EE —————————— a —— Bellefonte, Pa., July 26, 1907. THE CHILD MUSICIAN. He had played for hislordship's levee, He had played for her ladyship's whim, Till the poor little head was heavy, And the poor little brain would swim. And the face grew peaked and eerie, And the large eyes strange and bright, And they said—too Jate—‘‘He is weary ! He shall rest for at least to-night I" But at dawn, when the birds were waking, As they watched in the silent room. With the sound of a strained cord breaking, A something snapped in the gloom, "T'was a siring of his violincello, And they heard him stir in his bed ; “Make room for a tired little fellow, Kind God!” was the last that he said. — Austin Dobson, BEHIND THE HILL. O masters, say, where shall I find A healing for each jll— Nepenthe for the burdened mind ?— “Just, just behind the hill!" Masters, where lies the Port of Dreams, Sacred and sweet and still, Guerdoned with glamours and with gleams?— “Just, just behind the hill I" Masters, the house of perfect peace, Where shall 1 touch its still, Hearing within joy's giad increase ?— “Just, just behind the hill!” —Clinton Schollard in New York Sun, THE SICKNESS OF HANNAH. “It don’t jest seem as if I ought to go 'way an’ leave you here all alone, Han- pab.’’ Harriet paused in the fine seam she was sewing and looked up into her sister's face. Her light-blue eyes had a question- ing look. ‘‘It don’t seem jest right, alter all you've done for me.” annah finished basting the hem of the white muslin skirt she was working on be- fore she answered her sister. She sat per- fectly erect in her straight chair. She sewed rapidly, yet without the least effect of hurrying, setting her needle stifily into the goods and drawing it through in a way that always astonished Harriet. “I don’t want you should think a thing ’hout that now. I reckon I can git along all right. I've managed to take care of the two of us all these years, an’ I rather guess I can take care of myself after you're gone.” Hannah's voice bad in it the bard- ness of adamant, but she did pot look at her sister. ““"Twan’t that I was thinkin’ of so much. Coarse I know you can get along —'tain’t that —=but— Seem’s as thongh it might be lonesome here in tnis big house —alone—an’ winter comin’ on, too.” Harriet paused. A slow pink flush creps into her delicate face. ‘‘But then I ain’t goin’ #0 far but what mebbe I can come home now an’ then, if anythin’ should happen.”’ ‘‘Happen—well, 1 don’t kuow as there's anythin’ 4 oin’ to happen. There's all them potatoes an’ apples to see to, an’ all them ittle new-hatched chickens to keep alive, beside the rogs I promised to braid for Mis’ White, to say nothin’ of all the other in- side work. I gness that's 'hout all that'll happen this winter.” annah rose and shook out the folds of the muslin skirt. “‘I reckon you can’t he a runnin’ bome here every whipetiteh, neither. William ain’t got any too much as tis. I guess I better ran this hem up on the machine, then I can take the tuck in it. You wa'n’tnever much of a hand at seamin’, anyway." The pink flush in Hauiet'’s face deepen- ed. She drew her needle gently inand out, bending her head quite low till her long fair curls almost brushed her hand. She had on a light pink dress. It was open at the throat, aud her slender neck rose from it like the stem of a flower. Her hair was done up in a soft knot and fell on either side of her face iu long light curls. Her face was delicately sensitive, and her hands were long and white and blue-vein- ed. She rocked gently back and forth as she sewed. Hannah sat grimly erect. Her back made a perfect parallel line with that of her chair. Her dull, reddish-brown bair was drawn tightly into a knot at the back of her head and brought smoothly down on either side of a straight part. Her face was long like Harriet’s, but without any of its color or delicacy. The same severity that characterized her hair was shown in her gown. It was of dark calico made with a perfectly plain-fitting waist, and with scarcely any faluess in the skiri. She was not so tall as Harriet, but she carried herself with a certain almost defiant air. The two sisters sewed on, Harriet with a gentle persistence, all through the hot August afternoon. The breeze came in Heantly through theopen window, the in white muslin curtaics blew softly in aud out. There were long dark patches across the fields where the shadows of the sun fell. Far beyond, darkly blue, rose the New England hills. The Sawyer homestead was a large, square, flatroofed structure, set in the midst of pastare lands and orchards. There was a lattice-work porch over the front door, and a tall oak tree that cast its leaf- shadows across the western corner of the house. There were some bushes in the front yard, and a small ronnd bed of sweet alyssum and migoovette. Just beneath the parlor windows was a bed of verbenas, a path bordered with rows of white phlox led down to the gate, and beyond that stretched the long, dusty country road. At the rear was a patch of garden. There were tall beanpoles, and almost hidden beneath a tangled mass of vines were ripe-red toma- toes and yellow squashes. The whole place bad about it an air of comfort and prosperity. Hannah had, com- bined with her woman’s thrift and shrewd- ness, a man’s ability to on and di- rect. Years before she stepped into the niche her father’s death made vacant. He bad been a stern, hard-working man, unyielding and unrelenting in many ways, yet always kind. He bad left a nice little sum in the bank, the reward of all those years of grim toil, enough and more than enough to keep the sisters the rest of their lives. But with that pride and tenacity of jurpise tat is fhe bet Jarre) » Rew - inheritance, and that permits of not #0 much as a hairbreadth of dalliance from the path of duty, Hannah had worked on unceasingly through all the years thas fol- lowed. e ter on of the farm, the best meadow re land, had been let. The remainder Hannah carried or with the aid of a boy, David, whose orphaned life she had tried to make a little less desolate. Mrs. Sawyer bad been a frail, delicate woman. She bad died when Harriet was a baby. Harriet had inherited her mother’s gentle, clinging vatare and something of ber ill-health. She bad none of Hannah's str of character or purpose. She had no convictions. Had she any she wonld pever bave bad the courage of them. Their life, narrow and uneventful, had goue on in the old bome, much as it bad always done; Hannah stern and set as her own encircling hills; Harriet meekly trust- fal and obeying. Th ple. Some of the neighbors came in occa- sionally, but they never stayed long. There was a good deal of barmless talk and gos- sip in the village. People passing by the ol lace on summer oons and bap- pening to glance up between the rows of white pblox,bad often seen a figure in pale blue shrigged mantis, with long fair curls drooping about a delicately SE oh face, sitting in the sbade of the lattice-work poreh, being over a dainty bit of needle- work ; and, a little beyond in the garden, another figure in dark calico, with an old straw hat and stiff, unyielding back, pull- ing up the weede. And the pusery, usu- ally a woman, never failed to call out sbrilly; *‘How d’ye do, Hanoah? Ain’ your sis- ter very well to-day?” And Hannab, with a stil] greater stiffening of body, would answer defiantly: ‘‘She’s real well, thank you,” and go on with her weeding. Once about six months before Harriet bad aeked to go to a church entertainment in the village. She and Hannah bad al- ways gone regularly to meeting on Sunday, but they bad never entered into any of the social gaieties of the village. A church entertainment was different, however, and Harriet had begged so hard to be allowed to go that the elder woman finally relent- ed. : On the night in question Hanoab, in her best black dress, sat through the evening the conversation of a young man who bad been quick to notice her wheu she came in, and who had kept at her side throughout the entire evening. The color came and went in her cheeks. There was a light in her eyes hall-glad, balf-aflraid. Hannah in her corner watched her. Once Harriet looked over at her, but she turned again almost immediately to her companion. In that hall-unconscions gaze Harriet bad been dimly aware of something, so faint and impalpable it might have been but a shadow, that had seemed to flit for an in- stant across her sister's face. Both Hannah and Harriet knew this young man, William Archer, as well as they knew any one in the village. They had seen him always on Sundays at meet- ings. His seat was just across from theirs. Often Harriet bad been conscious of a pair of eyes fixed steadily on her face, and Hannah looking sharply at her had seen the faiot pink that crept into her cheeks. Once when they came out of meeting he had asked Harriet if he might walk home with her. She looked up timidly at her sister, but Hannah was looking neither to the right nor the left. And the two walk- ed their balf-mile alone and in silence. To-night when the entertainment was over, Harriet came over to her sister and whispered something in her ear. Fora minute the older woman hesitated. Har- riet's glowing face was very near her own. She could feel foer soft. quick breath on her cheek. Then she nodded her head in assent. All the way home Hannah walked a few steps in advance of Harriet and Wil. liam. Ounce she looked back. The moon- light fell full on Harriet's npturned face. She wore a soft flecoy fascinator tied over her curls. She h.d hold of the young man’s arm. When they reached the gate Haouvab turned once more. ‘‘Good night,” she said abruptly. Then she and Harriet went into the honse. The