Bellefonte, Pa., Dec. 15, 1905. Reman THE MOTHERLOOK. “As one whom his mother comforteth.”— Isa. 53, 13 You take the finest woman, with th’ roses in her cheeks, An’ all th’ birds asingin’ in her voice each time she speaks; Her hair all black an’ gleamin’ or a glowin® mass 0’ gold— An’ still th’ tale o’ beauty isn’t more th’n halfway told. There ain’t a word that tells it; all descrip- tion it defies— The motherlook that lingers in a happy woman’s eyes. A woman's eyes will sparkle in her innocence and fun, Or snap a warnin’ message to th’ ones she wants to shun, In pleasure or in anger there is always han's someness, But still there is a beauty that was surely made a bless— A beauty that grows sweeter, an’ that all but glorifies— Th’ motherlook that sometines come into a woman’s eyes. It ain’t a smile exactly—yet it’s brimmin’ fall o’ joy, An’ meltin’ into sunshine when she bends above her boy Or girl when it’s a-sleepin’, with it’s dreams told in its face; She smoothes its hair, an’ pets it as she lif’s it to its place. It leads all th’ expressions whether grave, or gay, or wise— motherlook that glimmers in a lovin’ woman’s eyes. Th’ There ain’t a picture of it. If there was they'd have to paint A picture of a woman mostly angel an’ some saint. An’ make it still be human—an’ they'd have to blend the whole. There ain't a picture of it,for no one can paint a soul. ’ No one can paint the glory comin’ straight from paradise— The motherlook that lingers in a happy woman’s eyes. —Chicago Daily Tribune, STAR OF BETHLEHEM. “Lord God of Israel, hear my wrongs,’ the rabbi prompted; ‘‘grant me vengeance on the accursed Christian.’’ ‘No, grandpa; I don’t needs I should say my wrong prayers,’”’ Isidore pleaded; *‘I don’t needs them.’’ : ‘‘Recite my wrongs,’’ the rabbi comman- ded; ‘‘stand uprighs and begin.” ‘‘ ‘Lord God of Israel, hear my wrongs,’’’ Isidore began in measured and sonorous Hebrew. ‘‘ ‘Les thins ear be attentive and thine arm swift to avenge. Lock down up- on thy servant and mark his suffering. Out of a town of a far country where we dwelt in love and peace with all men, out of the temple where my grandfather spent the years of his young life, out of the house wherein my mother was born and wherein she bore me, away from the friends who loved us, away from the friends we loved, the tyrant drove us. We came to the ty- rant’s land. Behold, there was no other place. With curses shey received us; with indignities they welcomed us. And my mother—' ’’ Rabbi Meirkoff covered his eyes with one long, thin hand and half sob- bed, balf groaned, *‘Thy mother!” Always at this point in the ‘‘wrong prayers'’ he did these things, and Isidore, nnderstand- ing as little of what he was saying as many another six-year-old understands of the Lord’s Prayer, regarded this interruption as essential to the proceedings. So he re- sumed: ‘* ‘My mother,the only child and daugh- ter of this old man, they carried off to be their plaything for such a time as her bean- ty should endure. My father they foully slew, and their remains of our ancient house a man tooold for vengeance and a child too young. Cast, then, thine eyes upon me, and hasten the day of my strength.” Now can I go by the block?’ ‘“Yea,’’ said the rabbi, weakly; for no repetition could dull the agony which, at each new recital of his wrongs, tore his tired old heart with savage hatred and black despair. Each evening Isidore drag- ged him through the scenes of that night whose evening left him in his stately li- brary surrounded by his books and by his little family, and whose morning found him with other fugitives fleeing toward the frontier, a erving child beneath his cloak and a great fear in all his being. Five vears had passed sitice then, and he was ~ still afraid; still dazed; still, too often, hungry. ‘‘Can I go by the block?” asked Isidore. *‘If thou wilt shun the opressor have no communion wish him, and touch not of his food. And woe to them upon whom that monster of fire and flame which they call fire-engine comes suddenly! Go now, and with my blessing.” Isidore clattered out into the squalid hall, and a door at the farther end opened cautiously. With a rapturous chuckle he threw himself into the darkness beyond it, and was caught in a close embrace. ‘‘Boy of my heart,”’ whispered a fond old voice, “how are yon to-night?’? ‘I’m healthy,” Isidore replied as his hostess closed the door and lighted an inch- long candle which shone upon them redly from the cracked sides of what had once been a sanctuary lamp. “I'm healthy, and I guess I goes by the block.” ‘‘Is it like that you’d 80?’ Mrs. Keating demanded. “I will have to wash your face fist.” ‘‘But you washed it yesterday,” the boy objected. ‘‘I don’t needs you shall wash it some more.” : **Then you can’t go out.’ “Then I'll stay in.” Which was exactly what Mis, Keating desired. They spent a delightful evening. The hostess entertained the guest with reminis- cences of far-off days in Connemara when ber heart and her life were young. She was a relic of the time when East Broad.- way and all its environs had been a pros- perous Irish quarter, and the years which bad changed these stately homes to squalid tenements had changed her from the mis- tress of one of them to the worn and fragile sweeper of St. Mary's church. ‘My mother,’ she told the hoy, ‘‘was a lovely girl; her hair was as black as the night, and her eyes were as blue as the sky’? = ‘Mine mama bad from the gold hair,” the guest interrupted, ‘‘mine grandpa he tells me. From the gold hair, mit urls, On’y somethings comes by nights and takes my mama away.’’ . ‘‘The saints preserve us! What kind of a thing?" “I don’t know what kind from a thing he was, I don’t know the name from him out of English: on’y he kills my papa, and he takes away my mama, and he hits my grandpa a fierce back. I guess maybe he had looks off the fire-engines. My grandpa be has a’ awlul fraid over fire-engines.”’ Mrs. Keating crossed herself devoutly. ‘‘And is was walking around alone?’’ she asked. ‘‘Walkin’ and yellin’.” ‘And it never touched you?"’ “It ain’ seen me; I sneak behinds my papa where he lays on the floor; they had a fraid from him, and while he was dead, blood comes ont of him—it goes on mine dress. That’s what my grandpa says.”’ ‘‘That’s right, my dear; that’s right,” said the old woman. ‘‘Your dress was stiff with it when I found you.” ‘*Tell me about how you found me some more,’’ Isidore pleaded; it is a’ awful nice story.” **Well, I will,” Mrs. Keating promised. ‘“‘Bus fires I must show you what I’ve got for you. I found it when I was sweeping the church.” And she bestowed upon him a limp apd shrunken paper bag containing six peanuts. As he rested happily on ber knee and consumed this light refreshment, she began the story of which he, being the heroe never tired. “It is five years ago this December, on a snowy night just like this, thas I found you oryiog in the next room. Yon were all alone and very cold.” “Und I bad a mad,” the subject of this biography added with a chastened pride. ‘*You were as cross as two sticks,”’ said his friend; “and you were dirty, and your dress was torn, and—"’ ‘It bad blood from off my papa?’’ “*Well,I didn’¢ mind any of those things; I wanted a little boy, and I was glad to get him—glad to get even a dirty little boy.’ Isidore’s sensitive face flushed and his lip quivered. This was a digression and not at all to his mind. ‘I was a baby,”’ he urged; “a little bit of baby. I couldn’s to wash mine self, und mine grandpa he had a sad.” ‘‘Dear heart, that’s a joke. I was only too glad to see you. You were as welcome as the flowers of May; and I picked you up and brought you here, where I had every- thing ready for you,because I knew that you were coming. I had waited years for you, I had prayed to Holy Mary for you.” ‘‘Holy-Mary-Mother-Mild,”’ said Isidore, devoutly. ** *Mother of God,’ I used to pray to her, ‘you see that I am lonely; you know that empty arms can ache. Send me gomething to take cate of; send me—’ ‘‘And she sent yoa kittens,’ the enthral- led audience interrupted. ‘‘She sent six crawly kittens mitout no eyes and mis whiskers by the face. She was awful good.?? X *‘The woman on the next floor was mov- ing and gave them to me. Bat they soon grew up, and I was as badly off as ever.” ‘So you prayed some more,’’ he said. ‘I did, indeed; and Mary—"’ ‘*Holy-Mary-Mother-Miid,’’ he again in. sisted. ‘‘Sent me a little boy to take care of.” “Und you lays me on your bed, und you gives me I should eat, and you makes me I should sleep, and by mornings comes my grandpa mit fierce mads.”’ ‘Glory be to God! he was the maddest thing I ever saw; I thought he would have had a fit. First hz cried over you,and then he cursed me—I didn’t know a word he said, but I knew by the look of him— until be was as weak as a kitten.” *‘On’y Holy -Mary- Mother- Mild ain’t sent zim?’ the hoy interposed again. ‘Indeed, she did vot. And then he took you away into the next room and warned me—I didn’t understand a word he said, but I knew by the look of him—never to 80 near you or to touch youn again,’ ‘And it makes mit you nothings?’’ said the hoy. ‘Nothing at all; when he was out I'd go and take oare of you, and feed you, and dress you in the little shirts and things I made you out of. Father Burke’s old sur- plice and the tail of Father Jerome's cas- sock. And your grandfather, poor old gentleman! so queer in his head and so wild in his ways, walked up and down Grand street all day long—a sand wichman, God help him!