" Bellefonte, Pa., October 3, 1919. THE SIMPLER SUCCESS. T’'m not denying that it’s fine To claim the godd that’s in a mine Or make some needed thing so well That for a profit it will sell, In every sort of world success, There lies a lot of happiness, But this is something that I know, It’s fun to see the roses grow. There are successes other than The sort which brings great wealth to man; Not all the joy nor all delight Are born of feats of skill and might, And some who never rise to claim The splendor of undying fame Have found success in other ways, And lived their share of happy days. Some find their happiness in gold, And some in deeds of conquest - Some find it in uncharted seus Some in the fellowship of trees; Some in the blossoms of the rose Attain the joy the rich man knows, And by that road to happiness Achieve the summit of success. - Who breaks the ground with spade and hoe ? Is thrilled to see the roses grow; To him the tender buds of spring Untold delight and gladness bring. | And in the beauty blooming there He's well repaid for all his care. Success is not alone in gold, ! Sometimes in humble things it's told. i —Selected. THE PERFUME CLERK. Long aisles smelling of soap and essences; an eclectic fan running over- head; on the right, a display of um- brellas and gloves; in front of the counter, stout women, thin women, awning-striped skirts and tailored models; behind the counter, girls with fluffy hair and powdered faces, and one girl especially who was called Rosalys—those were the things that Alice Hall saw when she closed her eyes. When she opened them, she saw the growing wheat that was of such vast importance to her country, and muddy water flowing lazily in ditches or spreading over a field. She had just finished irrigating for the day. The times of the perfume counter seemed long ago, and that girl called Rosalys not herself. When she first went to town, Alice Hall had begun to spell her name “Alys;” then she had taken Rose as a first name, for an aunt she had; and finally, somehow, she was Rosalys. . Only, John Mason had never learn- ed that name. He had refused point- blank to learn it. John was the only real thing, it seemed to her now, in all that time during which she had worked at the perfume counter. She had been engaged to him all the while. Because she had always hated her life on her uncle’s farm she had gone to | the city; at the same time John had | left her mother’s place and found work in the city, too. Seated on the doorstep near the | pinto beans, Alice laid her head wear- | ily against the frame. While they | were in town, she and John used to go almost every night to the motion pie- | tures. That seemed strange now; and it seemed stranger still that she had | liked it all so much. Into her life as a perfume clerk | who was beginning to save finery for ! her wedding had dropped a great | bomb—the war. At first it sputtered as if it were never going off; and at worst it seemed to make no personal difference to her. Then suddenly it had torn her life to pieces. She was not sorry for that—she had changed so—except that John was gone. In- side the house she heard her mother cough, and she went to take her a drink of water. “It’s sweet of you, child, to come and help on the place this summer.” Alice smiled. It was a comfort to be needed. Farm laborers were no- where to be had. She and John’s brother, Roscoe,—who lived in the gray cottage across the fields,—and Roscoe’s wife, Mildred, were caring for the crop. “You've always hated farm work,” | gratefully resumed John’s mother. “No—really, I like it.” It had never been the work that she hated; it was the lopeliness of the country; especially the dark, quiet nights, when there is so much time to think and to be afraid. She tried t5 think how brave John had been; she tried to be brave herself. But she had always been afraid of darkness and of quiet, and of death. She would not | tell his mother that she was afraid to think; that might lead her to guess something that she was not to know while her heart was weak from her last attack of rheumatism. “Dear me!” Alice continued, “I| shouldn’t want to be selling perfume | with the world begging for wheat.” | “Did you look in the R. F. D. box today ?”’ John’s mother asked. | Alice nodded and went on rapidly: | “All the people with boys at the front | tell the same story. There’ll be no! letters for weeks, and then seven or | eight will float in on the same mail. | You musn’t think because we don’t hear—" ! Her voice broke; she went out of | the room hastily and wandered down | to the road, where the zinc mail box was nailed to a tree. There was noth- ing inside; she had known that there {would be nothing. When she put her hand in to feel, a sick sensation came over her—she was remembering the day when she had found a franked letter that was not in John’s hand- writing. It was addressed to his mother, who had been very ill that week, and Alice had opened it. She would never forget the words written in the strange hand: “Reported by Swiss Red Cross a prisoner in Germany.” First she had given the letter to Mildred; then she had gone back to | the house. It was dinner time, but | food seemed to choke her—because | probably John was hungry. A month had passed without furth- er word. Then one afternoon Mil- | dred had beckoned Alice to come into | her house; Roscoe had opened the | mail box that day. . | Alice remembered that afternoon clearly. Mildred had closed the door ‘and lay with wide-open eyes, listen- | porch, where John used to sleep on | it aside, in order to approach the side : door. ! time she heard nothing except Mrs. | mountains and now and then a white to keep out the children. Then Ros- coe had said: “We have news. news. John isn’t a prisoner any more —he’s free.” Alice had guessed at once—she had | not needed the line, “Reported dead by Swiss.” Probably they would never learn more than that bare fact. She turned from the empty mail ; box tonight and went through the big | front yard, under the old trees where | she and John used to swing as chil- dren. Then she crossed the irrigat- ing ditch and in the deepening dusk | wandered at the edge of the wheat. She had come in the early spring and ! had seen the grains of wheat fall in- | to the ground to die—and now, before | long, they would bring forth fruit. She had seen them leap up from the earth, bright and strong-in the sun; but the fields were darkening now. She could hear owls in the trees by the river; overhead the nighthawks ! still screamed as they chased gnats. Alice was afraid again. When she was a little girl, her mother had died; and after that Alice had always been afraid. Now, she was afraid of everything; but especially afraid to have John die. Sometimes, when it was dark and the frogs made a noise in the ditch, or the wind blew, she almost resolved to run away back to the lights and the picture shows. She ought not to have to live during the war. She was not fit. . The stars frightened her—strange worlds that | no one knows about—and those dim fields, across which she could not | see! It was a hot night. A bank of! clouds rolled up out of the west. Alice went in and locked the windows. John’s mother had always slept with- out turning a key; John was like her, not afraid of things that might be in the dark. That night Alice made the house so close that she eould not sleep. She lay awake—she thought—until nearly midnight. Then, suddenly, she sprang up in bed, and her heart thudded against her breast. She could hear Mrs. Mason breathing. What had sounded to her like a step outside the window must have been the rustling of the cottonwood trees in the wind. But she put on part of her clothes and went into Mrs. Ma- son’s room; she wanted to speak to some one. But John’s mother was sleeping so quietly that Alice would not distub her; she crept back to bed. A few minutes later she sprang up again. This time it was not the wind she had heard, for the air was now still. Some one was on the porch. She heard the knob turn softly. She knew what John’s mother would have done in her place; but Al- ice could not make herself go to the door and look out through the glass. She lay with her heart pounding at her chest like a workman’s hammer. At last she slipped out of bed and, putting on her wrapper and slippers, crept to the window. The moon was overcast, but through the clouds a dim light re- lieved the darkness. Alice could see the big lilac bush—and the swing. She could see the porch also, and no one was there. A shudder and a chill shook her body. She did not know what she dreaded—she was wonder- ing what terrible visitor had been on the porch a few minutes before. After a time she crept back to bed It is really good ing. It grew very dark outside. The damp air was like a sponge, muffling everything. Then the wind rose; so she could not be sure whether she heard the wind or soft footfalls going round the house to the side porch. There was a hammock on the side hot nights. The hooks and chains creaked; she did not know whether the wind was blowing the hammock, or whether the intruder had brushed She thought she would just lie there and wait for morning. For a long Mason’s breathing. The intruder, she thought, had gone away. Final- ly the fatigue of a hard day of work overcame her resolution, and she fell asleep. Her dreams were so bad that she soon awoke. It was raining hard; there was thunder in the distant burst of light. She knew, although she did not know how she knew, that she and Mrs. Mason were not alone in the house. For a moment she sat up in bed and could not move—the Dovning of her heart made her so sick. At last she slid