next Sunday night there was a fire lighted in the front oom. Hannah sat out in the kitchen alone. She could hear William's voice, and now apd then her sister's with its gently rising inflection. Oat of doors the winter snow lay deep and the winter wind bad ip it a note of melancholy. That was in February. It was August now, and in September William and Har- riet were to be married. William bad been offered a position in a large, thriving town, some little distance away, and bad accept- ed it. There had been little said between the two sisters as to Harriet’s leaving the old place. Haopah had worked, if possi- ble, harder than ever. On this afternoon it seemed to Harriet that ber seam was unusually long. It was very warm. Ounce she paused, her eyes wandered off to the distant bills. ‘“Youn’d hetter be at that seam,’”’ Haunbah's voice broke sharply in on her reverie, *‘it’s ‘most supper time now, an’ you'd ought to finish that to-night.” When it began to be ball-past five Han- nah rose and folded up her work. She went out into the kitchen, made the fire, and put on the tea-kettle. Alter supper was over and the things cleared away, Harriet seated hersell once more at the window and took up ber work, She sewed steadily until it began to grow dusk. The breeze came in through the window, heipging with it the smell of sweet-scented lanes. The air was filled with that rustling and twittering that presages the long night silence of the tree- people. The hills grew farther and farther away. When it grew too dark to see Han- nah brought in the lamp. David had taken his candle and gone to bed. At hall. past eight Hannah locked up the house and put ont the lamp. Then taking up their candles from the kitchen shelf she and Harriet went upstairs to bed. In September Harriet and William were married. The day of the wedding dawned with a light mist resting on the hills. The air held in it a faint intangible something as of de ng summer. In the early morniog Harriet, Standion in the Sovsvay watched the mystery the day unfold itself. She felt, while she conld not put jt inte words, its symbolism in her own e. Hannah was at work in the kitchen. There was much to be done, and she moved about with a great rattling of disnes 344 pans, 924 Sit what Seemed to Hap a great unnecessary vigor. It disturbed her somehow,she could not have told why. In the early afternoon Hannah helped her to dress up in the north bedroom. She said little, but it seemed to Harriet that she smoothed the folds of the simple white wedding-gown a great many times. As she looked into the thin old face she noted for the first time that it was drawn and care- worn, ail its lines pitifully accentuated. She felt a sharp ache at her heart, and with it came a desire to put her arms about her and lay her head down on her shoulder. This older sister was the only mother she had ever known, and she been good to her in her reserved, undemonstrative way. ‘With a sndden gesture she raised both slen- der arme. ‘‘However do you expect me to fasten saw but few peo- | j and watched Harriet’s delicate face blos- | som forth like a flower, as she listened to thie dress. Harriet,” Hanpab’s voice brought her back to berself, ‘‘an’ you with your arms over your head ? Do put ‘em Sows where they b'long.”” And Harries was married late in the afternoon, but it was dusk when she went away. She walked down the front path between the rows of white phlox, leaning on her bus- band’s arm. Hanoab followed slowly, holding up ber black skirt carefully with both bands to keep it free from dust. Wil- liam's horse and buggy were tied to a tree ust outside the gate. The air was fresh and sweet, filled with bird-calls aod the bum of winged insects. Hanpah stood a the gate and watched William untie the horse and turn out the b Harriet with one foot on the step looked up piteous- ly at her sister. “You ain’t left nothin’, hev’ you'’ Har- riet with a sudden movement stoo and kissed the thin lips. She almost shraok at their coldness. It was the first time in ber life she remembered ever to have kissed her sister. Hannah's had been a protect- ing, shielding love, but with nove of love's tendernesses nor caresses. As Harriet raised her head she thought she saw something cross the older woman's face ; the same faint shadow she had seen once hefore the night of the church entertainment. It was gone almost instantly, and she had forgot- ten it the next moment as William helped her into the buggy and took the seat beside her. Then he leaned out over the wheel aod shook bands with Hannah. As they drove off Harriet looked back and waved to the old figure standing at the gate. Then the long dusty road, beginning to grow gray with night's abadows hid them from sight. For a long time Hannah stood there. The night came slowly down. Over in the west the hills were darkly outlined against the sky. The frogs were croakiog in the meadow pond back of the house. Now and then came the call, sharply tremulous, of come lonely night-bird. And overall the scent of sweet alyssum and mignonette. She tarned presently and went back up between the rows of white phlox and into the house. All the erectness seemed to have gone out of her figure; she seemed to have grown suddenly old. Going into the kitchen, she lighted the two candles that stood on the shell, and with oue in each band climbed slowly up the stairs. At the door of Harriet’s room she paused. Then she pushed it open and went in. She set the one candle down on the dresser and looked about her. There was the hed with its unpressed pillows, and on a chair near it the dress, a faded pink muslin, that Har- riet had taken off that afternoon when she put on her wedding gown. In the little oval mirror above the dresser she saw the reflection of Harriet's pale,delicate features in their frame of fair curls. The flickering flame of the candle showed ber her own face drawn and old, and tired. Ouce long ago, she, too, bad bad a lover, and there bad been nights when the fire in the best room had heen lighted and her own voice bad been heard in gently rising inflections. And then had come the silence of all these years, with not fo much as a faded flower or a lock of hair. Love had come and had gone, just as everything else in her life. Surprised now and almost startled at these ghosts of half-forgotten memories she had called forth from the graves of the years, she gave one last look about her ; then ghe blew out the candle on the dresser and went out, closing the door behind her. It was a year in September since Harriet went away. She bad not once heen hack to the old home. Every week David wept to the village and bronght back a letter di- rected to Hannah in a delicate, pointed bandwriting. Hanvah always turned it over and looked at it several times before she broke the seal. It was as thongh she hated to end in so short a time the antici. pation of a week. And always she an- gwered the letters, sitting down at the table and writing laboriously in her cramp- ed hand. The winter bad been a long one ; one of those enow-hound, ice-fettered winters that only New England knows. Hannah work- ed on silently. She seemed to shrink more and more into herself. Through the short afternoons she sat alone by the west win- dow, braiding rugs and looking ont across white, stainless fields of snow. In the long evenings, alter their early supper was over, she sat with David beside the kitchen fire, kuitting with a ceaseless click of the need- les, and oftentimes long after David had taken his candle and gone to bed. With the spring days came the work in the fields and in the garden. Hannah toil- ed steadily on through the long, hot, silent days. July came and August, The birds built their nests in the old tree at the cor- ner of the house; the verbenas flaunted their colors beneath the jarioe windows ; the air was fragrant with sweet alyssum and mignonette. Regularly once a week David went into the village and came back with the weekly letter from Harriet. She was well and happy, but she never spoke of coming home. And so the seasons came and went with their full complement of days and weeks, and n the September haze rested on the far hills. There were patches of pale gulden- rod along the road, Samye of purple asters and the soft, pinkish-white plumes of mea- dow-sweet. One evening after supper, jost a year from the day Harriet was married, Han- nab stood at the gate looking down the road. Her thin, old shoulders drooped pisitally. A September moon hung in the eavens, and the night was darkly sweet. The rcad was flecked with shadows. A little vagrant breeze sprang up from some- where. For a long time the old woman stood there, as though waiting for an answer from the all-encompassing night to some unspoken, crying need of her own soul. With all the silent heart-hunger of the past Jose came a Sudjen leapis jelste of Some. ng new—a fierce, ous longing that would not be stifled. Ite terrible insist- ence, its very alienism, set every nerve and sense a-quiver. She turned tremblingly and went back up the path to the house. The bushes in the yard were all a blurred, indi ishable mass ; the rows of white phlox, like pale ghcsts, brushed against her skirts. She reached the front door, open- ed it, and went into the house. The next morning Hannah did not get up at the usnal time. When David came in from the barn he found the kitchen stove black and cold and the room empty. He looked about him a moment bewilder- ed. Then he sat down in Hanoab’s rock- ing-ohair to wait. Gradually as the gray dawn receded things took their familige higher and bigher. Presently he rose and went hesitatingly up the stairs. As the door of Hannah’s room he paused. Then he pushed it open and went in. lay very still in her bed. Her eyes were closed, but she opened them as David step- ped into the middle of the room. The sun- ight that poured in at the window hrought out every line in her face. Thoughts diffused themselves somewhat slowly through David's brain. “You sick ?'’ be began presently, Haopab nod- ded her bead. She did not speak. David stood perfectly etill looking at ber. She bad closed her eyes again. Then be torn- ed and went back downstairs, In tie kitchen be got bis hat down off its peg, the ontside door, and went out across the yard into the road. There was buat one thought in his mind, and that sug- more habit than anything else —Harriet. He weut on down the road to the village. He bad po trouble getting some one to write the message. “*Ain’t krown Hannah Sawyer to be sick in twenty years,”” remarked a customer at | the store. David did not linger, but went tack again over the half-mile home. It was several days before Harriet could there. Hanah lay quietly in bed. ors had pever formed a part of ber oreed, and David attended to her simple wants, Once or twice some of the neigh- bors came in, but she would see no one. She did not seem to be suffering any. She said very little, but she kept her eyes fixed on the door. Late one afternoon Harriet came. She was alone. William con!d not get away. She came into Hannab's room and, cross- ing over to the bed, stooped and kissed her lips. The touch, the sweet, warm face bending over her, seemed to send a quiver through Hannah's whole body. “Where is it you feel bad, Hannah?" Harriet's voice bad in it a gentle pity. Hanvah shravk back among the pillows, “I—I don’t know ’s Ican tell,’’ she began, and ber voice was strange. Harriet straightened up and pushed back ber curls. She looked younger than she did when she was married. The color in her cheeks had deepened to a healthier glow, her eyes were almost lominous. All the rest of that day she sat by Hannah's side holding her band and talking to her in ber low, pleasant voice of all the pretty routive of the past year. She was glad to be at home again. She told Hannah so over and over again. And Hannah listen ed, saying little, only keeping her eyes on her vister’s face with a look in them that was vew to Harriet. She seemed perfectly content, perfectly satisfied to lie there with no thought, apparently, but of the present moment, Harriet stepped back into her accustom- ed place in the household. Ist seemed strange to her not to have Hanvoah about to take the lead in things. She had noted, with a sudden sharp sense of pain, that her sister had grown old in the year she had been away. She lay in her bed, a little thin, belple:s figure. She seemed to suffer no pain anywhere. She took the old-fash- ioned remedies that Harriet brewed for her without a word. The younger woman could not understand this new, unwonted softness of manner—this clingiog that was almost pathetic. Had Harriet been keener of perception, perbaps, she would have seen that Hannah's eyes, as they followed her constantly about the room, had in them at times an almost exunltant look, then again they bad a shrinking, almost hunted look. As the days went by she began to grow restless. Still she made no movement to get up. One afternoon, when Harriet bad been there about three weeks, she left the room a few moments while she went down stairs after a drink of water. Hannah bad not spoken for some time, but her eyes follow- ed her to the door. Something in her gaze caused Harriet to turn back. She went over to the bed. ‘What is it Hannah?" she said gently. ‘‘Nothin’, ’’ Hannah re- sponded, and Harriet went on out of the room, When she came back she found ber sister up and sitting ic a chair by the window. She bad thrown a little old shawl about her shoulders, and she was sitting bending forward, her hands on her knees. “Why, Hannah,’ Harriet began, but the other silenced her almost fiercely. “Don’t you say one word, Harriet. Don’t you say one thing til I git through. Then you can say all you're a mind to. I've got somethin’ to tell you, an’ I'm a goin’ to tell it. I didn’t know as ever I could, but I can’t stan’ it no longer. Har- ries, I lied to you. I took sick a purpose.’ She leaned farther forward in her chair her hands clasping the little old shawl closer about her shoulders. Her voice bad risen almost to a wail. Harriet, frighten. ed and uncomprehending, stood perfectly still in the middle of the room. . ‘I don’t know what you'll say to me, Harriet. Itcame over me all on a sudden, one night to do it. It was just a year to the day yon was married. You bhadn’t ever once ben home. I thought ’s how if you knew I was sick, mebbe you'd think you could come. It all came to me, jest as olear as could be. I never stopped once to think. It come =o sudden it ’most took my breath away. I hadn't ever done such a thing before in my whole life. I ain’t never told a lie, Harriet, 's long ’s I've lived. I couldn't think o’ nothin’ else but jest seein’ youn. I went right back into the house. I was "most afraid to go to hed. I kept tryin’ to make myself think I'd ben sent down to the gate a purpose. I never slept a mite, an’ the next mornin’ I didn’t git up. I knew David ’d git word to youn some way. I lay right herein bed an’ seem’d though I conldn’t wait til yen come. I kep' asayin’ overan’ over to myself: ‘I don’t care—I don’t care.’ I wasn’t goin’ to let on I thought there was anythin’ wrong in it. And then oneday alter you'd ben here a while it come over me I'd got to tell. It most seem’d ’s though I couldn’s bear to know what you'd think o’ me. Bat I did it, Harriet, I did it a purpose. Iain’t ever done sucha thing afore, an’ I ain't ever goin’ to do it again. You can go right back to William now. I don’ts’pose the Lord 'Il ever for- give me, Harriet, an’ even if He does I can’t never say I'm sorry. I can’t seem never to want to take it back. I ain't oi 1 Harriet, I've hed you mos’ three weeks, an’ I ain't sorry.” Her voice was high and shrill. Her lit- pped forward. Her eyes tle lean body sto] were fixed piteously on her sister’s face. The room was very still. Over in the west the short Semptember day was slowly fading. There were birdcalls from tree to tree. With quick steps Harriet crossed the room and knelt down by the side of the chair. She pus her strong young arms about the shrinking re and laid the tired head down on her young, warm, throbbing breast.—By Lucretia D. Clapp, in Collier's Magazine. —*] should fancy the laundry busi- ness was about as easy as any to start.” “What makes you think so?’ “All you have to do is to lay in a supply ¥ form and substance. The sun climbed | of starch “Yes. “Well, that'll starch you all right.’’ Three days after there was a burial. Mii a ai iin to Be, different Lom er people, the other people are generally quite satisfied to have him so. Many a statesman loves his country with the disinterested affection felt by a foreign nobleman for an American heiress, | pair of gloves, and a chiffon veil. FOR AND ABOUT WOMEN. DAILY TBOUGHT. But gentle words are always gain.— Tennyson, She arrives looking well alter an all day journey because she wears: — A small hat, short in the back, light in weight, evenly balanced. This ehe keeps on a well groomed bead covered by a bair net. Her frock is a foulard, blouse and skirt. She devotes fire extra minutes tv anchor- ing the blouse and skirt firmly together under a belt of the material. At her neck is a linen collar with a small bow of taffeta that matches the tone of the gown. Her sleeves are long, her gloves are dark. She carries a rolled umbrella in its case, a top coat, aud a traveling hag. In the latter, beside the necessities for the night, she bas an extia collar, an extra Also na tube of cold cieam and a bottle of toilet water. . Before arriving she cleanses ber lace with the cream, changes her collar, pute ona fresh pair of gloves, fastens her veil neatly at the back of her neck and the top of ber bat and looks as trim and trig as though she was starting instead of ending a long trip on a bot day. he eschews: The picture hat, loosely arranged bair, the elaborate stock that wilts. The white shirtwaist. An elaborate frock, white gloves and | jewelry. Never bas the belt assuwed such import- ance before in the annals of dress as it does this year, when by means of color con- trasts, band embroidery and many other devices, the coveted goal of individuality may be reached with a little originality and ingenuity. Some of the most effective belts to sup- plement linen costumes or skirts and blouses for tennisor morving wear are those which are simply fashioned of ordi- nary upholsterer’s cretonne, a simple old- world pattern of rose buds, rose sprigs, violets, carnations or other small designs being best for the purpose. A piece of cretonne about eight or ten inches in width should either be swply hemmed or be finished with rows of stiching in colored silk to match, or with a piping of washing ribbon, the belt being mounted onto a slide or buckle which may have done dat in its time on a discarded ribbon or elastic belt, or it may be boned and supplemented with a stitched buckle made either of the material or of patterned ribbon, stiffened with whalebone. Belts of plain white linen embroidered in French dots ar irregular intervals over the surface in lustre thread and bordered then with a row of white washing braid worked over in a waved design with Ras- sian braid or a smart effect may be gained by means of a straight narrow band of black patent leather. The lingerie neck fixings that make so large a part of dress accessories this season want a goodly share of trunk room to themselves. When tailored styles were in fashion one could take a smaller quantity aud depend on the out-of-town laundress for cleaning, but the bows and jabots, not being washable without infinite trouble, as a rule, makes large stock a demand. In all the stores at the neckwear coun- ters they are selling the little bows by the dozen. These bows are easily made, once a girl gets her hand in. Some persons use lace-edged ruching, joining the ends with a knot in the middle. A few yards of pretty lace can be quickly worked into trig bows by clever fingers. Some girls depend upon the need and io- epiration, only carrying along bits of fine mull and lace and embroidery for the pur- pose, and putting them together as a part of dressing, says The New York Sun. It goes without saying that usually in such cases pins, and not thread and needle, hold them in place. Did ever an entertainment or concert take place; was ever a play given, or a lec- | tarer heard, that a child’s wailing did not, at some time, pierce through the intense silence of the place? These babies are omni- regent; they are always tired, always ad, avd always predisposed to cry at the first contributing cause, One cannot blame the youngsters, for they are obviously out of place, and entire- ly unconscious of the disturbance they are causing. On the other band, one cannot hold the parents wholly at fanlt. They need some recreation; they cannot desert the baby; they often have no one with whom they can leave it; and so they bring it with them. There is only one solation of the problem; the places of public enter- tainment must themselves supply adequate means of caring for the infants, whiie their parents are within, A few theatres have already done so, and the improvement is manifest. Bat the trouble extends even further. Many and many a mother stays home from church because she cannot be sure that the baby will conduct itself properly during the service. Ata certain church in New Jersey, the girls of the Young Ladies’ Aid Society formed themselves intoa band for the entertainment of infants while their mothers worshipped. A room was set aside for them, and so well did they perform their self-imposed duty that the youngsters begged to go to church and wept to leave t. There is no reason why the plan shonld pot be tried in any church in the country, where the number of young children is sufficient to warrant the trouble necessarily taken. It would certainly be a boon to tired mothers, and is at any rate worth the trial. For Eggs a la Madrid—Melt one heap- ing tablespoonful of butter in a saucepan; add to it four tablespoonfuls of well cooked rice while it is hot; mix it well in, add salt, pepper and a dash of paprika. Make this rice into a neat bed on a very hot dish, leaving a margin of dish all the way round Thesis. i efully in beili six very carefa n wales 0 which bos een added | one bie spoonfa emon juice, and w are sufficiently set lift them out, trim them neatly and arrange them on the rice. Pour round one gill of good brown eauce and serve very hot. For Egg Flip—beat the yoke of one egg with a tabl 1 of till creamy; add one tablespoonful of brandy or two tablespoonfuls of sherry wine. To this add two tablespoonfuls of boiling water, and lastly the beaten up white of the egg. Serve in a tumbler. An egg added to the mixture for a short- cake gives itan additional lightness and flavor. Po —— FARM NOTES. Currycomb the cabbage patch with a rake. ~—Ten bens in a house 10x10 feet is about right. —[t seldom pays to feed cld animsls for profit. —When a bad egg is placed among good ones it doesn’t take it long to spoil them. —To watch the growth of plants, trees and animals is one of the simplest and best farm pleasures. —Pure breeds not only look better, but aleo give more eggs and better meat than fowls of all kinds and colors. —Feed is more important than breed, and sometimes the way the feed is fed is more important then the feed. —The sex of geese may be distinguished by the voice. e female bas a loud,coarse voice. while that of the gander is fine and queaky. —Ten days or two weeks is the length of time usually required alter a male bird is put with a flock of hens until the eggs will do for batehing. —The advice ‘‘get out of the ruts’’ only applies to farmers who can see for them- selves. A blind borse is better off in the well-worn track. —If a pampk in is cat in two and placed in the poultry house, in a short time noth- | ing bot the rind will be left. The same is true of mangel wurtzels, ~The comb of a ben or pullet,if it shows up good and red, indicates that the bird is in good condition and laying, or that the laying time ie near at hand. —Early batched pullets are the ones that make the winter layers, and this should be borne in mivd both in getting out the hatches and in picking out the females to keep over winter. ~—Pare bred poultry, first, last and all the time, is the motto of many breeders, but a well cared for flock of common chick- ens will do better than a neglected flock of the best breed on earth. —If you provide several inches of chaff or litter on the floor of your coop, the chickens will not be troubled with bumble- foot—bruises caused by heavy fowls jump- ing from the perches on to barn floors. —The markets for farm products are as changeable as any others, and the demands and preferences cf the customers must at all times be considered. Certain kinds of produce sell better during some periods than at others, and better prices may be obtained by watching the markets. ~No animal shonld be guarded more carefully than the cow. She daily pro- vides milk as an article of food,and should she be attacked by disease, or suffer ail- ments of any kind, the consumer of milk may incur daoger. It is more important to look after the health of the cow than the health of the horse. —Time is required before an orchard will begin to give a profit. One cannot expect returns from an orchard in a year, as with some animals, hence the sooner the trees Begin to bear the less the loss of time, land and capital. It is important, there. fore, that the best of care be given young trees fiom the start. —A wheel hoe is an excellent imple- ment for garden nse, as it saves labor and does the work well. Some of them are usually accompanied with knives, markers, rakes and cultivators, each detachable, thereby enabling havod labor to be applied with the assistance of contrivances far sn. perior to many of the old methods, — A barn or stable should be kept at from 50 to 60 degrees temperature, if possible, in order to derive the best results. In some cases this cannot be conveniently done, especially in summer, but as the ani- mal heat varies in the neighborhood of 90) degrees, the temperature of the stable will have more or less influence on the condi- tion of the live stock. —There is a difference in the keeping qualities of root crops. Carrots and beets | seem to lose their sweetness a'ter being : frozen, but parsnips and salsify can be left | in the rows all winter. The parsnip is a | more valuable crop than some others. | Freezing does not injure its quality, and it | is excellent for stock and on the table. It can be cooked in various ways. —All the stock on a farm must be care- fully observed. Each individual should be kept under careful watch, so as to guard against diseases or a reduction of flesh or product. The loss of appetite by one ani- mal may be due to some cause that can af- fect the whole, and by attending to the matter in time there may be a great saving in preventing ailments among the other members of the flocks and herde. -In the foreign markets lean pork is referred, and there is a growing demand or more lean pork at home. n pork can be produced at less cost than may be supposed, and the hogs will grow faster,and give heavier weight, than when the pork is produced solely from corn. It is done by feeding, in addition to corn, skim milk, bran, shorts, linseed meal, beans, peas, clover and other nitrogenous foods, which not only promote growth, but also increase the weight. —Corn and oats, ground together, make an excellent ration for fattening steers, At firet give an equal number of bushels ground together, which will give most of the bulk in oats; then,as the animal gains, inorease a portion of corn aud add oilcake meal. One pound of the mixture for every 100 pounds weight of the animal is esti- mated as about sufficient, and it should he given in two feeds. The increase toward the last will consist in stronger feed rather than greater buik. —Those who purchase fruit trees and vines should read their contracts with the salesmen very carefully. It is well known that some contracts are so worded as to permit of the substitution of other varieties ‘just as good,” if the kind wanted cannot be supplied, the consequence being that it is sometimes difficult to get the preferred varieties, especially of peaches, the trees not producing fruit according to the names of the varieties tagged on them when re- ceived. Of course, some men are very carelul, but the buyer should never agree in writing to substitution. —Horses are not injured by labor any more than are men, and it is only by ex- re, overexertion or neglect that they jaded out at a time when th should be in the best condition for uvseful- pess. When men learn to be humane for the Blessioge that Some ion it, oich always a paying incentive in both the satis. faction it affords and the money profit, there will be less ‘‘sorub’” horses in our country. A horse ehould not be old until he 1s 20, and there are many instances where they have kept their vigor far beyond these years in the bands of careful managers.
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers