THE SONG OF THE WORLD.
There's a song that the hammer is singing
A ringing and wholesome song.
Of the day's bread won,
Of the day's work done,
Of a mold well cast
In the fiery blast—
And never one blow gone wrong.
There's a song that the engines are singing,
A deep and echoing song.
Of the whirring wheel
And the burnished steel,
From the lightest spring
To the mightiest swing—
And never a stroke gone wrong.
There's a song that the sails are singing,
A humming and a catching song,
Of the prow that braves
The raving waves
Of storms outsailed,
And of ports safe hailed—
And never a helm gone wrong.
There's a song that the world is singing,
Of its labors done—
And of Right that masters Wrong.
~ Isabel Bowman Finley, in St. Nicholas.
QUITTERS.
disguised behind an unobtrusively im-
i
i
)
i
8 £
gi
=
1H
£
E
t
hgh high Drunkard,” said Cl “i Re
momentary across high- 1 " sai av tally,
booted knees, a foot in listlessly the word they use.”
through the black marsh water under. The girl did not flinch. "Never mind
hi and narrow seat. words,” said she. "And keep still, any-
out of the northeastern dis- | way, for a minute. I want to think what
the most moving of outdoor we can do about this.”
he melancholy whistle of unseen | “There's mighty little can be done,”
yellow-leg, he had rarely said Claverly, “for a man that's down
his lips and tried his ; and out.”
His sister drew away from him. "Out?"
she echoed in a cool Itttle tone.
“Out,” Claverly repeated indifferently.
“Billy Claverly,” his sister cried, "you
| talk like a fool! You're not ‘out’ as long
A was | as you're alive. Nobody ever had a big-
brewing to the eastward, and the surf on | ger chance. Look at the friends you've
o oa ou Hgquy: Wheew ! got. You Liens with Jou, like
. ing diapason to minor piping the | Tommie. Every es you, you.
wind in the chimney-tops. { They'll work their heads off for you. And
Miss Claverly sat with her chair drawn you make them trust you. Look when
up before the fireplace, her slippered feet they put youon the A. & N,, and you
crossed to the blaze in one of the imme- | not thirty-five. Don’t talk about being
' morial attitudes of women, ahand shield- | ‘out,’ when everybody knows what you
ing her eyes and face from the glow. can do.”
They were alone together in their old Claverly stoppedher. “Not any longer,
+ house above the marshes, Claverly and Kid,” he said. “My reputations gone, |
:
!
il
we
15
ie
i
tell you. And my friends. | can't find
i Claverly, un as the night was, paced | any one to trust me now. Why,” he
: restlessly up down shadowed | said suddenly, “I don't believe I even
room,—it was immense in the
vague fire- | trust myself."
light,—smoking and looking at the hand | The girl laughed impatiently.
_ | that half hid his sister's face from him, ' away,” she said.
To Oncoast came a Good Samaritan | somehow. i
| It was a frail-seeming hand and wrist, | “I cant.
“Talk
“I don't,” Claverly repeated stubbornly.
Listen! When I went on that
pressive waistcoatand wearing pearl-gray | and the face itself was the most delicate | Trans-Pacific junk-heap I wanted to make
Spals—a trifle conscious of his power to | of New England ovals. But he knew weil | good. God only knows how much I
y deeds, as Samaritans often are,
but still at bottom a simple, sincere fel-
low, and possibly Claverly's staunchest
He stayed the night, and in the morn-
ing, while they waited for Miss Claverly
to give them breakfast, he offered Claver-
ly a place in charge of traffic ‘on the
Oregon-Arequipa erland, standing,
back to him, at a window meanwhile.
Except for that, he betrayed none of the
embarrassment he felt.
But Claverly understood, and,
as he was, he became for 2a moment hi
old lightly scornful self, now that the
ultimate choice was offered him. His
shoulders, that had seemed to hang so
heavy, took on their old square-
ness. His somber features lighted, and
the old insolent challenge leaped up in
his eyes. He looked as tall and clean
and young as he had ever been.
He laughed, and the Good Samaritan
had the grace to redden. Then Claverly
turned serious.
"So it's come tothat?” he mused. “Jim,
why should a man go away from every-
thing"—he glanced about the breakfast-
room, cheerful with morning sunshine
and massed goldenrod and asters—"every-
thing like this, to boss ore-road traffic in
some unheard-of place?” He had never
lost a trick of looking his man or his
situation square in the face. He did it
now.
Jim Hoxsey looked just as squarely
back, and under his roly-poly pinkness
and his trivial preciseness of dress and
manner the rgal man showed. There
was no distinction in him, as there was in
Claverly, but there was solidity.
“I haven't a notion what you're driving
at,” he lied. “Itis a great opening for
any one. South America is the country
of the future.”
For a moment the eyes of the two men
fought. Hoxsey's fell, and Claverly smiled
at him with less of mockery. “You're
the same good old chap still,” he said.
“I'll give your offer what they call my
serious consideration.”
“Do,” Hoxsey urged very serious him-
self. "It's a great opening.”
“And openings,” Claverly mused, his
smile all bitterness now, “lead to holes.
And holes are convenient places for dis-
posing of a certain sort of men.”
Hoxsey ri again. “Bill.” he
said, “you know you can always have
Snytiuve I've got. But what are you
ng to do? You can't go on this way.”
Claverly shrugged his square kts:
for an instant, into abject weariness. He
looked like an old man. “What?” he
agreed. * your solution of the
ing , Jim, seems ideally
simple. I'll think it over.”
“I say,” the girl broke in,
them in sleepy rosiness, “you
seem tremendously in earnest about
something.”
nderlay
If Claverly felt it too, he gave no s
rs vay nen hovel” he
y ten up n-
dolent recklessness. “Give Jim his coffee
before I hurl him at his train. He wants
“Wire me the minute you decide,” he
mumbled. “It's a great opening. Im-
Miss Claverly gave him a sidelong
out of inscrutable eyes. “Are we
talking,” she asked, "of volcanoes?”
“Something of that sort,” said Claverly,
solr again; and Howse, solidly ph -
perous prosaic though he was, felt a
rt such ™ iy io
a of thoro to
Rave a thing EA sort hanging over
them. .
“I'll take the day to think it over, Jim,”
said Cayerly. "I'll wire
"And I,” Miss Claverly said to
“will wait with
you for enlightenment.”
oxsey came as close to
{
a sister
fiat Claverly like Rose
averly.
The banker went back to his bank, and
Claverly out to another day of shooting
which held no interest. The world was
sportsman’s heart; nor
they tore at
slavering,and
FEE
sunrise un.
| enough the
i them. To him, girl, in her long,
| slimness, her spritelike poise of v
| mind, her unbreakable reserve that pass-
‘ ed outwardly for shyness, had long been
the most satisfying of women, to the eye
speechful but unfailing friendliness she
had been the most under standing of fo
panions. They responded to each other's
moods like strings tuned in the strong
unison of an octave.
But that night everything was out of
tune. More than Oncoast had changed
to him. Even his sister's accustomed
silence vexed him.
He halted abruptly ‘and tossed his
cigarette-end on the logs. He watched
it flare up and shrivel to a cinder before
he spoke: "Kiddie, this is no good. I'll
go back to town tomorrow.”
| The girl, uncrossing her feet, smother-
| ed a little yawn. The fire was sleepy-hot,
| and she had tramped a score of miles that
| day. “It seems pretty to me,” she
said lazily. * ething wrong with
you?"
Claverly stared at her. Then his little
smile, so bitter, so incredulous, and vet
so very likable, rested on his lips. "Noth-
ing more than usual,” he answered some-
what dryly:
The girl caught the shade of emphasis.
She laughed then, Claverly’s own old
laugh, full of the easy insolence of one
ivi Wes smal troubles fone but
ghtly. "Been getting your bumps?” she
rd “I thought so when you and Jim
Hocks were gassing away this morning.”
“Rather,” said Claverly.
© The girl glanced up at him, and turned
her face quickly from the sight of his.
“Billy!” she cried incredulously, “how
could I guess it was something real?”
Then, quietly enough: “Want to tell me?
I suppose you do, or you wouldn't have
spoken about it.”
“lI don't know why I spoke,” said
Claverly, “except you asked me if any-
thing was wrong.” The last words hel
a quick, sa mockery that made his
voice sound high and strained.
The girl, wi t looking up, stretched
out her hand, and after an instant’s hesi-
tation Claverly took it, and quieted too.
“Now tell me,” said his sister.
And a sudden impulse to talk to her,
to say out to some one what a score like
Hoxsey more or less vaguely guessed or
knew, and dared not speak of, swept
Claverly away. He had walked alone for
months, and she was the only living crea-
ture of his blood.
His voice turned colorless. “They fired
me from the Atlantic & Northwestern a
year and a half ” he told her. “I
went to the N. & S. Six months ago they
fired me there. I got a job with a jerk-
water mountain line— call i
Missouri- Trans-Pacific.
ng for air right then, and
me u|
if anything is wrongs’, Again his
pitched sharply up to
The rr his hand. “Just one
to tell me, Billy,” she said at
last. the habit
—firing—men like you without a rea-
son.”
Claverly wrenched his hand away.
“Can't you guess why?” he asked.
a very old s
have told TY. dvacon Army meetings,
with a cu E Colles
prospect for the ng. They
4 ' Want to hear my °*
iences?” Well,” he flung at her,
drunk. 1"—he gave the phrase a curious
flat emphasie, 28 it he quoted some one
else—"1 get drunk on the job.”
. The girl seemed to flame into quiver-
ing Nie, though she sat unstirring in her
am.
said no more, but that little was enough
for Claverly. die her
“Whatever you say,” begged A
“please don't preach at me.”
_ Instantly the girl's tense body relaxed
in cool indifference. “It does seem to be
up to you,” she said. “What are you
going to do about it?”
_ Her self-control sent a pin-point of ir-
| ritation pricking at Claverly’'s strained
‘nerves. “I suppose my quickest wa
i out,” he told her, “would be to get drun
light!
ightly
hmm,” breathed the girl
“I dare say. But ‘
if
im. “Good God, Kiddie! he cried,
‘don’t you suppose I got deathly tired of
it long ago?”
t down
| Jud the gir) meld fo Him; “Si
here,” she said. Giatecly cheved
, nestling on the floor beside
chair just as had done,
together, a hi times
had been his tower of strength
babyhood,
» the girl at
But you
last,
going to ought
and to the imagination, as in her rarely |
h that could show in!
“You, Billy? You doing that!” She | Peru.
wanted to! It was the only time [ ever
fair ! really tried. And—I couldn't. Itwas the
and | same old story. No, Kiddie; [I've failed
too many times. | tell you, [I can't trust
myself again.”
The girl drew away once more. “I'd
hate to admit it, anyway, if it was me,”
she told him bluntly.
“I'm past all that,” said Claverly
wearily.
“You were right,” she resumed then.
“About going away, | mean. Oncoast is |
no place, the way you're feeling. You!
want work—the hardest kind. See,” she |
inted. “Over in that corner where it’s
ttest, there's a man just sizzing for!
something to happen. That's you, Billy. |
You watch. He'll bust up in a minute.
There! And you're the same. You've
had your bumps. You've stood it all you |
could. To-night you're busting up. And!
to morrow you'll go back, and you'll get |
another job—" {
That word was unfortunate. It woke |
in Claveriy the fever, the fierce need, |
that had been consuming him. “Another
job!” he cried, and flung his cigarette |
away and jumped to his feet. “What do |
you know about it?” he demanded.
“What do you know about getting a job? |
You're es] want work the hardest !
way. It's my only chance. It's all there
is in living—for me, anyway. Just work |
and the drive to'get through it. But get.’
ting it!
friends who hate to tell you they have
nothing for you. Try it once! Try sit-
ting in ante-rooms with office-boys who
know as well as you that the boss don't |
want to see you. Try having men hurry
you through interviews, very anxious to |
see you more at leisure on a later date
they never set. Try seeing the crowd
melt away before you, cocktail hour at,
the club, for fear you'll strike some of |
them for work. They'd rather you struck |
them for aloan. Try dining by your-!
self when you don't want to. Try some
of that,” said Claverly, “and you'll know ,
what being down and out means. [ tried |
to for six weeks before I came down here.
And now you tell me to go back and try !
some more of it!” |
And then all at once she laughed, not | #
lazily or insolently, but a warm purr of
sound such as Claverly had never heard
before. It caught him by the heart. In
one of her rare impulses of tenderness,
she flung an arm round his neck and
kissed him lightly on the forehead.
“You're a tragic goat,” she said, “and I'm
another. We aren't the first that have
gone through this sort of thing and won
out. To-morrow’s a new day. Sn
your head down on my knee and
one cigarette while 1 read your future for
ou in those coals. Then I'm going to
, and you are too.” And Claverly,
coming her steadiness, as he always
was, up.
The gi just smiled up at him. “Spit
it ou I,” said she, in the kennel-pad-
dock-flavored of vouth she still
sometimes fell into. “It does you good.”
The kindness of her, and the steady
were too much for Claverly.
cheerfulness,
The revulsion came. He flung himself | real
down beside her
face in her skirts,
he said. “If
again, and buried his
“I'm sick for work,”
feyd only give me one
more chance! 1 ma ve learned my
lesson. But—no, ‘re right. They
couldn't trust me. When it gets a man
as its got me, there's no more chance for
him except—" He raised his head and
looked at her squarely. He had to tell
her sometime; it might as well be now.
Esse he said, “the kind of chance
Jim Hoxsey offered me.”
She looked at him questioningly. “Jim
offered you a chance?
“He came down just for that,” said
Claverly. She smiled. “That's like Jim,
she said. “Where is it?”
Claverly did not smile. “Down in
Being a burden and a bore to b
| othes morning, I am afraid.”
stood tall and straight be- |
incredibly remote. “I hate
awled. “You aren't my broth- |
before I'd quit. Before I'd |
a I'd take the /it-tlest, mean-est
. 1 : i
Her anger at himself was the last thing |
he had expected. But she spoke the |
challenge of blood to blood. rose to |
his feet, angry as she was, and as cold.
, “Nevertheless,” he said, “I 1 go !
Peru. 1 have sense enough to know when |
I amdown and out, and pride "3
She did not look at him. “I'd never
them make me run away,” she said. “I'd
start at the very bottom.”
A smile that was half a sneer curied !
Claverly's lip at the inane little phrase, |
drudge of the barren moralists. It set
there and hardened, and his eyes took on |
the vacantness of introspection. He was
looking back to the beginning.
The beginning was a springtime morn- |
ing in the city, when Claverly closed a |
door marked with his name and stepped
across a big, cool-smelling room, as
straight and nonchalant, as arrogant in!
carriage of chin and shoulder, as he had '
been under the fire of the prving eyes,
friendly but still prying, outside its shel- |
ter. But inside him waves of nausea at
life, and all it hz: done with him and he |
with it, beat and surged sickeningly.
He sat down at his desk, and even in
his misery the little habitual smile, half
bitter, half incredulous, touched his lips. |
It was his desk no longer. That morn- ,
ing, an hour ago even, it had been his.
Now he had none.
His glance rested idly on a desk-clock, :
a toy in gold and leather, his sister's gift
to him on his last birthday. Its tnv
pointers maried the half-hour. At pre-
cisely twelve minutes past, he knew by
‘some silly trick of recollection, the
Chief's summons had come. All that
had happened in less than cighteen
minutes by his sister's fcolish clock.
Men often spent as long as that |
over a vacant cigarette.
Claverly slid down into his chair,—like
wise his no longer,—and those arro-
gant shoulders sagged like an impotent |
old man's. Outside, where eyes watched,
friendly but prying, to learn what dose
had been administered and how he
swallowed it, straight-backed indolence
had been easier than any other thing.
But here, alone— He rested his chin on
his palms, propping his elbows on the
chair-arms, and gazed at the orderly dis- |
order where the clock, remorseless in its
miniature fashion as devouring Time
himself, ticked away more minutes.
Never before had it ticked away so many
idle ones out of a working day.
But this was not a working day for
Claverly. He slipped down lower into
the massive office chair, and the implica-
tions of his situation were revealed to
him in one mercilessly swift flash of intel-
ligence. Its very swiftness left the black
sea of dizziness rolling in its wake again.
He covered his staring eyes with a hand.
But suddenly he raised his head. A
sob, quickly choked back, had caught his
ear. He stumbled to his feet and swung
around.
He was not alone, after all. From her |
desk by the window, a stenographer, a |
slip of a girl, trim in business woman's |
lack, rose too, more panic stricken than |
he had been. “Mr. Claverly,” she stam-
mered, “I—tried not to, truly. But—but |
—oh!" she cried, and sobbed again.
Instantly Claverly was his masked self, |
clgan, tall, young, with thoroughbred
P ud strength in every turn of cheek
and jaw and shoulder and flank, with a
challenge in his eyes and in the smile, |
wholly likable for all its incredulity, that
just touched his lips.
“Miss Helm!" he said. “Still waiting? |
I shall have no more work for you this
morning.” A moment, while the smile |
touched his lips more strongly, with more
of its amusement in it. “Nor on any |
The girl's eyes opened wide. She step- |
ped swiftly toward him, and foran instant
it seemed that she meant to grasp his
rm with those groping fingers of hers—
IRplocing hands they were, quite literally.
“Mr. Claverly!"” she cried. “It can't be
as bad as that? They'd never let you—
leave—the road!”
Claverly's smile became frankly amused
and tolerant. “Oh, no,” he told her.
“The road is merely—firing—me.”
She did not sob again. Her lip quiver-
ed, and then, as something in her answer-
ed to the insulting disdain in him, the
vibra ig enduring thin 3 a
ntly u ing.
watching her as she leisurely gathered
up) her work to leave him, was of
htening, they “Good-by,
r. Claverly?” just as cb as
she was saying it.
But the moment was too crowded with
flex A he, thrusting out his
“Peru?” she echoed, a bit startled. "ell? he asked.
“Thats a long ay off. But, still, I Cavers Tiaijé vio aMgwer. None was
musn't kick, if it's a chance. You must
take s—square.” t waited through the space of two
a hin : his attitude, | quick breaths. He plucked at the collar
“Jim's a 0 it must be all | again. “Well?” he repeated. The mon-
right. But why do you look so—so queer osyllable held the crass brutality of a
should think you'd pny
The bitter, incredulous smile curled
Claverly’s li “I ought to be
said he. “It's my last chance.”
his self-control gave way. “Kiddie,” he
cried, “can’t you understand! It's--quite
the British thing they offer me. A chance
to save my face, and theirs, in the Lost
‘Little black who've gone
about it? [I
Iam.”
Then she understood him. “So,” she
said, slow scorn gathering in
“they want you to run away? The
and moderately
!
The very prosperous self-
' blow delivered straight into an undefend-
fier voicS: | sro
ed face,
Claverly, standing indifferently at ease
the table, smiled ever so slightly.
“Well, sir?” he said in his turn. H
voice was
and
nged on, his impatien
po e he 4 lparicnny
on em
demurrage. And his wire ay on your
des: from 4 B. m. Monday 10a m.
yesterday. Why didn't he get authority?’’
”
ow—why n the
dhestion came with od in, fhe
like the fist of a bucko mate crashing into
gi
| things, the reaction came.
| traffic in the yard, monotonously sing:
a seaman'’s face. |
smiled “I don't
Bh He it,” said he, his
voice still colorless. “I have a notion,
though, it was the same old story, sir.”
The t might have amused him.
The veins in the old man’s temples
bulged. “Same old story!” he shouted.
“Drunk on the job, eh! I've stood a lot
from you and never said a word. But"—
he leaned forward, and the words came
with the vicious speed of short-arm blows
! iu when you have the nerve 10 offer
it as an »
excuse—
* The little smile still curled Claverly's
lips, but the corners of them lifted warn.
ingly, like an Ayredale’s. “Mr. Holt.” he
said, still in that colorless voice, “I mere-
ly answered your question. No excuses
have been offered.” His eyes met the ald
man's steadily.
For an instant Holt glared. Then his
angry face turned gray and stony. He
picked up a pencil, only to lay it down.
“I beg your pardon,” he said with averted
eyes.
Claverly twitched his shoulders. “Mind
if I smoke, sir?” he asked.
"Smoke your darned head off if you
want to!" Holt spoke with a swift re-
turn of anger. Then, quietly enough:
“You know as well as | do why I've stood
for so much from you. You've banked
on it. You're the best man we ever had
to get traffic and move traffic—-when vou
want to. But there's a limit. There's
such a thing as justice to the man that
does stay on the job. What religion I've
got boils right down to this: God cer-
tainly hates a quitter.”
“I should have resigned vesterday, sir,”
said Claverly, “only”"—he stopped to in-
hale a whiff of smoke and blow it out
again—"it seemed more appropriate, all
round, to wait and give you a chance to
—fire—me."
“Well,” said Holt, grimly matter-of
fact, as if he spoke toa recalcitrant train-
man instead of to his freight traffic man.
ager, "you're fired.” He punched a but-
ton on the desk-front by his knees.
“Good-by,"” he said.
“Good-by, sir,” Claverly had answered,
and even as the door closed behind him
he heard Holt dictating, “In regard to
the new Equipment 5's—""
That rather daunted even Billy Claver-
ly’s self-assurance, it came so quickly.
But he had strolled back through the
i office, between banks of typewriters
and adding machines, with nothing save
a little tilt to his chin and a little added
indifference in his smile giving notice to
prying, sriendly eyes that the pet of a
trunk-line railroad had just been dis-
charged in the course of a morning's
_ That had been merely the easy wear
ing, for a minute longer, of the mask he
had worn for years. Easy, too, even
amusing, the recall of Miss Helm to the
paths of discipline, the friendly nod in
response to her com farewell.
. But, once alone with his sister's toy as
it ticked away the empty minutes, alone
with the grunt of locomotives and the
click and grind of car-wheels that rose to
his window from the bustling terminal
train-shed far beneath, bringing with
them now and then whiffs of acridly sul-
phurous coal-smoke, incense to the rail.
road man in him-—alone with those
The roaring
song, beat a refrain in his ears: “You're
fired, Billy Claverly.—Good-by, good-hy.
You're fired,—Now in re-gard to—those
Equipment 5's—"
Came, too, a daunting and an unex-
pected mistrust of the future, immediate
and more remote, The world that went
with eddying ‘smoke-curlg and’ clicking
wheels, a place of pressing activities and
interests and duties, lay empty about him
as an empty The day held no
furniture of work for him, there or any-
where, nor the days to come, unless he
made it for himself.
Claverly, gazing dully round the room
where work, close-p:
portion, felt the first stabbing ache of
lonesomeness for it, as for the sight of
some dead friend—the ache that in the
months to come was to drive him through
the Valley of Humiliation.
His door-latch clicked, and before he
could straighten up a heavy hand rested
on his shoulder and Holt’'s voice said:
“Pve been thinking
ar you this way, like a hot potato.”
ven in that stormy, unpredictable old
san, the reversal of attitude was so un-
expected that Clav was taken utterly
aback. But his
and tangible |
enough to cut and eat, had been his daily |
about you. I can't|
ment was at once |
- T hen, silent] y.
Be got r them to his sister.
ind she, still quivering with disdain of
him, and all men, and all the world, pat
out a hand and took them.—By Rowland
Thomas, in .WcCinre's Magazine.
up and
FOR AND ABOUT WOMEN
DAILY THOUGHT.
Smiles live long after frowns have faded. —
Jawies A. Garfield.
Most of the new fashionable silks have
the satin finish.
One-piece dresses are increasing in
popularity. They are suitable not only
for morning wear, but for the more
dressy occasions.
Taupe (mole) is an old favorite cos-
tume color now brilliantly revived.
For the young girl the dainty pastel
shades are preferable in evening wear to
Xie more brilliant colors which are now
with us.
In thin materials the skirts are cut a
trifle wider at the base, but in tailored
costumes the skirt is still conspicuously
narrow.
The use of fur trimmings on evening
gowns is quite marked.
Chenille embroidery is coming promi-
nently to the front this year.
Velvet is the predominating feature in
the realm of the fine tailored suits.
The young girl in her teens is prover-
bially difficult to dress, but Voy often
the simplest and most sensible solution
of the difficulty is to copy mother and to
adhere to the tailormade.
The fine stripes that are so fashionable
make very suitable schoolgiri costumes,
especially in the vague black and gray
stripes that are now worn. The skirt is
cut simply with an apron back and front
fastened down by large buttons of the
material; the coat is short and single or
double breasted without trimming, but
with the collar faced with gray velvet.
Matching the costume, the hat should
be of gray beaver, with just one touch of
color, a cerise feather.
In the Woman's Home Costpanion there
is what is called “The Bon Itis
a department of practical household
news sent in by readers from various
parts of the country. Followingis a sug-
gestion sent in by a mother in Michi
“I buy the sweaters for my pa
She same color, and when the sleeves
ave given out, as they always do lo
before the body of the Tas I —
new sleeves ofthe whole part of one
sweater for the other one.”
A most charining afternoon dress is in
black and white striped taffeta and the
touch of black plush, together with the
“line” of the bodice and skirt, lend jt
grace and distinction.
The sash train is also a noteworthy
feature. To introduce a welcome touch
of color add a satin rose of deep and red
—to resemble the damask rose, or a cop-
per. colored rose with vivid green leaves.
For a brighter frock taffeta, with a
cherry-colored ground and a stripe of
black or maroun, executed in the same
design. The skirt may be long or short,
ds one pleased, but itis to be recorded
that the long skirt gains in tavor almost
. daily for house and dress wear.
Still the rumors of full skirts, pleats,
flounces and even of crinolines persist,
but in the ateliers of the best dressmakers
no signs of these calamities—as most of
us regard them— are discernible. One of
the fashionabie “rainbow” gowns
“created” but a day or two since by a
well known couturier:re showed a plain
“underdress.”
_ Undne redness of the face can be re-
lieved for a time at least by placing the
| feet in hot water to draw the blood from
| the head. The stays should never be
tight, and no highly seasoned foods or
| condiments indulged in.
The girdle is present in almost all de-
t have the smallest
swallowed up in another emotion which | are knitted scarf of silk
half strangled him with its intensity—the | With ball or trimmed ends is
pain of reviving fulness. He had ately the sabretasche.
another chance. He not known till y asa girdle. All
then what he'd give for one. In that in- | kinds of ribbons are used as well
stant he took more vows of faithful serv-
ice flian hie could have paid off in a life-
me.
“I've been thinking about ” Holt
his hand
said while pressed | eff
a I rough- |
work a wire?”
, a little wonder-
sort of a ham opera-
ness.
ingly,
[ used to be
shook off the friendly hand. “Start
in at the bottom and work up again?” he
books.”
erly laughed. But mingled with
§
i
to Jim Hoxsey's pity, and Peru.
spoke again. "I'd die first,”
A Ty fe
't run for
did an absurd thing.
Behind him, on the writing-table, were
telegraph blanks. He walkéd over there
and sat down and scribbled wo mes.
his to Hoxsey:
No, thanks, old man. No hoies in mine.
And this to old man Holt:
Twant that thirty-five a month. God certainly
does hand it to a quitter.
Th
siaef
fits
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. fully. Put into a saucepan two quarts of
: water, a small onion, two tabl
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if a chicken.
Ler wa ick.
ly wi £014 cream and thet to spriukle
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{mn Hic,
Hobgoblin C Serve frozen cider
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made of papier mache
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fv Jaaves alsy can
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