to the floor, still in her wrapper and the pale-blue kid slippers with gold buckles that she used to wear when she was a perfume clerk. Then in the room over her head she heard just such a creaking step as that which probably had roused her from her sleep. She went into Mrs. Mason’s room. That time John’s mother stirred and asked as if half awake: “Did John get in?” “No. This is Alice,” replied the girl. Her voice was steady, as if she had not been a coward, as if perhaps she could meet her test. She opened a door into the hall. There was a light in the room at the head of the stairs. When she saw the lamplight filtering through the shadows of the staircase, all her courage went. She unlocked the hall door. Roscoe’s cottage was three quarters of a mile away. But she could not be such a coward as to go—to leave Mrs Mason alone. She turned back. “Alice,” said Mrs. Mason, “John got home, didn’t he?” Alice stationed herself just outside the door leading into the hall. “No,” she answered; “you were dreaming.” Then she heard some one coming downstairs. “No, she isn’t dreaming!” said a voice. “She heard me. I was so afraid—her heart, you know—I broke i like a thief when it began to rain. ut—" He forgot the rest of his sentence —forgot everything when he saw Al- ice at the foot of the stairs. “Al?” he cried. “Al! Why, Al, I telegraph- ed to your boarding house—why, Al- ice! Before Alice had come to herself, his mother called again, and they ran into her room. . He picked his mother up in his ' Now and then he patted her shoulder ' and laughed; and Alice, who stood on | about?” asked his arms, as if she had been a baby. Then he laid her back into the chair where she slept because her heart was so: weak that she could not lie down. ! the other side of the chair, laughed, | too, but wiped her eyes. The Masons | were not tearful. ! Evidently John had been ill, for his | face was as white as a baby’s; she guessed it was pneumonia, since he! had been sent all the way to the dry ; air of the Rockies to recuperate. He | looked questioningly at Alice over his mother’s head; and the girl knew just what he meant: “Have you heard any report about me?” Alice nodded. His eyes questioned again: mother?” Alice shook her head violently: “No! her!” In his face, white from the hard- ship and the illness that had followed : it, some old scars showed. Once, | when he was a child, he had caught a bobcat and tried to train it for a cir- cus animal. He had got those scars | as he was trying to teach it to stand : up on its hind legs. Suddenly Alice. burst into laughter. Why had she! not known that John would get out of the prison camp? If anyone es- | caped, it would be Private Mason, U. S. Engineers! “What are you laughing about?” His eyes were shining as he asked; but he knew. “What are you children whispering mother. “John, come round where I can see you.” “I’m going to tell her about it, Al- ice; it won’t hurt her. Mother does not scare worth a cent, you know. Say, mother, I’ve been a prisoner. It’s a fact! Bunk Sackett and I made a break for it and got away; and the little German camp commander {felt so bad about it he reported us both ‘Died of wounds.” And I’ve got a fur- lough. What was the use letting you know I was coming? I didn’t know it myself till I started, and 1 was sure to be here before a letter.” He stopped speaking, abruptly. Outside, hail had burst from the clouds of the night. It thundered on the roof in a shower like the shrapnel of the battlefield. Alice gave a lit- tle gasp of relief that he was out of the shrapnel now. Surely he had done his “bit;” he would not be sent back. “It’s glorious to be at home,” he resumed; “but I want to get back— i as quickly as possible.” | He looked at Alice, whose eyes had ! clouded. “It’s an awful thing—war,” he said; ! “Has And don’t you dare startle “but now that it’s come I don’t want | to miss my part of it.” “A light that Alice had sometimes 30cm on his mother’s face shot across | is. “Aren’t you afraid of being killed, John?” Alice asked the question be- fore she thought. She had not meant to say such a thing before his moth- er; but his mother smiled to herself in perfect peace. “Of course I am sometimes,” her son replied. “You see, that’s some- thing I don’t fully understand. We always seem to be needlessly afraid of mysteries, and we’re always find- ing out that they’re harmless. I'm sure of this: if we knew about death, we’d know we were fools to fear it.” His mother broke in eagerly: “Yes, we won’t think about it; we hide our heads, or we run away from it to lights and company; and when it! comes, perhaps all it’ll mean”—she ! looked at her newly returned son— “perhaps it’ll be the face of some one we love.”—By Marianne Gauss, in | The Youth’s Companion. i “Her Ambition.” Three little State College girls, were playing together recently and, ! as children are wont to do, they begin | to build castles in Spain. = Girls like | they indulged in grown-up ambition | in regard to Prince Charming. i “When I get married,” said one lit- | tle tot, “I'm going to marry a doc- tor, and when you get sick you will have to come around and wait your turn in my husband’s office.” “When I marry,” said the second youngster, “my man is going to be a big business man. He’s going fo have nice stenographers and you and Margaret will have to come to his of- fice, on the first day of each month, and pay your rent.” Margaret was scornful of either ambition. “I don’t want a man quite so prominent as either a doctor or business man,” she said discreetly. “What is to hinder cone of those nice stenographers making love to your husband, or all the good-looking pa- tients that come to the doctor’s office from wanting your “hubby.” My man is going to be an automobile agent and then no one else is going to want him except myself.”—By H. W. Wea- ver. One of Those Pacifists. “Did you see that?” yelled the ex- cited man in the Panama hat. “That robher of an umpire calls Gilligan out at third and Rafferty never comes within a foot of touchin’ him.” “It looked that way to me, too,” admitted the man beside him. “Still, I dare say the umpire could see the play better from where he was than we could from up here.” “Ah, go on home!” retorted the oth- er savagely. “You ain’t got no busi- ness goin’ to a ball game. You're one of those blamed pacifists, that’s what you are!” The Australian Way. A gentleman who hailed from Augs- tralia came to St, Andrews for a three months’ holiday. He had a very faint idea how to play golf. En- gaging a caddie’ he proceeded to go around the course. When driving his first tee, he knocked his ball about five yards, and after that he could not take a drive without lifting the turf. His caddie became irritated and said: “Hi, sir, whar did ye learn to play golf ?” The gentleman said, “In Australia.” “Weel, sir, if ye gang on in the way ye’re daein’ ye’ll soon be hame.” A Dangerous Mission. Jack—Have my photograph taken before I see your father? What’s the idea? ‘Madge—You may never look your- self again. i manner. { moved. i vinegar will interfere with the alco- | Experiments have ninety degrees | tion will usually be complete in from ‘ three to four days to a week, or MAKE YOUR OWN VINEGAR. Simple Directions for Making Vine- gar; Fruit Should be Sound and Ripe. Many Wild Fruits Can be Utilized. Vinegar is one of the condiments | which every good cook regards as a ' necessity on her pantry shelves. Used with discretion, food to which it is added will be transformed into a rel- : ish and will give zest to an otherwise insipid meal. ceries, vinegar has gone up in price since the great war, until in many parts of the country 50 to 60 cents a ‘ gallon is now the retail market price. | The making of vinegar at home is a. . simple process and net many years ‘ago was practiced by nearly every one who could obtain the necessary fruit juice. With the present high price of vinegar there has been a re- vival of this old household art. Those ! who have set up a vinegar keg or: barrel, secure a superior product and at the same time beat old High Cost of Living. Vinegar is usually made with ap- ples, although grapes and oranges are also used to some extent. Cer- . tain other fruits, such as blackberries, figs, peaches, watermelons (after concentration of the juice), sorghum and cane syrup have been used with good results. Many wild fruits, such as the blackberry, elderberry, and persimmon, which frequently are not completely or properly utilized, will make excellent vinegar, the United States Department of Agriculture suggests. As a matter of fact, any wholesome fruil or vegetable juice can be used for vinegar making, pro- vided it contains sufficient sugar. Some fruits, such as the guava or Kieffer pear, contain only 5 to 8 per cent. of sugar, which is not sufficient to make strong satisfactory vine- gar. Fruit used for making vinegar should be sound and fully ripe, for ripe fruit contains more sugar and consequently produces a stronge: vinegar. Partially decayed fruit is a no better for vinegar making than for eating and should not be used. . Select sound, ripe fruit, wash thor- oughly, and remove all decayed por- tions. Crush either in a machine made for his purpose, such as a cider ‘mill, or for small quantities a food i chopper. | press and put into a clean barrel, keg, Squeeze out the juice in a i or erock for fermentation. : Great care should be taken to have! all the utensils thoroughly cleaned ‘and to handle the fruit in a cleanly 0 If old kegs or barrels, es- pecially old vinegar barrels, are used, ' they should be cleansed thoroughly : ‘and all traces of the old vinegar re- If this is not done, the old holic fermentation and possibly spoil the product. After the juice has been squeezed out add a fresh yeast cake to every five gallons of juice. oculation with the wild yeast of the air. This is the method ordinarily followed in making cider vinegar. shown, however, that a much stronger vinegar can be made by using yeast to start the fer- mentation. Work the yeast up thor- oughly in about one-half cup of the ' juice and add to the expressed juice, « stirring thoroughly. cloth to keep insects from it and al- | Cover with a low to ferment. The best tempera- ture for fermentation is between eighty and ninety degrees. Do not put in a cold cellar or the fermenta- tion will be too slow. At eighty to alcoholic fermenta- when “working” starts, as indicated by the cessation of bubbling. The next step in the proces: is acetic acid | fermentation, during which the alco- hol is changed into acetic acid. After the bubbling stops it will be | found advantageous to add some goods strong, fresh vinegar in the proportion of 1 gallon of vinegar to 3 or 4 gallons of fermented juice. Usually, however, no vinegar is add- ed and the inoculation of the fer- mented juice with acetic acid bacte- ria is left to chance. This chance in- oculation usually produces a more or less satisfactory product, but if vin- egar is added, the results are much better. Instead of vinegar one may add a good quantity of so-called “mother.” If “mother” is used, how- ever, use only that growing on the surface of the vinegar. Vinegar “mother” which has fallen to the bot- iwi is no longer producing acetic acid. After adding the vinegar, cover with a cloth and keep in a dark place between seventy and ninety degrees. Do not disturb the film that forms, for this is the true “mother,” and do not exclude the air. Taste the juice every week and when it ceases to in- crease in acid or is as sour as desir- ed, siphon off and store in kegs, jugs, or bottles. Fill and stopper tight. If this is not done, the acid will gradu- ally disappear and the vinegar will “turn to water.” The same bacteria that produces the acid will also de- stroy it if allowed to grow unhinder- ed. If the directions are followed, es- pecially as regards temperature, the process will usually be completed in six weeks to two months, where only a few gallons of juice are used. Many fruit juices are turbid after fermentation while others, particu- larly apple vinegar, may clarify themselves spontaneously. One of the simplest ways of filtration to use in the home manufacture of vinegar is to thoroughly mix about a table- spoon of fuller’s earth or animal char- coal with a quart of vinegar and fil- ter through filter paper. It is a common practice with many people to make household vinegar from fruit parings and cores, cold tea, and even from the water in which potatoes or other vegetables are boil- ed. Sugar, of course, is added, just as in the case of fruit juices that do not contain sufficient sugar. KEEP THESE DONT’S IN MIND WHEN MAKING VINEGAR. Don’t put the freshly pressed juice into old vinegar kegs or barrels with- out thoroughly cleansing and scald- ing. But if, however, the barrels have a protective coating or rosin and paraffin on the inside, do not scald, for hot water will remove the coating. Old barrels with vinegar in them or the addition of vinegar di- Along with other grd- | A good fermen- ' | tation often results from chance in- i rectly to the fresh fruit will prevent it from ever making vinegar. Don’t add “mother” to freshly pressed juice. It will spoil the juice for vinegar making. Add surface . “mother” only after alcoholic fer- ' mentation (bubbling) has ceased. Don’t add old “mother” { bottom of an old vinegar barrel. Add only “mother” from the surface and good strong vinegar. Don’t put in a cold cellar. Fermen- | tation either will be entirely prevent- ed or will be very slow, sometimes continuing for two years. Don’t store in full barrels and ex- pect it to make vinegar. Barrels and on sides. Holes should be bored in bung hole left open to give circula- tion of air. Cover holes with cloth to . keep insects away. + Don’t put in too warm a place or expose to sunlight in summer to has- ten fermentation. It may prevent it. The best temperature is between 80 and 90 degrees F. Don’t, after adding vinegar, expose to bright light. ic acid bacteria from growing. Don’t, after vinegar is made, leave it exposed to the air. The acid will gradually disappear and it will “turn to water.” Don’t, if unsuccessful, think your “cellar wont make good vinegar.” Either the fruit did not contain snongh sugar, or you, unconsciously, perhaps, failed to follow some im- portant step in the directions. Even in vinegar making “practice makes perfect.” Limestcne Solves Problem of Fuel. High prices and threatened short- | age of coal for the approaching win- ter have no particular dread for one Lancaster countian at least. This is Christian H. Habecker, of Dohrers- town, Pa., who has solved the fuel problem by burning limestone in his heater. It is well known that this sort of rock generates a great heat when properly ignited, but doubtless very few persons have ever thought of burning it for the mere purpose of creating warmth. It is a capital substitute for wood and coal or, probably better, an ally. It is in this same sense that Mr. Ha- hecker uses the crushed stone. He mix2s coal and limestone and from the combination secures sufficient heat for his large residence. Limestone rock is quarried in large quantities in Lancaster county and can be bought at seventy-five cents to one dollar per ton. Mr. Habecker | reasoned that to use this sort of rock for heater and furnace purposes would serve the limited coal supply and be a money saving measure for the consumer as well. Furthermore, the use of this cheap, | but good fuel for heating houses, serves a double purpose for farmers | at least. Burning rock releases the : lime, which thus burned is consider- ed a better land fertilizer than lime- stone in raw state ground inte small particles. Of course the primary motive in this burning of limestone in house furnaces and heaters is warming the building, accomplished by Mr. Ha- becker in experiments in zero weath- er. He had no trouble in securing the most desirable of temperatures in using from one-half to two-thirds coal and the balance limestone. His plan is to have 2 bin or scut- tle of each at hand and to feed the . fire shovel by shovelful. Used thus, as much heat is secured from the ' limestone as from coals, and all dan- | ger of possible explosion is eliminat- ed. i A first requisite is a freely burn- ing fire of wood and coal as a bed, | following which he adds the coal- ‘ limestone “fifty-fifty” mixture.—Ex. First Railroad in America. The Quincy railroad, or, as it was i known in the beginning, the “Experi- ‘ ment Railroad,” which was construct- ed to carry granite blocks for the | Bunker Hill Monument, at Boston, | was the first railway in Amezica. The first cars on this primitive line were i drawn by horses. {A line known as the Vlazie Rail- | road was put in operation out of Ban- | gor, Maine, in 1836, the Quincy road antedating this several years. The | Bangor road began with two locomo- | tives of Stephenson’s make in Eng- land. They had no cabs for the driv- er or fireman on their arrival in this country, but rude affairs were soon | attached. Wood was used for fuel. {| The first cars were also made in | England, a carriage much like a big | stage coach being placed on a rude | platform and trucks. The capacity of each car was eight passengers. In the beginning the one train on the line made about twelve miles in for- ty minutes, and the people of the country round about marveled at the speed it made. The rails on these pioneer railways were made of strap iron, spiked down to scantlings. \ The Boston & Lowell, Boston & Providence, and Boston & Worcester railroads were all opened for traffic in 1835. No Need for Farmer to Plant Poor Seed Corn. This year’s corn, over most of the United States, is good corn, the kind of corn that a man can plant with greatest assurance of getting a good crop. - There is no knowing what next year’s corn will be. It may be late, caught by early frosts, soft, and un- fit for seed. The farmer who looks ahead, say corn experts of the Unit- ed States Department of Agriculture, will save enough seed corn out of this crop to meet his needs for two or, better still, for three years. The old cry, of course, will be rais- ed that there is not time at this busy season to select seed corn even {for one year’s planting, to say nothing of two or three years. It does take time —but it takes less time to select the corn now than it will take spring after next to scour the country for a crib of old corn or, failing that, to find seed farther south. Fortunately, the right way is the least expensive and safest way. Also, it enables the farmer to go on growing the strain of corn that has “made good,” instead of getting something haphazard that he knows nothing about. —— Subscribe for the “Watchman.” from the: kegs should be filled half full and laid | each head just above the juice and the | It may prevent acet- i _ epi SE FOR AND ABOUT WOMEN. i i | DAILY THOUGHT. There is perhaps no strength so great and abidimg as that which follows from a resisted temptation. Every dangerous al- ! lurement is like an enchanted monster, which, being conquered, loses all his ven- om and changes at once into a king of great treasure, eager to make requital.— John Oliver Hobbes. Individualism is the cry of the times; hence one may wear wide flounces and another straight and narrow frocks hung with fringe or beads. It is predicted that capes will re- tain their tremendous vogue. Squirrel, it is predicted, will be used extensively as a trimming for autumn suits. For autumn the dress of tricotine will be in high favor—already the wholesale demand for dresses of this fabric are said to be so heavy that the supply is most inadequate. The fabric hat is already in evi- dence, as it usually is at this time of the year—always a forerunner of modes to come-—and this year hats of | faille and gros de Londres are favor- : ably in evidence. Ribbon fringe in the form of a tu- nic is used by some French designers { over skirts of accordion plaiting. | | Motif embroidery done in chenille | and worsted is to be seen on many i fall dresses, particularly motifs of a | square or diamond shape. os Despite Paris reports and substan- tial evidence in the way of many | French models of suits showing the | fullness at the hip line, the American i tailored suit is cut on the latest of | close, slim lines. Metal enters largely into the devei- opment of Rodier trimmings for au- tumn and the coming winter, says a Paris report. These are in the form of ribbons, braids and galloons. Navy, brown and gray are much discussed as the most fashionable colors for autumn blouses—these to be trimmed with touches of brilliant or lighter colors, but with distinctive care, for there must be, according to fashion’s decree, no garishness about those colorful trimmings. Many of the new hats show plumes of some sort falling very close to the face—either falling from the narrow brim of a turban, or arranged in some other fashion. A Lewis model shows green, blue and black irridescent plum- age covering the brim in front and underneath, the longer quills of the plumage falling down and sheathing the face. The sharp trim line of these rather stiff feathers, dark against the cheek, is more than usu- ally smart. i Flat flowers of chenille are a fash- ion feature of autumn millinery trim- ming; so also are silk tassels placed on the brims of medium sized hats. There is no question that the over- blouse is here to stay for an indefi- nite period, for some of the smartest blouses for autumn are on these at- tractive lines. Dresses of combinations of mater- ial are favorably considered for au- tumn. The combinations most gen- erally predicted as likely to be fash- ionable, being georgette and dovetyn and tricolette and duvetyn. Midsummer reports from Paris re- veal the fact that orange and yellow ara twe favorite colors of the fashionably smart. The small animal scarfs and neck- bands is a fur fashion that the heat of July has not retarded and they certainly do lend a distinctive and smart finish to the sheer frocks of midsummer. These furs are like an exquisite torch of some rare color in their relation to the dress or suit. Among the imported dress models recently arrived are many ribbon- trimmed dresses of youthful design and color. High choker collars are being brought into use on dresses of many descriptions by no less an authority than Jenny. It is settled that we are to wear the panier. The new frocks, however, have no relation to the wide-hipped models of other seasons, which were generally of the “peg-top” variety, for the new silhouette is distinctly Louis Quinze. Developing bit by bit, this new-old silhouette has suddenly burst into full flower. Tatting, always an old favorite, is enjoying a return to popular favor this year. It has many good quali- ties to recommend it as “pick-up” work and not the least of these, is its excellent wearing quality. If good material is used and the work well done, it is well nigh indestructible. For trimming on infant’s wear and fine lingerie, it has always been much used, but at present the vogue is to use heavy cotton and to put these dainty edges on linen corners and luncheon sets. If you are careful to do your tat- ting evenly, the fact that you use coarser cotton, will not detract from its beauty and you will find the effect very attractive. A glass of lemonade taken at bed- time with a little sugar in it im- proves a sallow skin unless the acid disagrees with the digestion. Eating an apple before breakfast is anoth- er simple method of preserving health and improving the complex- ion, and if an apple is added to the breakfast menu and is eaten with a slice or two of crisp toast it will prove both appetizing and beneficial. Puree of Tomato Soup.—Empty the contents of a can of tomatoes in- to a granite pan, stew till thick, press through a puree strainer and add baking soda the size of a pea, season with salt, pepper, butter and add one cupful of milk, thicken with one ta- blespoonful of flour and serve with finger lengths of toasted bread. Anything mixed with water re- quires a hotter oven than anything mixed with milk.
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers