a ma turned coolly, “else what should Ibe
Pemorraiic, atcha : a
ar sisted still kindly. Just at the first, she
—_— | pleased his artistic eye.
Bellefonte, Pa., August 11, i911. |” Martier bit her lower lip to stifle a
—————————————— JAW T a
| “The bread, if you
SUMMER: A RHAPSODY. ' Fanchot t
had much exper-
Howdy, Mr. Summer-Time? ience.”
: “Not too much,” she retorted pertly,
Glad to see you here; i
Life becomes a pretty rhyme “but enough.
When your glows appear. "You would sing Musette, one supposes
All the world seems fuil of love ~—a very delightful Musette.
‘When your roses bloom, . Now it is not Musette who has the im-
And your azure skies above ‘portant role in “Boheme.” The little
Drive away all gloom. chanteuse flung Fanchot a disdainful look.
“Mimi,” she corrected laconically.
Like to fee} the touch 20 soft “Ah?" said Fanchot, still quite innocent
In your balmy air, ' of any desire to offend , “one would not
And the breezes from aloft ! have supposed it. Nedda?”
Tousling my hair. She merely n
Love the rustling of the trees | "Michaela?"
Like rome fairy's sigh, An affirmative motion of the eyebrows.
And to listento the bees “Juliette?”
Droning lullaby. Another nod.
Love the scent of heliotrope, At that, he smiled, with pleasure—the
Pink, and mignonette; boyish, deprecating smile Le J .
Love to watch the pansies ope, : “I also sing Romeo. It is of my
And the violet. | She looked him over accurately.
Love to hear the cattle call | "One would not have Supposed it. e
O'er the clovered mere, | have no sugar at this place
And to watch the waters fall ! Fanchot sigaalled the disinterested
weir. | waiter. Havinga friendly heart, Fanchot
Dies the very wee OT To eT
Love to sit and watch the moon “You will not find us dificult—we little
Smiling down on me, ones of the Opera.”
While the wavelets softly croon i "What does it matter?” inquired the in-
By the summer sea. 'solent Martier, and rose from the table,
Love to listen to the song having finished her meal. She left Fan-
Of the birds at morn, : chot
staring.
There you have in its beginning a very
When the sunbeams come along i
| pretty feud, for Martier continued to sit
With the day new-born.
Lovete hear the katydids ' rose against her continued llation.
Out there in the night, "It was not a great spirit, if you like, hav- | Day after day the two broke bread to-.
Like a lot of Buisy kids ng its finest expression in juggling balls | gether at the little table, and scorned each
oan endless Set. before an altar; but clean it was—as | other furiously above the salt. The audi-
Love to hear t Hyesry spirits go—and childishly sweet. It |ences that filled the Opera House from
Clicking with t ie Jean could be childishly vicious, too, when | parquet to gallery that winter, never knew
When it Comes te or We some one it, as Martier chose to | that each red-rose moment of “Pagliacci”
Summer can't be beat Si ‘do invariably. It was as if she had con- | was a delicious agony to Fanchot who
Carlyle Smith. | ceived a feline dislike for him, unsheath- | sang it. They appiauged-those big stup-
ing her claws whe never he id audiences—and in the boxes, the de-
defied him to smooth her fur. Soon there | butantes, all white and pink like wind-
FANCHOT. | was open war between them, to the - | flowers, murmured, rustling among them-
! natured amusement of the rest the | selves:
You will remember—if you have sat in “Isn't he sweet?—Fanchot! Those
the stalls of the old French Opera House = "She is a cat, that little Martier,” said | eyes, my dear! No less than burning!—
on Bourbon street, to hear “Le Jongleur Fanchot gloomily to Charprent one day. | and ey long as your arm.” |
de Notre Dame"—you will remember “Yes. but I had rather have her scratch | Poor Fanchot! Martier had not ob-
Fanchot. | than purr,” was the basso's deep-voiced
Fanchot was Le Jongleur. I donot say condolence. “It is so hard to be
he sang it. Mary Garden did that. Fan. them—when they purr.”
chot was the creature—body and blood | Fanchot sh ed. He was fresh from
and motley. A shrinking, undersized , | an encounter, and his wounds yet smart-
OR ashe) an eager body inside | ed.
the juggler’s gauds; t, gentle, sad,’ One deep wound which Martier had in-
gray eyes; a mouth, pitifuliy young, flicted
er twitching between pain concerned acutely the personal comeli-
laughter—that was Le Jongleur. In- ness of the little tenor.
cidentally, that was Fanchot. Fanchot had a cast in one eye—a very
When they took him from his balls and ' slight cast—scarcely cast
tricks to put a monk's robe on him, it ‘noticed, and surely not to be remarked
tied a knot about your heart—he was so! Spon. Martier observed it, however, and
much a boy, so young, so eager, so full all was grist that came to her wicked
of quaint bravado, and passionate desire mill.
to please—but when in the last act he; “You have perhaps an eye of glass?’
came before the altar, casting that robe she inquired pleasantly one evening at
aside, the knot broke, and your heart dinner, when the feud had been more
swelled to bursting. If you were human, | than usually intense.
and had not the temper of cold steel, you ' Fanchot indignantly denied it.
put a hand to your eyes, unashamed. “But why should you care? Itis a very
For Fanchot, in motley, singing his good eye—the difference is slight. I
songs, dancing his dances, and juggling should scarcely have known!"
his bright swift balls before the Blessed “It is my own eye,” he assured her, in
Mother—thie only offering he knew how a white heat rage.
to make her—was nin not easily “But yes,” she murmured Sootingly,
fo be laughed aside. Like a gallant toy “itbecomes your own, since it is paid for.
soldier come to life, he strutted up and A perfect match. I assure you, I should
down, his little drum throbbed beneath ' never have known, except for a little
his fingers, and his bells jingled. Above | crookedness—Ilike a cast.”
him, the high altar glowed, with lights! “It is a cast,” said Fanchot between his
like jewels. When he looked up to the teeth, “in my eye.”
pictured face of Mary, his feet faltered, “One understands,” she agreed indul-
and his voice broke; but then he soon : gently, “in your eye—not in the one of
went on again, more eagerly than ever, ‘glass. No matter!”
leaping and whirling like mad in the Thereafter she lost no occasion of tor-
earnest of his dance. Had not Boniface | menting him. Fanchot wasimpotent, till
told him that the best one could do made | an unexpected, but quite perceptible flat-
always an acceptable offering in Her | ting of Mimi's notes, one night, gave him
sight? And, this was his best—his high- his opportunity. Next day at luncheon,
est reach—his Art So when he fell pant- he rose to the occasion.
ing upon the altar-steps, exhausted near, “How you must have been mortified!”
to death, and the white hand of the Vir- he consoled her, “last night—to flat so
n was stretched out above him in bene- dreadfully!”
ion—you credited the miracle. More, | “I?” cried Martier, “tc fiat!"
zee saw your own accustomed prayers Her brown eye: flamed fury. The
what they were, sick, sorry things in ‘blood swept up in*o her cheeks.
the light of that boy's white faith. !" “The papers speak of it—you have not
That, as I have said, was Le Jongleur ' seen?” suggested Fanchot mildly. “No
who was Fanchot. But Fanchot was not | matter! Let us talk of something more
always Le Jongleur, else this story need | pleasant—""
not be written. There is not much ma- | Martier was out of the room, and half-
terial in mere goodness for the stories ! way up the stairs in quest of a morning
that people will read. | paper, before the laat word left his lips.
Fanchot in his ordinary self, wassome- “Touche!” chuckled Fanchot to him-
what otherwise. His name, given him by | self. But he pushed his plate aside, and
certaindoting ts and godparents in! ate no more lunch that day.
baptism, was Camille Jean ie, which! For Le Jongleur who was Fanchot, and
goes far to explain why he sang in a lyric | Fanchot who was Le Jongleur, had come
tenor and wore neckties of delicate gray. to love the one who Payal him. Slowly,
When he was not nor per- | but with the sureness of a sunrise, it had
forming, nor riding about in taxicabs—a | come to him that his taunts were so
recreation which he adored—he lived at | many weak defences, so many feeble bar-
the Hotel de Paris, which, every one ri against an encroaching tide.
knows, is just across the street from the | While
French Opera House, and shelters in its, sneer, his eyes were hungry u the
capacious gray bosom most of the latter's ' curl that touched her cheek. ile he
-birds. parried and thrust in the vendictive fence
Fanchot had a room there and, in addi- | she forced upon him, he would have
tion, when he chose to be at home for | given his soul toput his lipsto her hand;
them, three plentiful meals a day. On | and while he laughed lightest at the fiat-
the whole, he found it an easy and a ting of her notes, mentally he was down
pleasant life. Of an evening, he sat cosily | in the dust at her feet, praying that for
ensconced behind the little table nearest | her own sake, she might not do it again.
the window—which was nearest the door | Nothing of this came home to Martier,
—and sipped his sour, red wine, and | though beside herself there was no soul
gulped his cafe noir, and rolled and lit his | in the troupe whodid not know the truth,
subsequent cigarettes, with no interrup- | or who failed, with truth temperamental
tion other than the genial nod of Char- | wit, to make a jest of it.
prent, the big basso, who ate across the| The season marched, as seasons do,
room with his wife; or the shrill, com- | and one after another, subscription nights
radely greeting of Handel, the premiere | were added to the past. By some quaint
danseuse; or the languishing of | chance, the fickle public chose to be
Barger, the ia Who Tuigge) a | pleased with Fanchot and Martier in
wi one hand manip “Pagliacci”—so "w 3 ” sung, an
ort wae oe Ee
an sat quite was not | an im , enticing a
lonely, till there came upon te, scene, the Cani
little Martier!
Martier, to admit the grievous truth,
was an interloper. Poor, pretty Guyol,
the original chanteuse legere of She trompe,
, an
Fanchot’s gray eyes on such ts. A
fire of longing touched him, a flame
of wild regret. In “Romeo et Juliette” he
was the wistfullest lover those walls had
seen—as Juliette was the shyest maid-~
what Fanchot lacked in impressiveness
of stature, he atoned for in earnest—but
it was hard for any man to love poetical-
managerial jy the undercurrent accompaniment
Further, there no other t Martier played him.
seat for the new-comer, she was put tete- | When, far example, she leaned from
a-tete with Fanchot at the little table. | the balcony into
Further yet, she was so pretty as to be
and so as to be spoiled—a | der, and
ark, scornful little creature, rose-cheek- | between the outbursts of their duet, she
ed, with eyes like the evening star's re- | tortured him in a delicate whisper.
flection in twin pools. Furthest of all,!| “Do not put your face so near—I can-
upon the first evening, Fanchot had | not
spoken quite kindly, meaning to put her| “Oh la! la!—if you regard me so
at her ease, and the hussy had flouted | mournfully with the eye of glass, I shall
him. Somewhat after this fashion: undoul y Jaugn.
“You have sung elsewhere?'’ inquired| “If only you do not flat!” hissed Fan.
Fanchot with an air—indulgent as an old | chot, before vowing, in exquisite limpid
gentleman in spats. harmonies, that yonder moon might prove
“That runs without speaking,” she re- | his constancy.
‘at Fanchot's table, and soon his spirit
y to be
| reason of the merciless exigencies
ou music, Juliette was thereupon
faint with happiness, but in a murmur
following sweetly, so that her red lips
barely moved, she wielded the lash once
more.
| **And R ing his soul her
omeo, swearing soul to
| service, muttered in the first free second,
with dry lips—
“I have no wish"
| Wherein he lied, shamefully—from the
id of a fiery furnace, 2s it were.
| ut Martier did not laugh. Being Juli-
| ette, she flung instead both white arms
| about his neck, and uttered a trill of ec-
| static emotion—only as her dark hair
| swept his cheek where the blood leaped
| up to welcome it, she cooed softly, with a
| refinement of derision, with an absolute
quintessence of unkindliness:
“That sees itself.”
In spite of all which, “Romeo et Juli-
ette” was one of Fanchot's few remaining
jovs in life. At least it ht him to
where he would be, and not all the little
Martier's unspeakable cruelties could rob
him of a consequent choking happiness
that endured to the fall of the curtain.
Fanchot was not a Cave-Man, as one
sees that delightful tradition. It occurrea
to him not once in the course of a tumult-
uous season that no woman is won by hu-
mility, and that a trifle of brute force will
move mountains. It may be he had never
heard of a Cave-Man, or, having heard, it
may be that he shuddered at the heresy.
In any case, where rudeness and determi-
nation might have been wisdom most ef-
fective, he preferred to rely upon caustic
which broke beneath his weight
—added to their own.
So things grew no better between the
little tenor and the chanteuse legere—if
anything, they altered for the worse.
served those eyelashes, or she would
doubtless have asked, with a delicate sniff,
if perhaps he braided them before retir-
ing at night.
t was well into January when the first
: slackening of work aj red, and with it
| the first easier days for the singers. Mar- |
continued to rub with salt, | di Gras came early, with a rout of balls | “but it is the rule of the house. After
: preceding it, and the Opera House was,
! Pr right of tradition, converted on such
than two nights out of a week. therefore,
were Bergere and Charprent and Martier
and the rest of them in demand. They
took advantage joyfully of their increas.
ing idleness. Charprent and his wife
made long excursions into the country,
returning foot-sore and jubilant. Bergere
and her little white dog underwent a rest-
pant, slender Handel haunted the shops
in an orgy of chiffons. Fanchot, daily,
took solemn, aimless rides in buzzing tax-
icabs. And Martier—Martier went away,
as often as chance permitted, to a certain
charming plantation-house, in one of the
Parishes, where the hostess, a poet in a
small and delicate way, delighted to play
at bohemia, and worship genius in its
hours of ease.
She was a witch, that small Martier.
Upon each fresh return, when Fanchot,
hoping against hope, greeted her tenta-
tively, she trod upon her wound. You
may imagine her little French heels, dap-
pled with blood, tapping blithely, nonethe-
less, Bpor their way.
“Ah!” she would cry, unfolding her
napkin daintily, “you? How this place is
dull—eh? Are you looking at me” 1 can-
not always tell—because of the eye.
not quaint?"
And Fanchot would smile wryly—his
hope once more flung back upon itself.
“To-night,” he would remind her,
“there is Juliette. 1 trust she will not flat
one little note. 1 have an ear so deli-
i that game!
ut it grew tiresome, e!
Then at the end of a el. the
last in January, Martier, who had gone as
usual to the plantation, failed to return
one morning; and evening papers, hawk-
ed about the street by careless boys, print-
ed her name in little black letters, mid-
way of a pitiful little list. There had
been a wreck—a spreading rail—and four
lives lost. There was not, in itself, so
strange a thing. We must have wrecks,
we who travel fast. But when the wreck
is at our door——
Charprent, the ores crackling in the
hold of his great fist, came first to the Ho-
tel de Paris with the news. To his wife
who had met him on the stairs with some
inconsequent pleasantry about his late-
ness, he said five words, his kind, square-
jawsd face paling dreadfully, his voice a
The little Martier,” he told it thus,” is
ead.
“Ninette!" shrieked madame, clutching
the railing.
In a moment she essayed to laugh, tim-
orously.
“Macaque! You jest.”
“Read,” said Charprent, and held the
paper up before her eyes, whereupon
Hiadgine —, ef gra with no
warning one p, into
a clamor of hysterics. She had been fond
of the wilful girl.
“That is well enough,” muttered Char-
rent, “we must all grieve—we others—
N Figo Fs ct ah heard of
ot wi e
the tragedy, ad her little white dog
up to her cheek, and wept loudly. She
had been jealous of Martier, but one can’t
be jealous of the dead. Her tears were
real.
Handel cried out between her sobs that
she would not dare, she could not bear to
hurt a fly.
The rest were no less stubborn—like
childre
tened n.
em sighed Charprent.
Ajioom etd down pon the Hote!
Paris, like a black 5
. The 8 ingly bi
Is it
the hallways, smoking solemnly. Into
this a of I a
gamer and closed the door behind
m.
At first they thought, t and
one other who went hp him,
that he did not know. He wore a gray
suit, with a red flower in his button.
and his soft gray hat
hole
“I do not care that you should hold me der,
occasions into. a ball-room. Not more |
cure with a masseuse in attendance. Flip- |
“Am 1 late for dinner?” asked Fanchot,
and that was all. The soul of the man,
like a naked thing seeking cover, caught
up the first flimsy commonplace it could
find to shelter its agony.
“No,” said big Charprent, clumsily ten-
, “you are not late, my boy.
the third man eagerly, he
too clutching the ordinary, for comfort:
“There is .
an hour yet.
“That is ," said Fanchot, but when
they lool to see him go up the stairs
carrying his grief like a burden, he cross-
ed threshold of the dining-room, walk-
ed straight to the littie table by the win-
dow, placed his hat upon the floor, sat
down, rested his elbows upon the cloth,
and stared at the empty chair—the chair
of little Martier—which stood there fac-
ing him. All of this he did like a man in
a dream, not deliberately, but with an un-
seeing sureness. The forks beside her
Pate were awry,and he set them straight.
he sat once more quiet, looking
across the table, his hands clasped
loosely before him, his shoulders droop-
ing.
fie was like that, while Charprent stoed
and watched him. When Charprent went
away, he did not move; and he was like
that, yet later, a live man, stiffening to
stone, while the Hotel de Paris ate its sor-
rowful dinner around him, muffling the
noises of pork on platter, that grief might
go undisturbed. The waiter brought him
one course after another, and took each
away untouched.
Charpent, stopping on the way out. his
big face distorted with feeling, lzid a
hand on the nearest gray shoulder.
“My boy,” he suggested huskily, "if you
Jould perhaps eat—"
“Eh?” Fanchot did not look up, he
merely moved his head. ‘‘Another time.”
i "The God knows we can only
wait,” the older man continued.
“] am waiting,” said Fanchot.
And there was no answer to that, Char-
prent could see for themselves.
So, softly, and with a beautiful under-
standing that seemed not to be aware of
Fanchot’s presence, the company slipped
out, the waiters cleared the tables deftly,
and the dining-room was again deserted.
Through the semi-gloom, the white'cloths,
and the dim goblets, the plated forks, and
the tall carafes showed eerily. An air of
| weariness hovered about the place, an air
| of crowded yesterdays and juggernaut to-
' morrows.
Fanchot, in his corner, sat very still, and
outside, at intervals,the cars roared by like
| rushing winds. When it was nine o'clock
and still the little tenor had not moved, a
| waiter came quietly to Charprent, an air .
| of sympathetic apology upon his weazen-
| ed face. He was an old man, and in his
| time had slept with sorrow.
"One would not disturb him,” he said,
nine hourg, no light burns in the dining-
room--and he sits there still."
him.
here,”
‘ ig waiter hung back a moment, wist-
ully.
“ff one might remark it--1he was a
child of the sunshine, that little one.”
“It is true," said Charprent simply, “but
the good God knows.”
The waiter went back to the dining-
i room, walking softly, and turned out the
single gas-jet that had been burning upon
the chandelier. It left the place in a
“Have no concern. 1 shall
arc-light across the street sifted through
the closed windows, and thinned the
blackness.
“If there is anything monsieur wishes,”
offered the waiter, hesitating before the
little table in the corner.
“Eh?” said Fanchot, answering as if
from a great distance, but quietly. He
added, after a moment, se:ming to re-
member, “There is nothing.”
When the waiter had gone, time passed
unremarked. Noises in the street grew
less. There had been no performance in-
tended for the opera that night, and the
hotel went early to bed. The sound of
the infrequent cars came like a gash
across the stillness. One might have
heard the wires singi And the dark-
ness was without comfort.
It was perhaps a little
hour after midnight, when Fanchot moved
in his chair. He stretched both hands
softly Soros the Hobe, tuned | hem palm
upward, asa man w Obef. 8 whispered
a name. In that long, silent room,its echo
did not cross the threshold.
“Well-Beloved!” he and again,
shaken with longing, “my Well-Beloved!”
A little mouse came out of its hole, and
gnawed ngly beside the fireplace—no
sound but that.
“Juliette!” said Fanchot, very stilly;
one might have thought, to hear him, he
held his breath between the oe ay
do, who listen for an answer. "My Well-
Beloved !—Dear God—My Well-Beloved!”
A little wind came up, and fretted at
the windows.
A sob caught suddenly in Fanchot’s
throat.
“But I have waited!” he said, desper-
ately low, and his hands clenched in up-
on themselves, nail into palm, rigid wi
agony. “ God!—my Well-Beloved!"’
Befcre his eyes, dark with pain, and
strained with the hopeless hope of re-vi-
sioning, a shadow feli and wavered. It
grew, misting faintly into form beside
that empty chair. Against the darkness,
it was as a film; against the close air, as
j periume; against the silence as a heart-
t.
Fanchot sat Nn and tortured. He
scarcely breathed. His eyes burned into
the dark.
Then, while the little mouse at
the wall, and the little wind at the
windows, there came two other eyes that
wide, mocking eyes above a
red mouth, tilting at the corners. From
the chair that had been across the
table, smiled the little er, and Fan-
chot sensed a voice.
“Oh la! la!” it murmured, “if you re-
gard me so mournfully with the eye of
glass, I shall undoubtedly laugh.”
"My Well-Beloved!" said Fanchot in his
heart. His lips moved but slightly, yet he
said it again and .
"One would not have supposed that you
swept him
Romeo,” the wide
with a delicate disdain, the red mouth
curled into a smile.
Fanchot's face paled, till even in that
darkness, it showed a blur of light. A
breathless ecstasy trembled in his voice.
He Spoie so low you might not have
him, though stood &t his elbow.
“Romeo?” he it after her, linger-
ingly. "Romeo was a poor fellow—he
po. only die when Juliette was gone. |
have called you back, my Well-Beloved—
I have 48 you back!
"Do you so flatter yourself?” She
mocked him.
“There you are,” he pleaded, and here
am I! Has it been one hour or twelve I
have sat here? 1 cannot tell. I have tak-
en my heart in my hands and wrung it
dry. I only know I called you—and you
have come.”
“Put out your light,” the basso we
musty shadow. Only the gioom of an!
t the third |
"To see—" her chin lifted prettily—"to
see poor Romeo pray.”
Fanchot's dry lips twitched.
“I love you,” he said, “1 love you!—be-
yord zl! hope—beyond all peace. For
every jest you flung at me I love you
more—for every sneer—for e.ery taunt.
1 have not forgotten that first night—I
have not forgotten any night. I shall never
forget. :
She nooded her head, an ethereal mirth
narrowing the beautiful eyes.
“That sees itself.” she murn ured.
“There is no music in heaven,” he told
her, in broken passionate whispers.” like
the notes you have fiztted. If I have
laughed :t them, the gocd G d lied."
“Douvtiess,” she nodded sweetly,
"doubtless you lied.”
“My Well-Beloved,” brezt*<c¢ Fanchot
hoarsely, “my little, little}. el!”
A silence came between them. Across
the tale, his eyes devoured the shzdowy
curve of her cheek. The r om sank away
from his consciousness. It may be that
his hand trembled, for sudden’'y a spoon
clinked beneath it ard at tat a great
saudder took him, from head tu heel. He
shivered pitifully, like a man with the
ague, setting his teeth that they might
make n. sound.
In the street outside, a cirt went hy,
clattering horribly, and after a little, an-
other. e air was chill with dawn. At
the windows, the dark grew slowly pal-
lid. Vague shapes revezled themselves
about the room.
There was a careful st*p upon the
stair, and Charprent stcod in th2 doorway.
In the twilight, he looked Iaggard and
large and old. His shirt va: open at the
throat, and his eyes wer: heavy with
sleep. Cautiously, he crossed the room,
and laid his kindly hand on Fanchot's
shoulder.
“It is not long, he muttered. “before the
house awakes—and one would be alone
with his grief. All night, is it not? I
have watched. “It may be that you would
sleep now, my friend.”
“She was there,”” said Fanchot, and
pointed across the table.
“But yes,” said the older man, soothing-
ly. “Now, let us go, before the servants
fore, It has been of a length—this
night!”
anchot’'s tired mouth twitched, his
shoulders heaved with a long, shuddering
breath.
, “See, now!” coaxed Charprent, “shall
we go?”
They went up the stairs together, Fan-
chot stumbling a little, like a man who
has drunk too deep.
“The good God knows,” sighed Char-
prent. when they had reached the little
tenor's room; “it all makes Art—love,
life and death.”
But Fanchot, who was Le Jongleur, had
no answer. He lay, face down, across the
bed, and wept.—By Fannie Heaslip Lea.
Mining for Coffin Planks.
| One of the most curious industries in
the world is the business of mining for
coffin planks, which is carried on in Up-
| per Tonquin, a portion of the French
possessions in southeastern Asia. Ina
certain district in this province there ex-
ists a great underground deposit of logs,
' which were probably the trunks of trees
engulfed by an earthquake or some other
| convulsion of nature at a comparatively
| recent period.
| The trees are a species of pine known
| to the natives, and also to some extent to
European commerce; as “nam-hou.” The
| wood is almost imperishable, and has the
uality, either through its nature or as
| the result of its sojourn underground, of
| resisting decay from damp. This quality
makes it particularly valuable for the
: manufacture of coffins, and for this pur-
| pose it is largely exported to Europe.
| The tress are often a yard in diameter.
| They are buried in sandy earth, at a depth
| of from two to eight yards, and are dug
| up by native labor as demand is made for
| them. .
{ In many other places in the world trees
are found underground in a very fair
state of preservation. In Vermont cer-
tain meadows, which are now cultivated
every year, are known to be underlaid
| with great masses of logs, which were
| brought down and deposited in great
| jams in floods, within the recollection of
living men, and left where they were. In
the course of time the interstices between
the logs filled up with earth, and all were
covered over evenly with more earth and
vegetable growth.
dug up, they are found to be in a sur-
prisingly good state of preservation; but
the business of “mining” them has not
yet become an industry.
The old rhyme rings true in that line.
lad to wed for. is a shame, there-
ore, to squander the fortune provided by
the fairy .mother, Nature. Yet, we
rose fades when the worm is at its ‘heart.
Face lotions, tonics, nervine and other
things are tried, but the face grows thin
and hollow. Fortunate is such a young
woman if some friend should tell her of
the intimate relation of the health 2 1 fhe
womanly organs to the general ¥
and nt her to that almost unfailing
cure for feminine diseases, Dr. Pierce's
Favorite Prescription. This medicine
works wonders for women in the restora-
tion of lost fairness. It is a tiue beauti-
fier, restoring the womanly heaith, and
which are the charms of beauty.
A Trail of Twistrl Trees.
ployed
tho
the trail” is that still to be seen
in Africa.
wi the ter Rei i
e ans, the es pur-
sued their foes as far as the lake district.
EE i a ae
e topogra n-
rol So the advance party, in order
to mark the route for those who came
after, and also to the force on their
return journey, the saplings along
the way into living knots.
The war ended, but the tied-up trees
grew and flourished, although uncouthly
twisted and distorted, and are now the
only reminders of that uprising of the
dervishes.
——*“Does Chiggles know Knott?"
“No, he does not.”
“Are you sure he does not know
Knott?"
“Yes. He knows not.”
i 9 thought you just now said he did
{ not know Knott?" :
i "Confound it! He knows not Knott.”
henever any of these buried logs are |
"My face is my fortune, sir, she said.” |
The woman who has a fair face has a |
fortune which fany a man of wealth is!
t
see girls fair as the budding roses, sud-'
th denly lose their beauty and fade, as the
with health are restored the curves and
| dimples, the Bright eye and smooth skin
All manner of devices have been em- |
to mark a line of march, but itis’
t that the most curious method of '
FOR AND ABOUT WOMEN.
DAILY THOUGHT.
To feel much for others and little for ourselves
to-restrain our selfish and to indulge our benev,
olent affections, constitute the perfection of
human nature. —Adarz Smith.
Judging from the orders booked so far,
merchants throughout the country will
show dresses with various kinds of
sleeves, says the Drygoods Economist.
For street wear the regulation sleeve is
used to some extent, but there is also a
big demand {or the kimono. Set-in sleeves
in Jisnone Sut re also being featured, so
that the gen a rance is practicall
the same as tho! 1 the sleeve was cut in
one with the y of the waist. Many
fancy sleeves are also being exploited
this season, where the sleeve is cut in
kimono effect the seven-eighths or three-
quarter lengths are seen in street dresses
and shorter lengths for the more dressy
gowns.
Among evening coats there are two
novelties which, though distinctly dif-
ferent, sometimes lead to a slight con-
fusion in the minds of the unimitiated.
There is the reversible coat, made with
black satin on one side and satin of some
brighter hue on the other, each so per-
fectly finished that it may serve either as
outside or lining, as occasion may require.
There is also the coat of double-faced
satin, which has only one right side. The
double-faced satin is of a very heavy
quality, and its two sides are of different
colors, but obviously it cannot make the
reversible coat, as it provides no way of
finishing the seams so that they may be
presentable on either side.
_ The practical linen suits are undeniably
important in the summer outfit. They
fit in on cool days when lawn or batiste
is too thin, and they give a certain tailor-
ed effect that cannot be obtained by the
one-piece dress. too, they afford
excellent opportunity for wearing the
many pretty blouses that you have col-
lected during the summer.
Coats are short and the low fastening
and cutaway lines are prevailing features.
The addition of silk and satin on the col-
lars and cuffs is a delightfully stylish
note. It means a variety on the one
foundation, using silk, linen, sheer em-
brojdered voiles, etc., to your heart's con-
ten
Buttons are very conspicuous as trim-
ming. They are used on skirt and coat
and hint of the military line that is sure-
ly coming in the fall.
When choosing your suit, take the
coarse weaves. They are so durable,cool
on account of their open meshes, and
defy the wrinkle-producing wear of every
day.
i possible, trim one little blouse with
strips of linen to match, thus bringing
the skirt and separate bodice into a unifi
whole. One woman whom I know had a
linen suit too long. She shortened the
skirt at the hem, and with the strip of
material left made a separate voile blouse
with bands of linen at the top on the
edges of the sleeves and in buttons used
on the front. The entlre costume is
clever and stylish.
Have your linen suit pressed once in
awhile; the warm ircn treshens up the
fabric and pays for the few minutes’ work
over the ironing board. And, last of all,
have the linen suit fit comfortably around
hips, for in these days of scant skirts an
unsightly riding up of the skirt results
when sitting down.
When taking baby on a trip of any
great length to have everything for com-
fort handy is necessary. To this end a
Japanese straw telescope case may be ar-
ranged perfectly for the pnrpose.
Line the lower basket with heavy gray
linen, with pockets around the sides to
hold all of the toilet articles—two rubber
lined for the sponge and soap. A pin-
cushion of linen and a linen covered tal-
cum box complete the fittings.
Folded in the center are the bath apron,
towels and night clothes. Wide flat elas-
tic holds two or three changes of dresses
in the cover. Folded on the top, before
putting the stout shawl strap in place, is
the little soft gray blanket and baby pil-
low, with a gray protection case slipped
on when not in use.
With this outfit baby need disturb no
one’s comfort and will require no un-
packing of pags or any fruitless search
for the needed articles. Of course, the
little alcohol lamp and bottle, if used, will
find plenty of room in the bottom of the
, basket. As this basket is a home-made
convenience, it is a very cheaply gotten
up affair.
|
Fresh ripe fruit without sugar is very
wholesome, especially if eaten in the early
. part of the day. So much sugar is often
: added to stewed fruit as tomake it unde-
sirable for some children, especially those
subject to skin trouble.
To make an Brace Sxpeon for The
nursery, get a t bam screen (an
old one wil do), and remove the siikoline
with which these are usually covered.
Substitute dark red or cambric and
cover it with colored pictures, pasted on
! so that each panel is given over to one
| kind, such as flowers, animals, children,
etc. The screen will prove its value in
| the early morning hours, when the baby
will lie and look at the pictures instead
. of starting an untimely concert.
A pretty crib cover may be made from
a yard each of white and pale blue or
pink flannel. On the col flannel em-
broider a flower and bowknot design; on
fle white 2 cutivantiotial border 2nd a
arge central monogram. e two
together by means of wide satin ribbon,
and put the bow or rosette in one cor-
ner, with ‘he colored side considered as
the top.
: When a child eats or drinks Suything
a a
| give him a of pure olive
! telling him to hold it in hismouth as long
as possible before swallowing it.
! A woman who is aways devising little
accessories for her wardrobe recently ac-
hieved at small cost one uf the smart lit-
tle that are being carried with lin-
gerie frocks this season.
She found among her remnants a piece
of art linen of the requisite size. By cut-
ting an envelope down the side she ob-
tained an excellent idea for a pattern,
making it square instead of oblong. The
linen was cut with the envelope flap fold-
‘ing over, and was beautiful with hand
embroidery. Across bottom and at
the edge of the envel
the tiny dangling Irish
can buy by the yard in
white silk cord wi
bag, which could