—and came home too tired to notice the clothes that were on you or to ask where they came from.’ ‘He never says nothings on'y prayers,’’ said Isidore, sadly. ‘‘All times he says prayers. I don’t know what he says—they is out of Jewish; on’y they makes him awful mad.” ‘Dearie, yon musn’t bother him; you must be a good boy; because if you are good now, you’ll grow up to he a good man.’’ ‘‘Und I'll go and kill that thing what kills my papa and steals my mama away— my mama what bad from the gold hair, und a light face, und was so much mit my grandpa and mit me.”’ ‘Of course,’’ said Mrs. Keating, ‘‘you must kill the beast—and oh! it must be a cruel beast to harm a lovely lady! I know she was a lovely lady,’’ she explained as she laid her hand upon his golden head and turned his beautifnl little face up to her own loving one; ‘I kpow she was lovely because a little bird told me so.” ‘I guess she was,” Isidore agreed, ‘‘the while she was loving much mit her; her name stands like that Leah, and all times my grandpa he makes prayers over it. By times he makes sad prayers over it;by times be makes mad prayers over it; by times he don’t say no prayers at all, on’y ‘Leah! Leah, Leah!” My poor grandpa! He has i$ pretty hard.”’ ‘He has, indeed,’ said the hostess; ‘‘and be’ll be no better as long as the beast lives. So you must grow as strong and as fast as you can, and then go home and kill it. * And you'll never grow at all if you stay up late like this, talking to a foolish old woman. So come and say the prayer I tanght you and then go to bed. But first I'll light the altar.” Isidore helped her; it was his greatest joy, this little altar whose foundation was a three-legged table, and whose crowning glory was a much defaced and faded but still beautiful copy of a Raphael Madonna. There were other holy pictures of lesser size, several cracked red-glass bowls, some broken vases, a paper flower or 80, a Spray of dried giass, bits of tinsel, and soraps of lace-edged linen. Isidore wae supplied with a broken gpir- ited taper and spent five minutes of rever- ent joy in lighting the innumerable candle- ends which his hostess had fixed to pieces of broken china or to circles of tin cut from the tops of corn-and-tomato-cans. Then the tinsel shone, the linen gleamed, the red-glass glowed, and the gentle-eyed Madonna looked down upon a little face as fair and as pure as that resting against her breast, as Isidore knelt before her to say his evening prayer: “Gentle Jesus, meek and mild, Look on me, alittle child; Pity mine and pity me, And suffer me to come to thee.’ At the door be turned. ‘Good night, dear Lady-Friend,’’ said he; and then, to the painted family over the altar, ‘‘Good night, Holy-Mary-Mother-Mild good night, Gentle-Jesus-Meek and-Mild.”” And Mis. Keating never realized that all her: efforts towa:d Isidore’s conversion had culminated in the theory that the Holy Family’s names, like their lives, were Gentle and Holy and Mild. “Mild,” be decided was the surname. Upon his return 0 his own room, Isidore was greeted by his grandfather’s sad eyes and the constant question, “Thou hast held no communion with the oppressor?’’ “No, grandpa,” answered Isidore; “I ain’t seen him even.” ‘“There is time,’ said the Rabbi *teir- hoff; ‘‘thou art as yet too young. But the God of Israel will grant thee vengeance. For has he not written, ‘An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth’? Ave, but what for such wrongs as ours?’ *‘Boy of my heart,”’ said Mis. Keating some mornings later, when Isidore knock- ed at her door, ‘is the old gentleman gone?’ ‘‘Sare is he,”’ answered Isidore; ‘‘he puts him on mit them boards and he goes by Grand street. He won’t never let me put on mit them boards. I likes I shall wear them. Und my grandpa he don’t likes he wear them. He bas afraid over the streets. He likes he shall sit where no noises und no peoples. He has it pretty hard.” ‘Well, I havea treat for you,” said Mrs. Keating. ‘I’m going over to church to help with the crib, and I'm going to take yon with me. You will be good and quiet, won’t you?” ‘‘Sure will I,” said Isidore in his un- changing form of assent, aud he began to be quiet and good upon the instant. He sat upon a cushion which once had graced a prie-dien and still smelt faintly of dead incense, while his friend bobneted and shawled herself. He loved the church. To his mind, the only place approaching it in attractiveness was a stable, two blocks away, where a dejected horse and three de- jected dogs lived in peace and unison with a dejected peddler. They were all his friends, though Mrs. Keating frowned up- on the intimacy. But of the church she approved, and in the church he was happy. The peace, the coolness, the spaciousness of it appealed to the intimate refinement of his little soul. The mystery of its dim-lit arches, its high galleries and choir, its sometimes sounding organ, and its one high lamp, pleased the poet in him. And everything interested the boy he was. But most of all he loved the flowers. The only other flowers he knew were in the florist’s window, with cold glass interposed between them and tkeir small lover. But in the church were less distant flowers, and one might touch them, smell them, fondle them, if one was so fortunate as to bave a Lady-Friend whose privilege it was to dust the altar. Also there was a bell—a wonderful bell three stories high, and of an entrancing bright- ness; and from this one might extract booming responses with a small, tight knuckle when the attention of one’s Lady- Fiiend was centered upon dusty cushions. But to-day there were other things to watch and wonder at. There were lights and people inside the high gold railing which separated the altar from the com- mon ground. A noise of hammering echoed strangely through the silence which had never been disturbed save for the distant jangle of a horse-car or the rumble of a truck. And when Isidore’s dazzled eyes grew clear he saw that the small altar where Holy-Mary-Mother-Mild had always stood bad undergone a transformation. Ig was no longer an altar;it was a stable. And Isidore was very glad, for she could never again object to his visits to the peddler,the dejected horse and the three dejected dogs; for behold, here was the whole heavenly choir assembled in a barn, benignly associ- ating with a very small, very large-eared horse, a wide-horned cow,and three woolly lambs. Holy-Mary-Mother-Mild, discard- ing her crown and lily, had come down from her pedestal to kneel beside the man- ger. Behind ber stood Holy-Joseph-Father- Mild; while three other gentlemen, whom Isidore knew to be saints because they wore ‘‘like ladies clothes and from the gold somethings on their heads,’” offered gifts of price. Two long-winged angels knelt at the end of the manger; and in it, lying on shin- ing straw, was Gentle-Jesus-Meek-and- Mid. Isidore was entranced. Mis. Keat- ing opened the goldeu gate and led him in- to the quiet group of adorers, where he knelt as reverently as any one of them,and looked as much a part of the picfure. His Lady-Friend knelt by his side and they said their prayers together, while high above them the great star of Bethlehem shone with an unsteady lustre. Now the star of Bethlehem was used only on great festivals, and its attachment was insecure. As Isidore and Mrs. Keating prayed a help- er at tbe main altar threw a heavy green garland over the high-hung gas-pipe which crossed the chancel. There was a quick ory of warning, and Isidore looked ap in time to see that the star of Bethlehem had brok- en loose and his dear friend was in peril. The heavy blazing iron crushed down upon her thin shoulders, but Isidore’s little body bore the brunt. SOME hours later he opened his eyes upon the scene of all his joy and cherishment. Holy-Mary-Mother-Mild smiled down upon him from her accustomed frame as he lay in his friend’s arma. “Boy of my heart,’ she greeted him, ‘‘You shouldn’t have done it.’ : “It was polite,” hesaid. ‘Stars on the neck ain’t healthy for you, und so I catch- es it. On’y say, it makes me a sickness.’’ ‘‘Go to sleep, dear,” said Mis. Keating. “Shut your pretty eyes and go to sleep.’ Obediently Isidore closed them,and then suddenly reminded her: “I ain’ said mine prayers.” ‘Say them, then, sweetheart,’’ she hu- mored him. And when he bad reconciled himself to a stiff unresponsiveness of his hody which forbade his kneeling or even folding his hands, he turned his face to the lights and began: “Gentle Jesus, meek and mild, Look on me, a little child; Pity mine and pity me, And suffer mine to come to thee. ‘To come to thee!’’Mrs. Keating echoed. ‘“To come to thee!’”’ “Und now,” said Isidore, after some pause, ‘‘I guess I says mine wrongs pray- ers,’”” and addressed the Lady of the Altar in the tongue which had been hers in the days of ber white virginity at Nazareth: ** ‘Lord God of Israel, hear my ‘wrongs! Grant me vengeance upon the accmrsed Christian! We came unto their land. With curses they received us; with indignities they welcomed us—’ ‘‘Go to sleep, my darling,” crooned his Lady-Friend and kissed him. ‘You can finish your prayers—Ilater.”’ And presently she laid him—quite still —among the lights and the paper flowers on the altar of that faith whose symbol had crushed him, whose perversions had orush- ed his people, but whose truth had made all the happiness which his short life had known.—By Myra Kelly in Century Maga-~ zine. Christmas Lists of Ribbons. So many useful and attractive articles may be fashioned from ribbons that even fingers unaccustomed to the needle are tempted to turn the pretty strips of silk to account at the season of universal gift- making; while the deft needlewoman makes every scrap tell in the dainty trifles with which she enriches her friends at Christmas tide. In one of these flowered ribbon puffs there may bea bit of embroidery, some fine lingerie, or lace work—portions of that ‘pick-up work’’ which most women keep at band to sew on at odd moments; or it may be that the humble dust-cloth hides within the folds, ready to wipe away some spot that bas been left by a careless or hurried housemaid. If one is making up for lost moments, Christmas baving crept upon one almost unawares, these small bags may prove a grateful suggestion; they are go easily made, three or fonr being possible in an afternoon’s work. A little puff that might be classed under the generic name of “‘bag’’ holds tie baby ribbon now almost universally used in the lace and edging of undergarments. This takes a pasteboard disk two inches in di- ameter, a brass upholstery ring one inch in diameter, three-quarters of a vard of rib- bon five inches wide, and about a yard and a qnarter of ribbon balf av inch wide. The disk is covered with the wide ribbon; three inches serves for covering, and the remain- der, two-thiids of a yard, 18 fastened to- gether on the ends, and gathered ob one selvedge edge to the disk; the other edge must be gathered to the brass ring, which | has been carefully buttonholed over with embroidery silk the shade of the ribbon. With the addition of two buttonholed loops that are sewed in the bottom of the disk for holding the flat bone bodkin the work on the pretty trifle is finished. There yet remains, however, the filling of the puff with baby ribbon. This mast he run off of the spool and put in an untangled mass that will easily pull loose inside the bag, before the listle gift is ready for its place among the dainty Christmas packages. This bag possesses an added virtue, too. It may be sent by mail ina good-sized square envelope, obviating the expense and both- er of an express package. There are numbers of ways to utilize tibbon,in making needle-books,and thread- acd-needle receptacles for the travelling bag, or for banging near the dressing-tahle, providing just at band the utensils for tak- ing that stitch in time which so surely saves nine. For one of these usea half- yaid of Dresden ribbon and a half-yard of plain ribbon about three inches and a-half wide. Stitch them carefully together, the plain ribbon serving as a lining to the figured. About two inches down from the ends run a line of feather-stitching across to form a swall pocket for holding buttons; hem the ends and run baby ribhon throagh for drawing up closely. Nick a bit of fine white flannel for holding needles of three or four sizes and fasten it just in the mid- dle of the strips. On this flannel put two spools of thread or silk, black and white, and one of twist; run baby ribbon through them and fasten it tightly with tiny bows to the edge of the ribbon band, and shoe or glove buttons or an unsightly rent may be taken care of in travelling, for the handy little bag may be rolled up and tucked in- to a small corner of the travelling bag. There are always the more elaborate sewing bags with the stiff bottom and the gathered top drawn together with cords of ribbons. They are fisted ap with pin. cushions, needle-books, and scissors, and serve to keep delicate work clean and fresh. While very useful and decorative, they take patience and accuracy in the making, and any woman who sews feels deeply appre- ciative of such a gift. Out of a quarter of a yard of figured ribbon, perhaps a ‘‘lefs- over,’”’ one may fashion one of those pretty old fashioned ‘‘tomato” pincushions, for hat pins, or to tuck into the travelling- bag to use in one’s room at hotels for pins. And ribbon-covered squares of pasteboard fas. tened by a band of ribbon elastic serve to hold fresh handkerchiefs in compact and convenient form while travelling. Next to the bags are the boxes covered with ribbon, and one need not be a needle- woman to be able tc make exceedingly pretty gifts out of the combination of box and ribbon. The work demands, however, deft fingers, care in measurement, and ex- quisite accuracy in securing a fis for cover- ing and lining. When the bottom of the box, inside and ont, and the top of the lid inside are duplicated with pastboard thin and firm and a trifle smaller, and covered with the lining fabric, then the work be- comes easy, for all of the covering and lin- ings are pasted down firmly under these duplicates, which go on as a final finish to cover unsightly edges. The outside cover of the box must have a thin padding of cotton wadding, and one side of the lid must be broken off. The inner lining of the box is then pasted up tightly to the inner top of the lid, and the outer covering of the lid is pasted down firmly to the bot- tom of the outside of the box, providing the hinge. Narrow ribbons are sometimes used as ties, or a little bow is placed in front asa lift for the lid, but this seems superfluons. Many women keep shirt- waists and delicate bodices in the covered boxes, which generally carry a delicate scent under the lining; indeed, so universal is the use of the boxes for waists and fragile bodices that light standing racks are made to hold either four or six of them. The racks may be made by any carpenter and painted the prevailing color of the room where they stand. Similar racks are also made for the covered bonnet boxes which drop at the side for the removal of the hon- net instead of by lifting off the lid. Old candy boxes may be covered with Dresden ribbon, and lined with plain, and filled with delicate ruching for the neck and sleeves of the gown. Such a gift should nieet with gratitude when one considers the perishable nature of the ruching now so indispensable an accessory of dress. Ribbon sashes and belts are al ways pretty accessories of dress for a young girl, and even an unskilled needlewoman should be able to gather a strip of handsome ribbon to a whalebone for the back of a belt and fasten the ends to as simp or as elphorate a belt-buckle as the purse will allow. Equally attractive are the little ‘‘turn- over’’ cases made of ribbon. These have a foundation of stiff white pasteboard, top and bottom, fifteen inches long and five and one-half inches wide. The boards can be secured at a job-printing office and ac. curately and evenly cut there. They muss first be padded with thin cotton wadding scented with some delicate sachet powder. Each board is then covered with white silk, of soft texture. Along the top of the up- per board a band of Dresden ribbon should be feather-stitched on. The upper and lower hoards are held together about three inches fiom each end by half-inch wide ribbon, which is tied in a small how at the back, and left in ends, to be tied when the case is full, ai the front. Ribbon straps are also fastened across the inside of the case to keep the delicate little ““turn-overs’’ in place. Miniature mattresses also may be made of ribbon tc hang near the dressing table | for holding all sorts and conditions of pins —black, white, and colored, round, flat, and safety. With one of these at hand no woman’s kingdom need be lost for want of a pin. Another pretty sewing bag is made to hang up in one’s statercom on shiphoard or in a room in a hotel. It has at the top a little pocket stuffed with wool wadding, making a cushion into which pius and need- les may be put. Below this the ribbon is tarned up twice to make pockets. In the larger one spools and the thimble may be kept, ar! buttons in the smaller one. For thie ~~ . 1rd of ribbon three or three and a-b «es wide is needed, and narrow ribbon for sie-strings. A little loop of the narrow ribbon should be sewed to the under side of the cushion at the top to serve for a hanger. Another pretty little bag of black gros- grain ribbon and dul jet beads is intended for an elderly lady’s use. It has two pock- ets—oune for the handkerchief and the other for the spectacles. It is made of two widths of ribbon joined under the row of beads. So many useless, unwieldly, and abso- lutely ugly things find purchesers in she inevitable rosh that precedes Christmas, thas it is refreshing to know that one may find the true spirit of Christmas lurking in the gift fashioned of ribhons, embodied in the small and pretty trifles thas ingenuity may contrive or suggest in their nse. Again, they may be the conveyance of a very cost- ly gift, the covering that holds some su- preme surprise.—By Jane W. Cathrine, in Harper's Bazar. Children’s Tree Party. It came about from a mother who wished her children and their friends to know something about out-of-door things, relates Guod housekeeping. She sent ail the chil- dren whom they knew invitations to a tree party. On green cardboard maple leaves was written in gold ink: On Tuesday by four. At the Richardson home. To a party outdoor We'll be pleased if you come. After playing some romping games the children were seated on the grass under the trees and given numbered cards, on which were pasted real leaves from trees. Each child bad a pad and j .ncil and 3 row of numbers on the first page. The cards were passed from hand to hand, and opposite the numbers they wrote the name of the tree they thought the leaf came from. The cor- rect list was then read and the one who bad the most numbers right was crowned with a wreath made from the fern-like leaves of the walnut tree. On the next page of their pad they wrote the answers to these questions; 1. What part of a tree is like a dog? Answer, bark. 2 What part of a tree is going away? Leaves. 3 what part of the tree is like an elephant? Trunk. 4 What part of a tree is like a bog? Root. 5 What part of a tree is like a stream? Branch. 6 What tree is beloyed by heroes? Laurel. 7 What tree is double? Pear. 8 What tree is not me? Yew. 9 What tree is mournful? Pine. 10 What tree suggests the seashore? Beech. 11 What tree suggests paradise? Tree of heaven. 12 What tree never fades? Evergreen. 13 What tree will never be younger? Elder. The girl whose list of answers was most nearly correct won a little acorn cup, in which was glued an emery bag of green velvet. The winning boy received a wil- low whistle. Buried trees were on the nexs page, and were like these: 1. Who calls Chicag-O A K-ingly city? Answer, oak. 2. You will need A SH-awlaround you. Ash, ete. They ate sandwiches and cookies cut out in leafshape, and drank rich foamy milk, with squares of golden sponge cake. And as they went happily home in the golden gloaming, they looked up at the trees with new interest. ‘‘For,’’ said one little girl, ‘‘we are jost getting acquainted.’’ Caw and Coo Legend. How the Crow and Dove Got Thelr Feathers. When Adam named the birds, the crow and the dove both bad dirty-white feathers, and they asked Adam to change them, for white is beautiful when it is clean, but when it is dirty it’s awful. The crow eaid in his harsh voice: “Caw, I want my feathers changed; caw, caw,’’ and the dove said: ‘‘Coo, coo, won’t you please change my feathers, too? ©00, c00.”’ ; Adam could not change their feathers, but he asked the sunlight to change the feathers, because you know, all colors come from light. So the two birds went to the Light, and the crow said: ‘‘Adam sent me to you—caw—he said you are to change my feathers; caw, caw; so be quick about it, caw, caw.” But the dove said: *‘Coo, coo, Adam said you would be good enough to change my feathers, coo; can you please do it now? Coo, co0o.”” Now, the Light did not like to be spoken to in a harsh voice, but he liked the gentle way in which the dove spoke, so the Light said: “Yes, I will change your feathers,’ and he changed the dove’s toa beautiful pearly gray that turned into she colors of flowers when the dove moved, and he pus his own red ring round the dove’s neck. And he changed the crow’s feathers, too, but he made them plain black. All the same, they shine as the dark sky shines at nighs. : ms children loved the soft-voiced dove and took it to live about their houses; but the crow, with his harsh ‘Caw, caw,’’ and rough ways, Adam’s children never liked, so he wanders like a stranger in their land.—Bolton Hall, in the Independent. Just a Few Stories. She was 4 years old,says Harper's Month- ly, and all alive—a dancing, laughing, brown-eyed elf. She loved to go to Sab- bath school, but all of the impressions she received for some time were musical ones so that it was a great comfort when she an- nounced one Sunday upon her return : ‘‘I’ve learned sumfing.’’ ‘What was it, dear ?’ responded the de- lighted mother. ‘‘Names,’’ she replied briefly. fink of ’em.’’ ‘‘Sit right down here, darling and think bhard.??: So she wrinkled her little brow, and strove strenuously to recall. ‘‘Oh,I know,” she shouted, jumping up as’it all came back to her. ‘What ? What ?”’ shouted the excited parents. ‘‘Matthew !’’ Then they almost slipped away for a moment, but she seemed to catch them on the fly. Her eyes gleamed. “Matthew ! March ! April ! May 1” “TI can’t -—— Mrs. Newliwed—It’s just brutal of you to call it ‘‘this stuff.” You said you'd be glad if I baked my own bread and— Mr. Newliwed—Yes, but I didn’t say I wanted you to bake mine. Simple Life in Iceland. Lovers of the simple life should take themselves to Iceland, where the conditions appear to be ideal. There are no manu- factories in the country, each home is a factory and every member of the family a “band.” Shoes are made from goatskins, stockings, woolens and broadcloth come from the hand looms found in every house. Not a drop of liquor is manufactured on tre island and for the 78,000 population there is but one policeman. There is no jail, nor a court in which anyone accused of a crime covld be tried. Shonld anyone break the law he would be taken to Den. mark to answer for bis misdeeds. The women are among the moss advanced in the world. Their political league has a membership of 7,000 and they enjoy more civil rights than the women of almost any other country, having a voice in all elec- tions save that for members of their legis- lative body. The Iceland Parliament will have none of them.— London Tatler. BE ———— Small Pay for Lace Makers, Belgian female workers on hand-made lace earn but from 25 to 30 cents per day of 12 to 15 hours’ work. . In Eastern Flanders the wages are still lower, ranging from 16 to 20 cents per day. Girls from 6 to 9 years of age are instructed in lace making in schools seperintended by nuns. A few years ago the earnings of lace makers in East Flanders averaged only from 7 to 8 cents per day, as the lace wag then sold direct to dealers, but a philan- thropic lady, Miss Minnie Dansaers of Haeltere, took hold of the matter and by selling the lace direct to customers, ex- cluding agents and dealers, secured the full proceeds of the sales to the producers. This lady has also established working schools and greatly improved the industries of the district. ee ———— —— ‘Darling,’ said she, ‘‘do you love me as much as ever ?”’ " “Yes, dearie,”” said he, with his nose buried in his newspaper. That ought to have satisfied her, but she bad to ask : “Why 2” . ‘Oh, I dunno. Habit, I suppose.’’ ——Jinks—Were you ever in Niagara Falls ? Blinks—Yes, once. “What do you think of the place ?'’ “‘Didu’s see it.” “Didn’t see it ! How’s that 2’ “I was there while on my honeymoon trip.” ee ———————— ——Cousin ’Liza. “Ellen, didn’t ye fetch me somethin’ from New York 2”? Cousin Ellen. ‘‘’Liza, I fetched y a Soovneer spoon, but sister Martha liked i so well she make me keep it myself.” ———Mrs. Knicker. “How a ball without a hall room 2’? Mrs. Bocker. “Haven’t I got eight cosy corners and two staircases 2’? can you give ——Grandpa. ‘*‘And if you work hard you may be President of the United States some day.” Tommy. ‘‘Gee! that'd be great. I'd just love to go hunsin’.” —— Tramp outside the gate— Does your dog hite ? Mrs. Weptonwish (on the porch )—Yes, he does, and-—oh, please don’t come in ! We are particular what we feed him on ! ——Tom—Life is full of trouble. Dick—That’s right. You no more than just cease dodging ice cream signs, when oyster announcements loom up before you. ——He—Miss Rich said that she felt very giddy on her last ocean voyage. She—Well, perhaps she remained on the port side too long. ——Woodby Riter—I've always thought it would be fine to be a poet. Editor—I¢ certainly should he fine, or imprisonment or both. was ——‘‘Barber. ‘‘How the last shave ?% Patron. ‘Fine. My wife cut her new waist by the diagram on my face.” RUSSIAN REFUGEES ARRIVE Five Hundred Reach New York On Two Steamers. New York, Dec. 12.—Five hundred Russian refugees, many of them eye witnesses of the massacre in Odessa and other Russian cities, disembarked here from the steamers Patricia and Chemnitz. Some of them told graphic and pitiful stories of their experi- ences. Jews who had themselves lain hidden in Odessa houses while mobs searched for them, Russian workmen of the Christian faith, strikers from the railroads, a newspaper reporter, and Germans who had long lived in Russia, joined at Ellis Island immi- gration station in declaring that they had been attacked irrespective of re- ligion, that their assailants were led by police disguised in citizens cloth- ing, and that the massacres were not race persecution, but revolution. ‘While telling their stories the men sometimes burst into tears, for perhaps half of the entire number had left be- hind them wives and children who were either dead or defenseless in Russian cities. BULLETS CURED PARALYSIS Remarkable Result of Murderous At- tack On D. F. Rowe. Philadelphia, Dec. 11. — The shots aimed to kill David F. Rowe really ef- fected a wonderful cure. Prior to the murderous assault on him by his son- in-law, Casper Cooper, Rowe had been for a long time a paralytic on the right side. When taken to the Pennsylvania hospital after the shooting his death was expected in a few hours, but in- stead of that he left the hospital and now declares that every vestige of par- alysis has left him and that he feels better than he did for years. It is less than three weeks ago that Rowe was shot five times by Cooper, who then committed suicide. Cooper fired at his father-in-law as the latter lay helpless and paralyzed on a couch, unable to do anything to defend him- self. When he left the hospital Rowe's arm still contained three of the leaden pellets, his thumb was still in splints from a wound that cut to the bone, and a cotton bandage covered a fresh scar on his breast. In spite of his 60 years he has been up and about ever since, with not a trace of paralysis left.
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers