of labor, | Little eyes of wonder that must learn to weep— | Mother is thy life now; that shallbe tomorrow. | Time enough for trouble—time enough for sorrow. | Now—sleep! Little dumb lips that shall wake and make a | woman, Little blind heart that shall know the worst and | best— | Mother is thy love now; that shall be hereafter. | Time enough for joy, and time enough for aah | ter. : Now—rest! i Little rosy body, new-born of pain and beauty, | Little lonely soul, new-risen from the deep— i Mother is thy world now, whole and satisfying. Time enough for living—time enough for dying. —Brian Hooker, in McClure’s Magazine. THE CURSE OF THE CASHMERE SHAWL. ey Englishman who, having played for his university and satisfactorily ed his examina had been sent out by the British government, at the age of twenty-three, to help govern India. He been in with no great advan 10 pmo no very perceptible India, wi he received news t his father was dead and that he was left heir to Head- | was stati at Kardar, a hundred miles north of Mooltan, on the Punjab plains. At first he gave the matter no more thought than was decent. But as the heat increased, his fancy turned westward to the cool leisure of Fnglish summers, with their long twilights and dawas; and then it yas hie realized that new possessions spelled release. Down in Herefordshire, in the Valley of the Wye, stood the home from wi he had set forth, tenantless and prepared to re- ceive him. This was the reason for his sudden discovery that his health was i and for the handing in of his notice of immediate resignation. He had to wait a month until a man could be recalled from Simla to take up his abandoned task of maintaining peace between the Hindus and Mohammedans | og of Kardar. By the time the scapegoat arrived, it was the month of May, and | the temperature had | to one hun- | dred and fifteen degrees in the shade. | Beasley was Sorting restless and anxious | to be gone. His preparations were quick- ly e. He rid himself of his b: ow, with all it accessories, at a figure absurd- ly low, to the man who had come to re- lieve him. He arranged to take his order- ly, Durga Jang, with him so far as Bom- bay—but no farther. When once he was on shipboard he intended to obliterate j India, with the memory of all his indis- cretions, from his mind, that so he might the better attune his thoughts to those of an English country gentleman. The night before his departure he set out from his bungalow to make one last tour of inspection of Kardar, and then, so far as was humanly possible, to it forever from his remembrance. From the little hill on which his house was established he could compass all the city in his gaze, with its jealously grated windows, behind which lamps were flick- ering, and its crumbling, red, surround- ing walls. Th the heart of the city ran the Chenab River to join the Ghara at Bhawulpoor. The sound of its flowing seemed to him like the tinkle of silver anklets on the feet of innumerable se- cret woman who peered out from behind those guarded casements—it had always seemed so to him. On a neighboring housetop a sitar was struck; a woman's voice rose upon the night, singme a Per- sian love-song. For a moment the pas- sion of the Eeat gripped him by the throat and held him silent. Then he shook him- self free and laughed; he had tasted and experienced its worth—he knew it all. As he passed from his garden, going toward the Mohammedan quarter, a woman stepped out from the shadow and knelt befere him. “My lord had forgotten me,” she mur- mured; “but I had heard that he was leaving to-morrow. I will not trouble my lord; let him not be fearful. I have come only to make the last of all my presents —the present of this shawl—whereby he may sometimes remember. It may chance that across the black water he will choose from among the mem-log one whom he can love always. Then this shawl shall be a gift from Athira to the memsahib.” Beasley was now as eager to be rid of her as he had once been to hold her in his arms—two years back in Cashmere, when he had lifted her into his saddle and galloped with her away across the bridges, out of the wood-built town of Srinagar. He took the shaw! from her hastily, and, leaving her kneeling, return- ing with it to the bungalow, tossed it into his sleeping-apartment. When he came out again the woman was gone. That night he gave the matter no further thought; but the next morning, as he was getting out of bed, he trod upon something soft. Looking down, he saw that it was the shawl. He picked it up and examined it carefully. It was of a wonderfully fine web, with texts and symbols worked all over it. When he gazed closer, he discovered that the texts and symbols were all the same, but so woven into the pattern as to look differ- ent. Even to his i knowledge, it was a gift of col e value; yet, be- cause Athira was the giver, he threw it from him. As he sponged himself in his bath, he smiled, remembering her naive suggestion that he should bestow it on memsahib, across the black water, who should become his wife. When he had dressed himself, Durga Jang brought him his coffee. When he had set it on the table before him, he did not withdraw as usual, but stood hehind his master’s chair with his head bowed and his hands folded. Beasley attributed his action to loyalty and sorrow for the ng “What's the matter, Jang?” he his back without turning, toward him. y lord will not be angry,” said the man. “My lord will be to hear that the woman, Athira, herself in the Chenab last night, just below the Hindu temple.” he answer- He had learned at least one lesson in the Orient—the wisdom of disguising emotion. th Ts thoughts. | "fhe Chenab flows into the Ghara, a shi ! When he had cheroot, he said, “Drowned had amid a her What “As for the reason, my lord knows best; and as for what they say in the bazar, it matters not.” Jang, I command is it that they say that she slew herself for the s love, because he was go- ing away without her. And they say that she drowned herself that she might go with him across the black water. “And how go with him across the black water? in thyself, Durga J vic rn Tg fo er and the Ghara flows into the Indus, ard the Indus flows down to the black water; and the black water is the pathway which my lord Hug! ave) to get to the lane of the “It is n, Durga Jang—she would float Ea DE oe as | water. Is not that thy thought?” The man nodded in affirmation. “One more question,” said Beasley, as his servant was moving away. “Have found her body?” " ay, Wy lord. Her body hath set forth on its journey. But were those last night who saw.” “What was it that they saw?” “They saw her come down the steps of the temple. She came slowly. were marigolds in her handé and hair. Site was weeping sesile advance When she had the lowest stair, which the waves of the Chenac wash, she lean- ed far out—and was lost. The moon was ning. There were those who saw it all. . .. Have I thy illustrious permission, O Brotacior of 1 , to leave thy ex- t presence? ere are shirts to be packed before we depart.” When Beasley was left alone he swore softly to himself. He was more put out by this occurrence than he cared to ac- knowledge. Je BIS. ditotion was one of annoyance ra for incon- siderateness; to have herself on the night before his departure was in the worst of taste—surely she could have waited. His next was one of eagerness to esca get back le whom he understood, to forget India and all its devious paths. His last was one of pity, approaching remorse. He rose up went to his to hurry Durga Jang with the packing. A rr eo ee e found it was all completed. Durga Jang was hauling on the last strap as he entered, and perspir- ing freely. “You're hot, Durga Jang,” he remark- The man shivered and his teeth chat- tered. He passed the strap through the buckle and turned to his master a face which was blue with suffering. my lord,” he muttered. “I am cold.” ey guessed that he had got an at- tack of fever and gave him a bottle of quinine with which to dose himself. That evening, when the sun hung red above the cotton fields, they left Kardar. That night Durga Jang died upon the ourney. His death did not cause his master so much inconvenience as might have been , for he was lucky in acquiring the scrvices of a Hindu Beare! who ae eager to trave te-rain t he might visit a cousin bora Unfortunately, he was not learned in the habits of fe- rains, and in stepping out on the track unwarily, at a where they had halt- ed to water the engine, was knocked down and crushed by the Up-eounyry ex- press, which carried the mails. This hap- pened when they were distant twenty- four hours from Bombay, so Beasley made no further attempt to engage a servant, but waited at a hotel till his odds and ends of business were settled and his steamer sailed. The first novelty and gladness of his reception in England blotted her out completely from his mind; it was not until he was alone again that he became conscious of her shadow across his life. He had gone down into Herefordshire to visit Headless Croft. He had become engaged in London to a cousin several years younger than him- self, with whom he had corresponded from time to time; the purpose of his visit was to see what alterations were necessary before he married and brought home his wife. He was in his bed-room, which had been his father’s, unpacki his boxes, when at the bottom of a trun he came across the shawl. It was care- fully fol des 2d Jay Deanearh the rts whi put toge! on their last day ox. At first he gazed down on it furious and terrified, as a man will who discov- ers a poisonous snake in the long grass. He was with Durga Jang that he had packed it, angry with himself that he had not destroyed it before leaving Kardar. Then, as he knelt beside the trunk, all consciousness of the. English room and the wholesome English sun- light died out for him. The shawl sent forth a subtle fragrance of spices, of incense, of the women of In- dia, and he was back in Srinagar in. It was night and the moon crouched low in the sky. A slow wind passed through the poplars and plane-trees, causing their leaves to shake; on every hand as he lis- tened he could hear the flowing of water and the rustling of the rice. Now it was the Jhelum which he sailed; now he walked beneath the chinar groves of dead Mogul emperors or beside the mar- gin of their lakes, on whose surface drift- ed floating-gardens; now he halted in the shadow of one of the seven log bridges which the Jhelum; but always he watched and waited. And it was for the coming of Athira that he watched. He was aroused prosaically by the clamor of the gong announcing that lunch was ready. He picked up the shawl has- tily and hid it in a cupboard; after which he went down stairs. That afternoon he returned to London and in a week he was married. He consumed nearly a year over his honeymoon, touring the Continent. Dur- ing that period, in taking pains to adjust himself to a new and intimate personali- ty, he had ample SppOrtEiLY for the studyingof his own . Hereto- fore he had been brutally individualistic; ism. rapid panorama new cities and alien lands, the inhabit- ants of which were equally proud himself, aroused within him a new force for his regeneration—self-distrust; he be- Geman he Judged, He no longer con- in love with Wand, sy deen _| ed with the coffee he said to him, “Fetch door Hing the man's 1 the stairway, he went out into the hall to meet him that he might curtail his sus- It was a large old-fashioned room, nar- row, oak-| and Jacobean i style. At the far end French windows occupied almost all one side, opening out on to a lawn at the foot of which flowed the Wye. Here a small table had been drawn up and spread, illumined with shaded candles. : There was no real need of candles, for the long-tarrying June afterglow shed sufficient light; but Beasley had insisted | on them, since, did they sit long over! their meal. they enabled him the better t to watch her face. He was never tired of | doing that; it was so girlish and peace- | ful, so ignorant of the side of life, | that it had become for him the symbol of | his altered and new hope. He could nev- er exhaust the marvel of his change. He went outside, and seated himself on | the steps to finish his cigarette while he waited her arrival. Presently he heard the door of the din- ing-room opened and closed, and the swish of skirts behind him. He jumped up hurriedly and entered, going to meet | er. i “What's been keeping you so long?” he | “Can't you see for yourself?" she re- plied, with a catch of laughter in her voice. : He could not see very distinctly, for | his eyes were blinded by the sudden | change of light; but he saw that she was | depa dressed in white, and guessed that it was her wedding attire. Coming near to him so that Williams might not hear what was said, she ex- claimed, “This is our first real night at home together, so I put it on as a sur- prise, in honor of the occasion. As she bent toward him he became aware of a fragrance that was familiar, of spices, of incense—of the women of India. For the moment the distant tink- ling of the cowbells in the meadows be- came for him the voice of the bazar, and the flowing of the Wye, the gurgling of the Jhelum between its poplared banks. Then he heard Williams saying, "Shall I serve dinner now, sir?” And his thoughts fled back to where he was. He took his place at the table in the French window, seating himself opposite to his wife. He did not trust himself to look at her again until he was more com- When he raised his eyes, he sought for any sign in her appearance which would account for his strange hal- lucination; but he saw her sitting oppo- site to him, pleasant and quiet, dressed all in white. “What's troubling you, Rupert?” she asked. “You're very silent. Aren't you pleased with me because I kept you waiting?" He disowned any irritation on that score, 2nd did his best to make conversa- tion, taking as his topic the improvements he wss planning for the home-farm. It was not a