Beworrai ata, \ Bellefonte, Pa., March 12, 1909. A SONG OF THE ROAD. “Whatever the path may be, my dear, Let us follow it far away from here, Let us follow it back to Yester-year, Whatever the path may be : Again let us dream where the land lies sunny, And live, like the bees, on our hearts’ old honey, Away from the world that slaves for money — Come, journey the way with me. However the road may roam, my dear, Through sun or rain, through green or sere, Letus follow it back with hearts of cheer, However the road may roam : Oh, while we walk it here together, Why should we heed the wind and weather, ‘When there on the hills we'll smell the heather, And see the lights of home ! Whatever the path may seem, my sweet, Let us take it now with willing feet, And time oar steps to our hearts’ glad beat, Whatever the path may seem : Let the road be rough that we must follow, What care we for hill or hollow, While here in our hearts, as high as the swallow, We bear the same loved dream ! However the road may roam, my sweet, Let it lead us far from mart and street, Out where the hills and the heavens mee! — However the road may roam : So, hand in hand, let us go together, And eare no more for the wind and weather, And reach at last those hills of heather, Where gleam the lights of home. —-By Madison Cawein. THE RETURN OF FATHER. Abbie Ann, the married daughter from beyond Chicago, bad kissed her motber, and now stood looking at her with pleasure and relief, as if she were not only glad to be at home, bus lighter-hearted {rom some hidden reason. The old lady, Mrs. Jacob Stimson, settled her cap with bands used to such clever touches, and gave one fleet- ing glance at the mirror, to make sure she was trig and tight. She was a slender old lady with soft cheeks and delicate features, and the fastidiousness and coquetry of her youth lingered in the hemstitched ruffle of her apron aud the rigor of ber immaculate collar, with its cameo pin. She regarded Abbie Ann, a straight, fresh-colored wom- an markedly indebted to the accessibility of ready-made clothing, with a warm de- light, the pink in her cheeks deepening swiltly. “Well I” said she. ‘‘Well I” Then, with a sudden recognision, lost for a mo- ment in pleasure, that the visit was a sar- prise, she added, ‘‘But what set you out to come ?’ “1'1] tell you in a minute,” said Abbie Ann. She was looking about the kitchen where she bad found her mother, witha deep satisfaction, a sense of return. Abbie Ann bad made her home in the Middle West for many years, but she had not de- viated by a line from toe New England type, either in speech or in a certain simple- bearted way of looking at things. ‘But where's father ?"’ Her mother started perceptibly, and re- covered hersell, She answered with some primness, and at once it occurred to Abbie Anup, with a throb of memory, that this had been her mother’s tone when, asa child, Abbie Ann bad asked too many ques- sions and had been told to ‘‘ruu away now and be a good little lady.” “Why,” said Mrs. Stimson, ‘‘your lath- er’s round scmewheres.”’ “Well,” said Abbie Ann, with an amazed insistence, ‘*I 8’pose he is ; bus I wans to see bim. Where's father?" Mrs. Stimson drew up a chair before the stove. It was a crisp day in the late fall, and she indicated the hearth invitiogly. “Don’t you want to pas year feet up there ?'’ she asked, ‘'I guess you're kinder - chilled.” Abbie Ann shook her head. She was more nearly impatient with her mother thao she could have thought it possible to be on a day of homecoming. A miserable certainty, thrusts away from her through the journey, came crowding back upon her. “There ain’s anything happened to fath- er?’ she asserted, in alarmed interroga- tion. ‘Mother, you tell me.” Mrs. Stimson was getting out the mounld- iog-boaid, a prelimivary to biscuits for supper. ‘Mercy, no!” she answered. ‘‘Your father’s well us common.” She went about her tasks, with a word of affectionate interest here and there, and Abbie Ann, having put away ber things and taken a reassuring look of ber own as the glass, sat down aud watched ber. “Well, mother,’ she said at last, (ollow- ing the old lady's deft achieving, ‘‘you’re epry as a oas.”’ Mrs. Stimson gave a know- ing turn of her wrist as she out tbe dough. *‘I don’t know but I be,” she allowed, with digonisy. ‘I don’t know why I shouldn’s be. I ain’t tonched seventy-five yet, an’ father’s only seventy. s. don’t know’s there’s any reason why we shouldn't be spry.” “You wear a different kind of cap,”’ said Abbie Ann, regarding her. “Thats sors of changed you, first sighs I bad, bat I guess I'd get accustomed to it. You never used to wear such a big one, nor so far over your - No,’ said Mrs. Stimson, still with dig- nity. “‘1 don’s knows I ever did.” *‘What made you change ?"’ usked Abbie Aun, without thonghs, recrossing her feet on the hearth. ‘Your bair ain’s gettin’ a mite thin ? Mine's comin’ oat by bandfals., I tell Edmund Isba’n’t have six spears to draw the comb throagh, if it keep on as it's begun. ‘Look at mother,” I says. She's got a great head o’ hair. Father, too.’ Mother, ain't it 'most time he's ‘comin’ in ?"’ Mrs. Stimson said nothing until she bad set her bhiscaits to rise at the back of the stove and covered them with a white cloth. Then she tnroed, the blood in her face, perhaps from her stooping or some unknown agitation, and, holding her floury hands to- gether, stood straight, and addressed her daughter. ‘‘Abbie Aun,” she said, ‘‘lather’s np chamber.” Abbie Anu came to her feet. “He is sick,” she asserted. ‘‘There, I knew I" “No, he ain’t sick. He's as well as ever he was in his life.” “Then why don’t he come down ?”’ ““He don’t feel 30.” The two women stood facing each other, determination written all over the elder face, and pure trouble upon Abbie Ann's. ““Why,”’ said she, stammering, ‘‘don’s father want to see me?" The old lady showed a brief impatience. “Conrse he wants to see youn,’ she an- swered. “You know father, Abbie Ann. You're all he's got, an’ sets by you as he does his life.” be up chamber for ?"’ moving about with a perfect precision, “Seems kinder cozy in the kitchen, tall.” only got on wo plates. Ain't I goin’ to stay "” her mother, tenderly, bus with a certain hardness, too. ‘‘What makes you say such a thing as that ?"’ and made her breathless. 1 kinder gummy. I guess "twill blaze com- “Then,” said She was set the table for supper. “1 guess we'll have it in bere,” she said. come Her mother did not answer. look nobody iz the face.’ ’ “Well,” said Mrs. Stimeon. She bad fidgeted a little in ber obair, but now she settled bersell with a determined ease. “Well,” she inquired, ‘‘what elee d’ he have to offer ?"’ Abbie Ann’s voice dropped to a porten- tious note. *“Well, mother, he did say more, and that's what started we up to come. I says to Edmund, ‘I'll surprise ’em aod tell em I’ve come on to spend Thaoksgivin.” And if I don’t see anything to trouble me, that’s all I'11 tell; bus go I mast, for Burt Loomis worried me to death.” ”’ “J don’t know’s anybody need he wor- ried at anything Bort Loomis bas to fetch an’ carry,” returned the old lady, defen. sively. ‘‘Besides, what's he said? Said your father’s changed some, [rom year to year. Well, I guess most folks change. Come to that, look at Bart Loomis bimsell. There's his dintype in that albom. I gness if he should look at it an’ then stan’ before the glass he'd see he’d changed some bim- sell in the course o’ forty year.” Abbie Ann passed a hand over her koot. ted forehead. “That ain’t all. He dropped his voice shen, and he says, ‘Abbie Ano, I guess if all was known 'twould be seen yoor father ain’t the man he bas been. It’s heen months now since a uveighbor's ketohed him ontdoor, and Al Brigham, that's work- in’ for em now, day’s works, he rays your mother gives all the orders and your father don’t go out ill after dark. And once Al mes him in the road 'loog about mornin’, and your father had a kind of a white thing tied round his head, and be wouldn't so much as speak, and Al didn’s fairly koow ‘twas him. ”’ “Well,” said Mrs. Stimson, calmly, “shen what made him say "twas him ? What made Bart Loomis say so?" “Oh, 'twas fast enough,” said Abbie Ann, ina gloomy certainty. “I felt in my bones "twas him. And I up and pack- ed my trunk that very day, aud took the train just as I was except for my new sait.”’ Mrs. Stimson was rearranging the fire with extreme care. “Well, now,” she eaid, easily, ‘‘I guess I wouldn’s worry, Abbie Ann. Father's all righs, dear, an’ #0 you'll see. I goers it be padu’s been, mcther ’d ba’ told you. How’s Edmund's business gestin’ on ?"’ Abbie Ano roused hersell to a corres- ponding readiness, and they talked gravely and again volobly through a long evening. But at ten o'clock when she rose to take the lamp ber mother bad significantly lighted for ber, sbe paused a womens, to ask wistfully : “Ain't father goin’ to eat his Thanks. givin’ dinner with ue %"’ Mrs. Stimson was covering the fire. “Mercy, yes, I guess so!’ she returned, with the same defensive briskness. ‘‘He will if be feels to.” Abbie Anon wae lingering, looking ab- sently ino the flame of the lamp, as il is hypnotized ber. “It don’t seem to me, mother,” she ol- fered, mournfully, to be again assured, “don’t seem tome I could sit down to Thavksgivin’ dinner anyway in the werld and think father’s up there by himself and nohody to say why nor wherefore.” Mrs. Stimson turoed her by a decisive hand upon ber shoulder. “Thavksgivin’ ain’ till a day alter to- morrow, anyways,” she remarked. ‘‘Now you olip it up to bed. Your fire's ready to blaze, if you want it. Don’t you burry about comin’ down in the mornin.” We'll have breakfast good an’ late, 80's to get all ‘ernited np.” But Abbie Ann, in her own room, left the door open a crack until she heard ber mother ascend the stairs and balt as her father’s threshold. *“That you?’ came father’s voice. “Yes, said mother, cheerfully. “Alone ?"’ “Coarse I be.” The lock clicked, the door opened, and mother entered, and was fastened in. Abbie Anon wandered about her room, and looked with an absent-minded affec- tion at the familiar appurtenances—her little chair by the window and ber dol} sit- ting in it like an effigy of remembered the pin-cushion she bad worked in bloe and red, ‘‘magic mice”. that were gusaien by the directions to run if you ooked at them fixedly, until the eyes were dazzled, and that never rau at all. Then “‘Bai, mother,” oried Abbie Ann, “you've “Course you're goin’ to stay,’’ returned New illumination shone on Abbie Ann “Ain’s father comin’ down ?*’ she asked, loudly. “No, be ain’s.” “Why ain’s be?" “He don’t feel to.” Then the act Mrs. Stimson had evidens- ly expected, because she did not raise ber eyes to see it or ber voice to prevent is, came swiftly to pass. Abbie Ann stepped with great determination to the door open- ing on the kitchen stairs. “I'm goin’ up there,” she announced. “If father can’t come down, I can go up to him.” Mrs. Stimson went on setting the table, bus after a moment she paused, a dish in hand, to listen. *‘Father,”’ she heard, ‘‘you in there ?"’ “Yes,” came ber husband’s voice. ‘“That you, Abbie Aun?" “Why, I can’t open the door !"’ rose the other voice. in wild interrogation. ‘'Fath- er, you locked in ? “No, no,” came the answering note, im- patiently. *‘Course I ain’t locked in. The key’s on the inside.” “Then you've looked yourself in ?"’ There was a moment's panse,and the old lady. listening below, did smile a little in ir ble satisfaction. “Oh, father,”’ Abbie Ann was orying, ‘‘you juss turn the key I" “There ! there I” came the reassuring voice, with a warmth and proseciingiiee adapted to a child. ‘‘Fatber’s all right. You run down stairs an’ bave your supper an’ be a good lady.” Abbie Ann, standing there in all her portly prosperity, conscious but an bour before of her correcs ready made suit where- in she means to cat a shine before the neighbors, felt very little indeed and moss forlorn. She felt perbape as she had years ago when she was late at school and went along the lonely road withous her babbling mates, disconsolate under the sunshine and with a dull ache in her heart because her record was broken and she could not stand up to be commended on lass day. “Abbie Ann,” called her mother from below, ‘‘don’s you stan’ there stirrin’ fath- erall up. You come down here an’ see 'f you can open this jar. I shought we'd bave a mite o' quince, but the cover seems if twas on for good.” Abbie Ann came falteringly down. There were tears in her eyes, and her mother, seeing them, pushed the preserve-jar upon her with a friendly impatience, born though is was of sympathy alone. “There ! there!’ she said. ‘We'll bave our supper, an’ it'll be all right. You see it 'tain’s.” Bus before they sat down, she buttered biscuits and ses them on a tray,companion- ed by ample quantities of tea and quince. Abbie Ann was watching ber. “Here,” she said, when it was ready, ‘“‘gou let me take is. I'll carry is up.” Her mother, tray in band, seemed to wave ber aside with the motion of her laden arms. “You set down to your place,’ she said, with firmness, ‘an’ don’t you move ont of it sill I come back. Father don’t want you should go up there, Abbie Ann, nor moth- er don’t, either. Youn set down in your place.” Abbie Aun sat down, rested her elbows on the tabie, and listened while she wept. She followed her mother’s steps up the stairs, heard the tray deposited briefly at the door, and then she olick of the look. There was a low colloquy above, the door closed again, and her mother was coming down. Abbie Ann made no effort to con- ceal her misery. She wept onaflectediy into her plate, but her mother pressed bis- cuits and quince upon her with a cheerful warmth, and poured unssinted tea. Abbie Anu was nos used to sraveling,and she was tired from her journey, but it seemed to her that all her nervous misery of the mo- mens had its fount in her unfathered state. Ounce she looked up wish wet, reproachiul eyes to ask : ‘Has father got any fire up there, or is he setsin’ in the cold ?"’ “Fire?” returned her mother, scorun- fally. ‘‘Meroy, yes ! He's the air- tight goin’ an’ crammed full 0’ wead. When I was up there I "most thought he'd set the mantel-piece afire. Smelled like an ironin’ sheet, ail scorched up.” Then suppe was over and the dishes were , and they sat by the sitting: room hearth where the logs were “Father got a lamp?’ Abbie Ann in- quired, from a settled misery. “Course he’s gota lamp,” said her moth- er. ‘‘Here, you lay on this stick. It's plete.” But Abbie Ann had something to say and she put the stick on abseotly. It did | an blaze up, sud with she lighs on both sheir faces she turned guiokly Shpds her mother, as if to nse her courage before is ebbed, “Mother,’’ she began, ** know why I come on here like this, wi any prep- aation to speak of and without sime to write I was comin’ ?" “Why,” said Mrs. Stimson, in frank re- turn, ‘‘you come to Thanksgivio’.” “Yes, #0 I did, but that wa'n’s all. We planned to come next year, Edmund and me together, bus somethin’s happened, mother, and give me a regular scare.’ “Do tell I" said Mrs. Stimson. Ske looked at Abhie Ann with unaffected trouble born of mother love. Abbie Ann warmed under it, and felt, with a: rush of confidence, that mother would never in the world let her suffer anxiety without as- suaging it. “Well,” she said, out there, aud run in to see us on his along. 1 was tickled to death to ges of somebody from here, and I wouldn't hardly let him get set down before I be- gun on him. How was you father? You was all right, he said, smart as a trap. But when he come to father, he veered and tacked and wouldn't say noth- in’ till I just made him. ‘Sowethin’s the | : ! I % behavior; and be was bent slightly, some recently ired habis, is seem, rather than involontary stiffness of age. But to whatever necessity be bad subdued, mother treated him, even in this baste of preparation, with a tender defer- y to receive, and be returned is in » manner quite his own. It was in some way a touching inf of service tween them, an intimate recognition of his baving offered something she thankfully . After their hurried breakfast, he went softly out, stopping at the door for Need ware th carriage down the guess ve the own drive a piece, an’ back the horse in there. Mebbe she won’s be so likely to hear.”’ Mother nodded and tied on her boone waiting in a chair. Father lingered fora moment more. “What be I goin’to wear over my head?" he asked, in a tone of extreme distaste. She looked at she nigh and then at his Sunday hat, also in waiting. “You don’t #'pose—> she was “No, mother,’’ said § g beginning. he, testily, *‘I don’t. I won't put my man’s bat on over is. You've got to up suthin’ else.” a Sunday, if I recollect. Well for him. It give him a good full week to talk in.” Abbie Ann was embarked now upon the stood for a moment, deliberating. flood of her communication. Then she hurried softly into the bedroom “He says to me, ‘Abbie Ann, somethin’s [80d reappeared with an aucient cloud, come over your father, and there can’t no- | made in a sober gray. body find out what ’tis. You know he was | “I've seen men folks wear ‘em.’ she a terrible spruce-lookin’ old gentleman,’ ventured. ‘‘Suthin’ o’ the kind, avy says he, ‘fall beard and hair cut at the bar- | Mebbe a sear. 'Twas when they es or cold ears, or the matter o’ n nodded frowniogly. “Pat ous the light,” be ordered. ‘‘Then you can bind it on.” Mrs. Stimson blew out the light, in per- fect understanding of him, as if the deed were something nos to be ized bid either of them, and in the a d swathed her husband’s hend. She helped bim into his overcoat, and he wens out, her whispered caution in bis ears, to steal through the shed and into the barn where brown Jennie was finishing ber early feed of oats. Mrs. Stimson tocked swo good bardwood sticks into the fire, took a keen look about the kitchen, and stole out after him, olosiog the door carefully hehind ber. She waited as moments to draw on her woolen gloves and listen for Abbie Ann’s step in the chamber above, or perhaps her challenging voice. Bat the seclusion within was as still as the world outside, and she walked away down the path to the old botternat-tree where her bushand and the chaise awaited her. He helped herin sod also mounted, and they went slowly down the drive. Once out in the frozen road he tightened the reins and put a hand ov the whip for the warning shake brown Jennie knew. As they started up, he chookled. “Good joke, mother,” said be, ‘‘good joke! ’Most like ranvin’ away.” The old lady looked round at him, start- led, aud her eyes filled with tears. This was the fires time for months that father, out of his unnatural depreseion, had langhed at all. Batshe did not answer from the inner fulness of her heart, save with the practical reminder: “Don’t you forget we've got to stop at Al's. 1dun’no’ what Abbie Aun’'d say if she should wake up an’ fine herself all soul alone in the house, She was worked up enough as 'twas.’’ At the little cottage at the rise of the hill they drew up, and mother got out as it it were guite understood that she was to do the errand, and tripped np to the door. Al's wile pat her head out of the window, a hedgnilt held about her, and inquired who was siok. “You s’pose you conld go over to the house an’ keep up the fire an’ get hreak- fast?’ Mra. Stimson asked. ‘‘Abbie Anu's come home, an’ lather an’ I we're called away to do some husiness—quite an im- portant errant. We lefs Abbie Ann abed. an’ when she wakes up if you 'd tell ber bow tis an’ say we'll be home by ten at the lates t—" Mrs. Brigham wae putting down the window. In spite of the quils, she found is chill. “Yes,” said she. soon’s I’m dressed.” Then Mrs. Stimson burried back to the carriage, and father drove on. full of ieminiscence. Something, some flavor of their stealing away together or an anticipated relief all his own, made it seem to bim as if they were young and escaping from the world. He recalled days of their courtship, aud she kept even with bim, step by step, until they came to their wed- ding, and he told ber again she was the handeomess girl shat ever walked a bride in the county and that it was so remembered to that day. | like thread from a reel. “Well, I've seen some changes,’ she said, with a wistful sadness through her calm. “So's the world,” said father, pointiog with bis whip. “Twa’nt so many monshe ago ‘twas green av’ fall o’ buds, av’ now ‘tis brown. But 'twon’t be long before the snow 'll be here to cover it, an’ then there won’ be a fence poss but what's bavdsomer 'n any bloom. Don’t you worry, now. There's different kinds of handsome, an’ one’s as good as another, only take em right. Spring ain’t everything, nor bein’ young ain't everything, good’s is is.” When be fell into his strain of talking mother Stimson loved beyond everything— her own speech or the business of the hour —t0 hear him. The minutes seemed to fly She forgot her haste, and almost that Abbie Ann was awaiting them. It was apriog again, and he and she were young. They were driving toward the sunrise, and it was long after the full dazzle had struck them in the eyes and then warmed them happily, thas they drew up at the little tavern on the edge of Overbridge, the great town fall of cloth-mills. Few, even of the hands, were stirring, and mother Stimson got ous of the carriage and hurried up the it she had planned her way and ie, yo Sopa awit de ifiy be. Father, too, bad t often of this coming. He left the reins and leaned back in the carriage, his head in the corner, as if be bad no pars in the business of the call and longed only to escape the public eye. Within, mother Stimson bad met a Segpy boy. *Ia the Frenoh bair lady here?”’ she asked. She was trembling now. The goal of a long and eager was before her, and she dared not she saw it. ‘Yes,’ the told her. The bair Jody wie sill waving goi by day, to get but she mightn’t be up yes. [It was pretty repelled the eye, and she and very grave, was confron with a professional arbanity. son kept on trembling. In a moment she found she was uutying her bonnet strings, aud that the Frenoh lady, with sympathiz- ing comments in a foreign tongue, was belping her, aod that she bad not spoken. Now the French lady ran a hand over the denuded poll, without touching it, but in some mysterious way seeming to garnish it with invisible hair. “A front?"’ she said, with a rolling of the r’s, throwing into the Eoglish word a weight of dignity. “A little waved, not too Joick—graceli] yest Mother Siimson’s hands were shaking under her cloak. She whispered ber con- fession. “It’s been gone for a long spell. I've felt it a good deal. My husband fels it because I did. I wanted me a front, but be wa'n’t willin’. He said "twas terrible, false bair so; might be ous off 0’ the dead, for all we knew, or some awful oreatur’. So be said— I'll get my husband tocome ap. She was out of the room and down the stairs. At the door she held up a beckon- t, her “I'll go down along He was ing finger, aud father awaiting it, got ous and followed her in with the same silent Together they stood before the ders, incredibly long, bung white bair, luxuriantly carling. The Frenchwoman could speak very little English outside the vocabulary of her trade, but she did ander: stand it to some degree, and more than that, she interpreted the buman hears. She stood looking at them for a moment, her eyes widening with a fervid pleasure. Then she exclaimed, partly in her own language avd a little in theirs, and when she cried, ** Beautiful ! beantifnl’’ is was not apparent whether she meant the river of soft hair or the devotion that bad bens the old man's life to the achieving ol is. Bas after that fires moment she moved gunickly. She had him na chair and lean- ed over him, soiseor« ready. the mother stood watching, her hand« clasped avd ex- peotation in ber eye. And ax the looks were severed with that *‘«nip’’ thas means freedom to a child and might spell deliver- sr ance toa man, father Stimson lifted bis head at every click; and whereas, when she began, he had been abased and humble, at the end he held himself firmly and look ed mosher in the eye as if only he and she knew what liberation means to him. The Frenchwoman pad put the tresses on the table, delicately, in a soft, ordered pile, and now she laid her band over them, caressing them as if they were the most priceless of their kind. “In a week you shall come,” she said, “and we will fit it. You shall complain of it? I will change, if need must. As for you, mopsieur, I kiss your band.” She had done it, deftly, prettily, as she had cut the bair, and with a sweeping curtsy, and father Stimson, mother follow- ing, bad started down the stairs. Is was after ten when they drove up to She bad to knook several times, and at lass | their own door, where Abbie Aon, dis- traught, stood waiting for them. Father ! called to her hefore she well could hear | him. and kept on calling. “That you, “That yon ?"’ When the carriage stopped, Abbie Ann Way at the wheel both hands grasping at m. “Oh, father,”’ she oried, ‘‘don’t you look well ! You're as handsome as a pictore, too. There's nothin’ the matter, is there, father 2" “Matter o’ we ?'’ said father Stimson. He leaped ont bnoyansly. ‘‘I guess there ain't, I'm too young fur my years, that’s all’s the matter o’ me. You come here, Abbie Ann, an’ let father give youa real old-fashioned hug.” A little later mother Stimson and Abbie Ann were sitting by the fire while mother toasted her chilled feet. “Father 'n’ I thought we'd ride over to town,’’ she was saying. There was a sup- pressed excitement in her air, and it broke forth ocoasionally in an eye gleam ora triumphant tone. “‘We had some business that had to be done. 'Fore you go home I'll tell you all about it, but ’tain’t neces- sary now. I’ve got the turkey stuffin’ to think of, an’ father’s goin’ to pick over the squashes a little an’ see if he can smell out a mealy one.” Father had come into the kitchen. He was a tall man, and, from the way he bore himself, not yet an old one. In bis band be carrried an old-fashioned cloud. “Well, Abbie Ann,” said he, “I guess there'll have to be a proclamation for me over 'n’ above the Governor's. I don’t re- call as I ever looked for’ard to Thanks- givin’ day with better feelin’s, Here you he home with us, an’ mother an’ me— Here, mother I’ He tossed her the cloud. ‘‘Here’s sathin’ you left in the buugy. Kind of a thing to wear on your head, ain't it 2’—By Alice Brown in Harper's Bazar. Abbie Ann?” he cried. The Life Guards are two regiments of cavalry forming part of the British houee- hold troops. They are gallant soldiers,and every loyal British heart is proud of them. Not only the King’s household, but yours, ours, everybody’s should have its life need of them is especially great when the greatest foes of life, dis- eases, find allies in the very elements, as colds, inflaenza, catarrh, the grip, and Jaedtasals do in the stormy month of . The best way that we know of to strength adequate to nurse baby as their own breast. The need at this time is real strength which lasts. So called : ant ad “stimulants’’ do not give strength. They give a temporary sup- port and a stimulated strength, which does nothing to balance the drain of the moth- er’s vital forces hy the noring ohild. Of tions those containing aloo. hol are most to be dreaded. Many a child gives to those who use it, a real strength, which the baby shares. It contains no al- cobol, whisky or other intoxicant and no opium, cocaine or other narcotic. It is the best medicine for woman and woman's ills whioh has ever been prepared. An Automobile Free. $0r | A/s0 an Upright Piano and $150 in Gold to Readers of this ®aper. PITTSBURG, Pa., March 8 — The Pitts- burg Sun announces to-day thas it will give away absolutely free an automoble, an upright piano and $150 in cash as prizes to those who solve the Booklovers contest. The total value of the prizes is $1,350. The publishers of the Pittsburg Sun in- vite every person to enter this contest, which begins soon, and which will be con- ducted along the fairest lines. No matter where you live, you have the same oppor- tanity as the ent of Pittsbarg. For fall particulars get the Pittsburg Sun of March 12th or write the Contest Editor of she Pittsbarg Sun Pisburg Pa. t. ————————— Pop a: y quarters, milk, sour mi eed Fi A. with the milk, dirty pails, ex- posure to cold raivs and such unnatural conditions. C——————-" ~The giant bees of India build honey- combs as high as eighteen feet. FOR AND ABOUT WOMEN. — DAILY THOUGHT. “Mere parsimocy is not economy. Expense, and great expense, may be an essential part of trne economy. Economy is a distributive virtua and consists not in saving, but in selection.” A pure snd wholesome, as well as appe- tizing, orncker for children is one that was originated by a doptor. Alter studying the subject very carefully be came to she con- clusion that not only must she food be fall ol nourishment, but coutaining as it does a vast awount of starch, it must be so made that it will require a proper mastica- tion before leaving the mouth (the starch being converted to grape sugar by the saliva). To accomplish this end, he ar- ranged a special sort of cracker which," baked very haird and crisp needs to be ground many times hy the teeth and thor- oughly mixed with saliva, to prepare it for swallowing. He also discovered that, as is known to be she case in apples, potatoes, etc., the eatest nourishment of the grain was di- rectly under the skin or grain coat, and be had » flour made which included this pars in its sabstance, as is not done in the ordi- nary white flour. ‘This flour, composed of wheat, oats, corn, barley or rye, is mixed with spring water, then sweetened, fruited or flavored to make it tempting, and final- ly baked in a specially constructed oven to eunsare the desired degree of hardpess, It comes {orth in cracker form, an excellent food for children. Au ingenious invention has recently been brought out for children’s underwaists by which mothers are freed from the task of sewing on new buttons; for, when a but- ton breaks in the Iaundering of the waist, as buttons have a habit of doing, by a very simple device a new one may be put in its lace without the aid of a single stitob. e secret of it is this—a parrow tape which comes attached so the button is drawn through a stitched strap and back again over the button in such a way that it is made absolutely secure. What a time- saver this will be for the busy mother and the overworked nurse. An excellent amusement for children, and one which never loses its charm, is thas of madelling, but great difficulty is usually found in obtaining a good, pliable material which will not dry and soon be- come useless. A special kind is now for sale which always keeps the same consia- tenoy and is, besides, not the least bit sticky or harmful. It comes in five differ- ent colors, yellow, green, delfs blue, brick red and gray, and these may be mixed to- gether to give any desired sbade. In this way the natural colors of the objects to be copied may be carefully reproduced. Be- sides being instructive and interesting to the child, it gradually develops dexterity of the fingers. The child, first attempting the sirapler objects, as a spade, a worm or a teacup, may by degiees advance further until finally he will even be able tocon- struct whole villages, together with their inbabitants and avimals. Explanatory pictures can be had with the material, il- lostrating different objects and showing how to make them. The way in which a fine soft mull frock is thickly plaited, but with its hem drawn closely into a narrow band of Liberty satin bardly more than swo yards in oircumfer- ence, is amusing ou a litle maid’s slim figore. It has a high satin belt, aod from this belt to bem, both hack and front, there is laid a panel of baby Irish lace, the two panels connected on the sides by garlands of detached Irish passementerie ornaments. More of these festoon the round veck and shoulders aud bob on the wrinkled sleeves. A Tiny, tiny tot is to wear a tan straw pos-shaped bonnes encircled with a wreath of green cherries and knots of elephant grey velvet ribbon. A huge pufly mob cap in white dotted net with a narrow turved down shirred brim of the same, is lined with rose-colored taffeta, and is trimmed farther with a wide oretonne ribbon in floral effect, fastened at one ride in a huge flat square necktie bow. Big bowl-shaped bats in straw, very simply trimmed with a oretonne ribbon sied in this flat, square, stiff fashion will be very smart for every- day wear in summer, and quaint are the real old-fashioned hoonet shapes with strings, lined with silk or printed cotton, and trimmed with a stiff rosette of the same. Some bave a little 1ufiie about the nape of the neck. When you are a little bothered by hav- ing a neighbor's child outstay his wel and you would nos for the world she mother or burt the child's feelings, says the Milwaukee Journal, this plan, which a clever mother bas thought out, may belp you. She says, smilingly, when the little chap has stayed a certain time “Willie, when von pet ready to go home remind me to give you a bundle. I have one for you to open when you get home.” In five minutes as the most Willie finds thas be bas * to go home now,” and trodges away ly with his bandle. Cookies, a little fruit or a bit ot candy will do for the contents of the prized ban- dle, and cordial relations will continue to exist between the two families. Even if an evening gown has only a jel- vo ii an eventos gown his oly 4 fob M thin glass and put a pinch of nutmeg on top.
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers