middle, where it may he caught
into a sort of double puff, with a band of
the insertion or lace which trims the blouse.
Sometimes a row or two of the trimming,
with a band of tucks between—running
parallel or in the opposite direction-—is the
trimming, echoed on the deep coff.
The sleeves of ycur last year’s blouse can
be easily made over, if you're fortunate
enough to have some of the lace or em-
broidery you trimmed it with, Turn the
sleeve upside down, cutting it off at the
elbow, and making a deep cuff. Or a
better way is to lift the sleeve, letting last
year’s wrist fullness, make this year’s
elbow fullness, and cutting it off from the
top.
On some sleeves, the cuffs arz no deeper
than four inches, but that is the narrowest
width, unless they are lefs narrow, and
the lower part of the sleeve is tricked ous
to imitate the deep cuff.
Stains of varnish on the hands are some-
times very difficult to remove. As soon as
possible, rub with a little alcohol ou a
soft rag;afterward wash thoroughly in soap
and water.
To remove walout and frais stains from
the fingers, dip them in strong tea, rubbing
she nails with it with a nail brush: wash
in warm water; the stains come out in-
stantly.
To wash anything that is greasy, use
hot soda water. The alkali turns the
grease into soap, which will do its own
cleaning.
One of the most soothing applications
for a fresh burn is a raw potato scraped or
grated and bound like a poultice on the
injured surface.
To the ordinary combination of warm
water and ammonia used for freshening
carpets, add a tablespoonful of kerosene,
and the result will be still more satisfac-
tory.
The following Lenten recipes are select-
ed from Harper’s Cook Book Eucyelopedia,
and a. e of especial timeliness:
BROJLED EGGS.
Cut slices of bread, toast them lightly,
trim the edges, and lay them on a dish
before the fire, with some bits of butter
placed on top. When this melts, break
and spread carefully six or eight eggs on
the toast. Have ready a salamander,
or hot shovel, to biown the top, and,
when the eggs are sufficiently done squeeze
an orange and grate some nutmeg over
them.
EGGS A LA CREME.
Hard boil twelve eges; slice them thin
in rings. In the bottom of a large haking
dish place a layer of grated breadcrumbs,
then one of the egus; cover with bits of
butter, and sprinkie with pepper and salt.
Continue thus to blend these ingredients
until she dish is full; be sare, though, that
the crumbs cover the eggs upon top. Over
the whole pour a large teacupful of~wveot
oream,and brown nicely in a moderately
heated oven.
EGG VOL-AN VENTS.
Nince two truffles and put them into a
stewpan with two tablespoonfuls of thick
cream: add four eggs that bave hoiled
twenty minutes; chop them small, season
with salt, pepper and nutmeg. Have ready
some paste cases, and when the mixture
has simmered five minutes fill them and
serve hot. Sufficient for six oases.
Tiny checks and stripes—as old-fashioned
as possihle—are among the best liked of
the new ril' 8. Some of the stripes are not
more than a thread.
There's a new soft silk juss in—some-
thing like old-time surahs, but with more
““body”’ to it, and richer.
No Monopoly of Brains.
une of the muny hopeful signs of the
times is the apparent decay of the
breed of so called great men, those
mighty personalities that in former
times stood out like a solitary tree in a
vast prairie. The reason for it, of
course, is the distinction of all those
old time monopolies of brains which
stunted all human beings except a few
who by chance rather than by superi-
ority of fiber grew and developed.
There are thousands, literally thou-
sands, of men now living who if they
had lived a century or so ago and had
done a work similar to that which they
are doing without any very sonorous
fanfare upon the trumpets of fame
would have been the talk of the world
and the main topic of history. And
how many of the so called great
achievements of so called great states-
men, soldiers and thinkers of former
times would be impossible today be-
cause those achievements depended
chiefly upon the ignorance and incapac-
ity of the overwhelming mass of the
men of their day!
Truly this is the age of opportunity.
—Saturday Evening Post.
Swimming Elephants.
The elephants of Burma, in India,
are used for a variety of purposes.
Throughout the day they work steadily
as laborers in carrying the great tim-
bers from place to place, a single ele-
phant doing the work, it is estimated,
of a score of men. Their great diver-
sion in hours of rest is bathing, and
they take their baths in a curious way.
The keeper takes his place on the back
of an elephant and thus placed makes
a tour of a great lake or river, the
huge animal swimming under him at a
surprising rate, while he is kept high
and dry above water.
An Autograph Hint.
“Will you oblige me with your auto-
graph?” asked a bore of a busy public
man,
“Certainly,” replied the public man.
“Just make out a check for 10 guineas
payable to my order. I will indorse it
cheerfully, and in due time, you may
be sure, it will come back to yon safe-
ly through your bank.”
Jack Tar’s Spree.
In the Sailors home in Brooklyn the
navy boys deposit for safe keeping in
the course of a year many thousands
of dollars. Some time ago one of them
after being paid off at the end of his
enlistment had $700, which he deposit-
ed with the superintendent of the home
—all but $50, with which he intended
to have a good time. Along toward
midnight he returned in a hilarious
condition and asked for $50 more.
The superintendent handed him two
one dollar bills, and the sailor went
off apparently satisfied. The following
morning he dropped in and requested
the superintendent to give him the bal-
ance of his money, as he was going
home. The superintendent offered him
$648.
“No,” said the sailor; “I’m not that
kind of a chap. I don’t want to cheat
you out of $48. I drew $100 from you
last night, and you’ve paid me $48 too
much.”
“You're mistaken,” said the superin-
tendent. “When you came the second
time I gave you only $2, and this is the
balance due you.”
“All right, governor,” replied the Jack
tar. “But, would you believe it, I had
just as much fun on that $2 as if it had
been $50?’—New York Press.
Hot Water as a Panacea.
The best toilet preparation in the world
is plain hot water. Here are some of the
uses to which it may be put :
Drink a howl of it every night, if you
want a good digestion, a good sleep and a
clear complexion. ’
Put a bag of it to your feet when you
have a cold; to your back when you have a
backache, or at the nape of your neck when
you have a headache or feel sleepless.
Bathe the eyes with it when they are
inflamed.
Soak the feet in it when they are tired.
Soak the bands in it before manicuring.
Steam the face with it once a week for
your complexion.
Squared Himself.
“I don’t think I ever can forgive you
for it,”’ she pouted. ‘‘You pretended $o
he so husy with your newspaper when I
entered a crowded street car this morning
that you didn’t see me, yet there I stood
in the aisle, in plain sight.’
‘You in ‘plain sight,” Miss Gring ?"’ he
exclaimed. ‘Not on your platinum print!
If yon were standing there, you were a
dazzlingly heautifal sight !'’
Did she forgive him? Well !—Chicago
Tribune.
New Version.
“What did yon sav, John? queries
Mrs. John, viewing her full length reflec-
tion in the mirror.
“T said.’ repeated John, distinctly, ‘‘it
is clothes that hreak the man.”’
A Definition.
Little Clarence—Pa,
mist ?
Mr. Callipers—An optimist, my son,
is a person who doesn’t care what hap-
pens if it doesn’t happen to him.— Puck.
what is an opti-
A statistician has arrived at the con-
olasion that £5.000,000 is spent yearly by
the public of London on cabs. He also
estimates that of that great sum perhaps a
million and a hall represents overcharges.
——*I may not be wealthy, bus I can
afford my own carriage and pair,”’ said the
foud father as he wheeled his twins along
the pavement.
The usual fortune of complaint is to
excite Jontempt more than pity.——Jokn-
son.
Every man has a pretty good opinion of
himself till he gets in public office and reads
what a sconndiel he is.——New York Press.
——There is no instinct like that of the
heart.— Byron.