lover's talk. He knew that she was watching him with a growing concern and that his remarks were at random—that he was talking like a man light-headed. He strove to pull himself together, and to command his actions and his words; but a haunting fragrance, reminiscent of India, was in his nostrils, disconcerting him and crowding his mem- ory with visions of the past. At length the meal was ended and cof- fee was served. Williams inquired wheth- er they would have it there or in the li- brary. Beasley told him, “In the libra- ry;” but when he rose to his feet his head reeled and he sat down again. He countermanded his order angrily in Pun- jabi: then recollecting himself, “Serve it here," he said. The shadows had lengthened and the night had fallen. The air had grown chilly; a river mist which hung low above the pastures drifted in at the window, causing the candles to gutter and to shed less light. He gazed bewildered across at his wife. He wondered what she thought of his be- havior. Did she think he had been drink- ing? He wished he could tell her his trouble. Then he laughed harshly. How could he explainto her a thing the cause which he did not know himself; the ef- fect alone of which he realized? ae looked up at the sound of his ter. e nodded and waved his hand toward her; she seemed immensely distant from him. opened her lips as if she were She about to address him; but She thong better of it. There were tears in her eyes. Then he noticed that her throat and shoulders were bare; he supposed that she must be cold. When Williams return- your mistress a wrap.” But she shook her head, muttering, “I have one.” Williams, before he left, picked it up from the floor beside her and threw it over her. Beasley was snipping off the end of a igar at the time. it would be wise to tell her all, and whether this was the occasion for such confession. He ined that “something w e was meditating on | Upon would get away and he would lose her. “When I've told you all," he continued, “I'm not sure that you will like me.” | He hesitated a moment; his voice | sounded far away and strange, and her! hand felt very cold. Then he added in a | whisper, “You must remember that I was very lonely out in India, and a good deal ! younger at the time.” While he had been speaking a curious creepi he were drifting past. A nightingale was singing in a fir | near by and across the river a fellow, answered its call; but it seemed to Beasley | a muezzin who, from his minar, cried to! God in the night, “Allah ho Akbar,” “Al- | lah ho Akbar,” La ilaha Illallan.”” And | the bird was mul- of g | tiplied for him into the rumor of count. less wakeful men who made response. | The hand which he grasped so gly in his own very small and . ly dusky in the candles’ light. : panion was so silent that he take courage and Slowly © raise his eyes. Before he had reached her face, he saw something which explained it all—drawn closely across her breast and shoulders, | hiding her bridal dress from sight, was the mere shawl. She must have found it in the cupboard where he had thrown it a year gone by. So Athira had ined her desire, and her last gift to m had become a present to the memsa- His com- n to} . | hi across the black water, whom he could love always. In his surprise he grasped her hand sc tightly that she cried cut with pain. She wrenched herself free and in so doing, overswept the candles, putting out the light. He rose in his place, striving to pacify her, holding her fast again. As his eyes met hers through the dark- ness, he gazed into the face not of his wife, but of the Woman of India. Speaking to her rapidly in Punjabi. he besought her to go away. back her head and mock mouth, making no reply. As he realized what she had come to perform, he went upon his knees and im- plored her. Then, surmising the useless. Bess of such appeal, he called upon his him with her Turning quickly, as though he had struck her, she fled out across the lawn. When she turned to escape he was hold- ing her, and his hand tore from her shoulders the Cashmere shawl. He rose from his knees and ran out in- | to the night to see which way she would | rt. Already he was too late. The i mist had settled down on the valley, ob- | scuring the stars, making everything shadowy and dark. Yet, for a first few | seconds while he gazed, he fancied he discerned the moving of something which | was white, which flitted through the bash- es toward the riverside. Overpowered by curiosity, he followed. i Perhaps he heard footsteps; he could | not be sure. It might only have been the dripping of water from leaves and | branches on to fern and grass. The flow- ing of the Wye was like that of the Jhe-! lum; he was bewildered by the sense! that he was living in two sets of environ- ments at one and the same time. High | overhead the nightingale continued to | chant; and now for him it was only a! nightingale, and now a muwezzin, lifted | high above an Eastern city, who greeted | Allah in the watches of the night. : He had not gone far before he missed | his bearings and knew himself lost. He! did not dare to call, lest he should arouse | and cause alarm. They would expect an | half European—composed She threw clothing was nondescript—half Eastern, ' of such rags’ may be picked up by the roadside. He wandered the streets like a beggar; yet he never asked for alms. If spoken to he did not harken, but muttered con- | tinually something unintelligible about a ! woman, one Athira, the owner of a Cash- mere shawl, which he was anxious to re- store. There are many Athiras in Kar- | dar and innumerable hmere shawls; | so to the young E ishmen who deigned | to converse with him his foolishness was | patent. | He carried a grim package in his hand. | For any one who coaxed him he would | loose string and display just such a shawl as the one babbled of; and truly it had once been of surpassing magnificence. For five days the men at tne club toss- ed him pice and annas, partly for the fun of it and v out of pity; for they had | learned, though they did not believe it, that he had formerly been a high official in Kardar. And for five days the children | of the bazar spat upon him when the native policemen were not watching; for they had heard that he had once been a stern ruler over their fathers’ father. So for five days he was the sport of Kardar, and then he vanished. The last man to have sight of him was | an oid Sikh soldier, whose brother had once been his orderly. He had spoken to | him near the Hindu temple whose steps . the waves of the Chepab wash. It was about the hour of midnight, and the mad | sahib held marigolds in his hands and was imagining himself to be a native girl who went to meet her lover. Next day all that remained to prove | this assertion and to indicate which way Sahib Beasley had gone was a Cashmere th shawl, old and faded, drenched with river water, which was found thrown up on the temple's lowest stair. Woven into its ttern was a secret writing, which, on | ing inte by a native scholar read somewhat as follows: “As thou hast loved me May thy gods love thee; As is my fate May thy fate be; Measure for measure And grief for grief.” —By Coningsby William D , in Har- | y TRsoy Wil WSO, 4107 broad band of black velvet encircles the per's Weekly. : Signal Service School Instituted. i The increasing demand for greater | safety and facility in railroad tion | has caused the Pennsylvania Railroad to | institute a new plan of training men to | maintain and operate its signals. Ac- cordingly, there have just been appointed four signal apprentices; Jacob Bright, ! graduate of Lehigh 1910, L. J. Philips, | uate of Sheffield Scientific school, | ale, 1910, A. W. Fisher, 1910 graduate | of Pennsylvania State College, and A. H. Tesker, graduate of Yale, 1910, Sheffield | Scientific school : FOR AND ABOUT WOMEN. DAILY THOUGHT. Though human, thou didst not deceive me, Though woman, though didst not forsake. Thou lov'd, thou forborest to grieve me, Thou slandr’d, thou never couldst shake. Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me, Though parted, it was not to fly, Though watchful,it was not to defame me, Nor mute, that the world might belie, ~Byron. Divided Skirts for Sports.—The Eng- lish women are ahead of their yo sisters in this respect. According to an English magazine, they have adopted a cleverly invented divided skirt for 3 ng, mountain-ciimbing, tramping tennis. It is so fashioned that the division is not discernible, sufficient fulness being let in at the seams below the hip line. It gives freedom of movement, how- ever, unequaled any other skirt, no, by matter how its width. When in i motionduring a set of tennis, the skirt does not fly upward or wrap around the legs, as does an ordi- nary skirt, and at the same time it does away with petticoats that hamper vigor- ous movement. Made of homespun, tweed or khaki, it may be used for horseback riding as well as for other kinds of sports. One of the smartest of the new suits is in serge, braided to tone, and trimmed with tiny satin buttons. The braid is plied in a narrow line effect on the spe panels of the skirt, each end being caught down with a small button. The coat, coming a little way below the waist line, is semi-fitting, and lines of the braid are used on the sides to match the skirt. The deep revers and sailor collar are outlined with the braid, and the ac- . companying hat of black satin has a turn- back fold sha something after the le of a Dutch bonnet, faced with rows of the silk braid. Black velvet is used effectively as a trimming on some of the tailored suits is season. It is used for the waistbelt, for the sailor collar, for facing the revers, and for covering the buttons. White hats trimmed with black are having it all their own way just now, and some very effective examples of millinery of this kind have been designed to wear with coat and skirt costumes in black, finely striped with white. Exceedingly distinguished in effect is a | large hat, with a fairly high crown and a very wide brim made in white felt and lined underneath with black velvet. A crown, and on one side, toward the front, there is a large bow of old ivory, v deftly tied, and ingeniously arranged wi invisible wires which stiffen the loops of lace and keep them in position. Some of the newest black picture hats have quaint little frilled caps of white lace peeping out from under the brims, and resting lightly upon the hair. This is a very pretty fashion and one of which we shall probably see more later cn in the year. About the “Hobble Skirt."—It is reall becoming to one woman in a thousand. The slender slip of a girl, with a figure The different divisions of the lines east | of almost boyish straightness, occasionall his servants, who had probably retired, | of Pittsburg have started signal schools looks well in it. 2 y where experienced signalmen give in-! To the woman of full age and figure explanation, and what was there to ex- | struction to the division signal employees | it is a tragedy. plain? in It took him an hour to fumble his way | back. When he reached the house, he! felt his way round by the clammy, ivy- covered walls till he came to the window whence he had set out. It was still open, and the room was still dark. He struck a match, half expecting to see his wife huddled in a corner; but she was not there—all he saw was the overturned ta- ble, near to which lay the Cashmere shawl. He where she had gone =piobably to bed. e closed the windows and then fol- lowed her. He tiptoed up the stairs and | along the passage till he came to her door and knocked. He knocked again—loud- er this time; but there was no answer. He turned the handle, but refrained from entering; he felt himself an intruder after what had happened. He must have made more noise than he thought, for just then he heard a foot- Se on the servants’ landing and saw Williams, with a lamp in his hand, peer- ing down from the banisters above him. Anything the matter, sir?” he whis- “No, nothing, thank you, Williams,” he lied; “you can go back to bed.” e decided to e interviewing his wife till morning. She would be bet- ter able to bear his explanation after a night's rest. He went down to the library and lit a fire; he could not endure the room where the scene had occurred. Sitting alone in the silent house, all things seemed possible, and he thought he had now arrived at the solution of mystery. Remembrance of Jang's words afforded him the key to the situa- tion. When asked why Athira should have drowned herself in the Chenab in order that she might go with him across the black water, Durga Jang had said, “The Chenab flows into the Ghara, and the Ghara fiows into the Indus, and the Indus flows into the black water, and the black water is the pathway which my lord must trave! to get to the land of the bs. “And the Wye flows into the black water,” thought Beasley, thus complet- ing the SE, “The ghost of Athira j water. Sitting beside the fire, he fell asleep. Next morning he was awakened by the sound of heavy footsteps in the hall. He listened and heard voices arguing in whi ore he saw the hispered tones, scared white face of Williams looking in him. Catching sight of his master, i have withdrawn al tically; then said, ng shaki- ly,” “Something bad has sir; it's in the i a 4 r, saw the figures of half a dozen of his laborers. hurriedly, clutching at his collar because the tightness which was about his ! : £ E = 2 2 : regard to the proper operation and | Not the lcast objection to the frock maintenance of the different signal and | with the yard-and-a-half band around the interlocking appliances. | bottom of the skirt is the effect it has of The importance of this step is indi- increasing the size of the feet until a dis- cated by the fact that whereas, in 1902 creet four looks like a seven at least, and there were but 7,891 interlocking func- | the woman with really large extremities tions in operation on the lines east of | —we shudder to go farther. Pittsburg, in 1908 this number was 20,725 Nevertheless, if the frock is kept with- —having just about tripled in a period of | in reasonable lines merely short and six years. These 20,755 functions are { straight and scanty, and on the ‘jittle Sperated by 8,792 levers. A total of 12,- ' girl” order, it is sometimes becoming to signals are in service, covering 3,385 | young girls and the younger and more miles of road, or over 70 per cent of ! slender matrons. mileage. . Remember that with it must be worn Signal apprentices will serve a three ' the turned-down collar, which is the on! years course. The first year will be spent | sort of neckwear at all suited to suc on the mechanical end of the work with ! dresses. the repair and construction gangs, the | second year in the office of the supervisor | of signals, and the third year on outside | work on electric and electro-pneumatic | appliances. They will report to the su- | pervisor of signals while taking this | course. i line of appointment to the following posi- tions: assistant supervisor of signals, | sunervisor of signals, inspector, assistant | signal engineer, and signal engineer. ——Subscribe for the WATCHMAN. 1 i ! Training Nurses—Free Scholarships. | The Philadelphia school for nurses, 2219 Chestnut street, Philadelphia, an- | classes will shortly begin. This institu- tion is recognized and endorsed by lead- | ing physicians everywhere. Free scholar- ps in the two year course are avail- able and provide room, board, launder- ing, incidental expenses and railroad fare | home on completion of the course. A | home study course and a resident short course are also provided. The school provides full instruction under safe and | wholesome conditions and opens the way | to almost immediate financial betterment | anxious that some provision be made to meet the in demand for nurses | i opening which | will be appreciated by those who need to | quickly prepare themselves for self-sup- port and nursing duty. An illustrated number of the school bulletin, which is | sent free to interested persons, gives all | the details. : The next place open to these men jo | Sick to nounces that enrollment for the fall | BO at present, we are content to for those who need to increase their earn- ' glives, moistened with 2 lad =n : wa and ing power. | spread A special short course class opens Oc- | or on hot prece tober 5th. This class is formed at the or make a substantial for a little supper, request of leading physicians who are is another of the demonstrator’s prize When pieces of felt are pasted to the bottom of ornaments thatare to stand on a polished surface care must be taken that the surface is not damp or the var- nish fresh, or the lint from the felt will stick to the wood and be worse than the the position of assistant si inspector | “op. oo ; : : : quite often in the slides I le signal gine 3 - har at | of old m y desks. The unsightly mark on the top can only be removed scraping tly with a piece of fine sand- paper then rubbing up with sweet oil and vineger. Do not scrape hard, or the varnish will be scored the surface of the ma- hogany be ruined. In length the coats are all short of the knees and of an ing shapeliness, although just free of the figure. As gags ay t obsession the nt blouse over some extravagant lace or lin- gerie slip when occasion arises to throw open the fronts of the coat. But vests of an extra tly beautiful character, moreover, an exhaustive range, from toile de jouy to embroideries of rare and | beautiful silks. For the Housekeeper—Luncheon cheese mixed with minced or on crackers for the salad course crisp toast to de the soup Lace collarettes and muslins can be | stiffened without starch; instead, put a { lump or two of sugar in the rinse water. Curried ; ——— ' spoonful of curry powder. Cut hard boiled It Really Happened. gg iato halves, them on a deep — I ET A tn “Jimmy,” said the teacher, “what is and arrange a circle of boiled rice around the shape of the earth?” them. Garnich with parsley. "Well, what is the shape of the cuff | 7, Make Windows Opaque—If Buttons your fatier wears to church “| want to shut off the view from any. win: ” ! can cheaply “Dey are square, teacher. |e =n little hot water as much How about the ones he wears on | Epeom salts as the water will absorb. a ound) tage” | Rint Gye fhe window while lok: and “Weil, then, what is the shape of the | you will have avery good imita- » a “Square on Sundays, and round on — week-days.” | Quaint scarfs in shades of gray and | mauve are swathed round ——=Subscribe for the WATCHMAN. ! straws in purple gray. Eggs.—Fry an onion in butter | and over it put milk and flour and
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers