DAWN AND DUSK, Blender strips of crimson sky Wear the dim horizon le, Shot acress with golden bara Reaching to the falling stars; Soft the balmy west wind blows, Wide the portals of the rose; Smell of dewy pine and fir. Lisping leaves and vines astir; On the borders of the dark Gayly sings the meadow-lark, Bidding all the birds assemble— Hark, the welkin seems to tremble! Suddenly the sunny gleams Break the poppy -fettered dreams— Dreans of Pan, with two feet cloven, Piping to the nymph and faun, Who, with wreaths of ivy woven, Nimbly dance to greet the dawn. Shifting shadows, indistinct, Leaves and branches crossed and linked, Cling like children, and embrace, Frightened at the meon’s pale face. In the gloomy wood begins Noise of insect violins; Swarms of fire-flies flash their lamps 1n their atmospheric camps, And the sad-voiced whip-poor-will Echoes back trom hill to hill Liquid clear above the crickets Chirping in the thorny thickets, Weary eye-lids, eyes that weep, ‘Wait the magic touch of sleep; While the dew in silence falling, Fills the alr with scent of musk, And the lonely night-bird, calling, Drops a note down through the dusk. EAR RS, LOYE OR MONEY. John Wharton, {he young oountry school-master, with open book in hand, his thoughts absorbed in the contents of ite pages, and bis head bowed low, was walking slowly along the narrow path that led in the airection of the quaint little log school-house, which stood half-embowered in bright green leaves and fragrant creeping vines just at the edge of a grand old oak forest, Ti was cue of those balmy, delightfully invigorating mornings in early summer, the soft air redolent with the rich per- fame of towers, and golden shafts of cheerful sunlight penetrating every nook and corner, The birds caroled their sweetest songs in the leafy boughs of the trees, and even the tiny brook danced aud gurgled along glesfully, as through verdant But John, its sinnous ¢ use meadows and grassy dells, v livious to his surroundings—even all these living, glorious Nature which encoun awaken him fo a ization of their presence, On, om he went, and not until a soft, delicate hand was laid gently upon musical voice called oat to him, his book. “Oh, —good —gracious | —out—of —breath! I—called—ever— so—load! John?” “Why, bless me, Bertie, is it you?’ he said, turning around, observing a girlish figure, her face all aglow with gmiles, and one hand pressed instioct ively apon ber heart to quiet its quick- ened pulsations, engendered by an un- due effort to reach his side, “Call, did you say? Why, no, I did not you.” “No, of course, nok hear any one with your head almost buried in that borrid arithmetic?” she said, reproachfully. stamp of her loot, “Our situations are different, Bertie, You see, I cannot escape it. expect my pupils to be perfect,” he answered, philosophically. ‘‘Besides,” position. with the work.” eyes to his. “Building a hoase?” in a tone of sur- prise, building it?” “Why, for —for—" And John's face crimsoned, 0), yes,” Bertie interrupted, *‘I re- call a conversation I had with Sallie Atkins, who mentioned that you were bailding & house for your mother You are a dutiful son, John; very.” “Don’t tease me, Bertie,” answered John, seriously, ‘‘Miss Atkins misin- formed you. it's for—for—-" And John put out his arm to encircle her waist, but Bertie, her face suffused with blushes, anticipated his action, and with a merry lsugh sad a eoquet- tish wave of her hand, bounded away from his side, and darted down the recovered from his astonishment at being thus so unceremoniously deserted, “she’s a provokingly strange little crea- ture; but she’s good and kind to me though,” And with one foot elevated on the doorstep and one hand resting lightly on the latch, he stood gezing after her willowy, statuesque form nutil ft disappeared around an abrupt curve in the path, when, with a long-drawn sigh, he entered the «choolroom. srtie’s errand to Farmer Walker's wis ormed, and she was returning home by the same path, walking leis- urely along plucking the wild flowers that grew by the wayside. Coming to a point where the grass looked brighter and {resher, and where the luxurious oak leaves furnished cooling shelter from the sun, she sat down and began weaving a garland out of her flowers, “I'm real mean for treating John in such a mapper,” she oquized. so embittered agamst bum. I—1—" And here she paused, and putting her hand over her mouth aa if to smother her words, continued, ‘‘but Til pot say it, Now let me see, she as she held the wreath ad- her, **I think it is hand- bit of ivy just where ty when he to her feet and gaye utterance fo a soream that re-echoed through the silent forest, and fell forward on her face. When she returned to consciousness a strange gentleman was kneeling be- side her, bathing her temples in cold spring water, “You feel better now, miss?” he said, as he observed her open her eyes and gaz» languidly about ber, “Yes, thank youn,” she replied, sitting upright. *‘ls the hornd thing killed?” she asked, a shiver passing through her frame. “Yes, s00,” And the gentleman held the lifeless bulk of the hideous black. snake up on the end of his cane, Bertie turned her gazo from it with a shudder, “1 was fishing,” he began, ‘‘down in the creek when I was startled by your soream, and hastened to your assist- ance, to find that loathsome serpent disengaging itself from the folds of your dress, and I quickly dispatohed it. It was a fortunate escape, miss, very.” “I owe the preservation of my life to you, sir, I am under many @bligations as, picking up her hat and wreath, she prepared to go bome. “It affords me the profonndest pleas. ure to know that you escaped the pois- oned fangs of that hideous reptile. That fact alone, Miss, is abundant cause for congratulation on my part” | Bertie was now normilly herself again, and ss the two walked along she silentiy surveyed her strange escort, found under such peculiar cireum- met she felt her heart flutter and a strange sensation permeated her, Thomas Ardmore, as he called him- manhood. Tall, well and a heavy, silken, jet black mustache he possessed all the elements that con- tribute to make up the polished gentle- wan. He was a man of leisare, who recreation and rest in the him throngh her companions, and now looked and wondered as they saw them walking along together through the | streets that morning. They were seated at the little sewing table in the cosy sitting-room; Aunt | Helen and Bertie, the one knitting | stockings and the nimble filagers of the | other marking out embroidery, “Why, do you Know, tertis Bey- moar,” said Aunt Helen, excitedly, laying down her knitting and looking | straight at Bertie, *‘do you know that that staprd, awkward John Wharton is | the butt of ridicule for the whole vil- lage, while Mr. Arnold ——" “Invidious compsrisons are not ne- cessary, aunt,” interrupted Bertie, quietly; ‘they neither decrease my re spect for John nor augment my admira- tion for Mr, Ardmore.” “You must admit, however, that Mr, | Ardmore is superior to John Wharton,” | persisted Aunt Helen. ©] confess his superionty intellect ually, Morally—that characteristic is | yot to be determined.” Aunt Helen changed her tactics, Not one disparaging word against John ghe force from Bertie, She | rested unessily in her ohair. There | was evidently some delicate subject she | desired to communicate to Bertie. i could invested with common sense until it comes to them through stern practical experience,” she at length ventured to | suggest, ‘*i'hat is the reason, I presume, you made 80 many mistakes during your | early life,” retorted Bertie, Aant Helen's face flushed as she an- | swered: “Maybe so; perhaps if I had listened | to wiser heads—" A knock at the door abruptly termi. { nated the conversation. Anat Helev | arose to admit Mr. Ardmore, They were strolling along, arm in | arm, Bertie and Mr, Ardmore, “Yes, Mr. Ardmore, 1'll promise lo | be your friend,” said Bertie, placing her hand in his. | “How strangely ocowncident with the | ivy in the wreath you gave me siler our | romantic meeting,” answered Me, Ard- | more. I've proven my fidelity by giv- ling up all for you. I have weal character, and yet there is still a vei in uy heart which must be filled to {| complete my happiness.” “Miss Seymour — Bertie —say you | love me; let me oall you wife?” i And , Ardmore caught both her | hands and kissed them passionately. | “Not now—give me time for reflec- tion, Mr. Ardmore,” said Bertie, with- | drawing her hands from his. | “Say now. Bertie,” he pleaded; “shall we discard the silent meaning of the ivy - friendship, fidelity and — mar- riage?” | “No, nol I eanpot act hastily in a | matter of so serious a natare, I ask | again time for reflection.” | For a while Me. Ardmore stood in | protound meditation. Al last he looked | up, saying: | “I grant you time, Bertie. When we | meet again lot me hope that I shall be | made happy by claiming you as my wife.” | “Perhaps,” came the res | A drowsy afternoon in August, John | Wharton, during his leisure hours (for | sohool had closed for the summer) otten | wandered off to the old deserted mill, | Hore we find him on this particular | afternoon hidden away behind the silent | and decayed mill-wheel, hus line dang- ling in the water, and a book openad out upon his lap, Suddenly he was startied by tramping feet and voices above him, He listened. “Well, said the first speaker, “‘the t, you say, ia good." “OI course. Why, a maroluiple not of people I never assocmatod As to the old bank, why its to be the ensiost job we ever nud It's a to orack, I have mighty delicious nut studied it and know just The other laughed. “Suppose we make the attempt to- night?” suggested the first apeaker. “I accept the proposition, Suspicion will never attach to me. We will not leave the town for two or three weoks after the job is done, that will throw the simple fools off the scent,” John Wharton heard no more of the arrangements, for the two men moved off, but as soon as he had satisfied him- self that he could get away unobserved, he ran swiftly toward the village and, going to the bank, communicated what he had heard to the president, “Will they? Well, we'll see about that,” answered that official, as John finished his narrative, * w * * » “Up and at them, boys!” came the command, And before the two burglars could recover from their surprise they were bound tightly and the gleaming barrels of four formidable revolvers were pointed menacingly at them, The | lights were turned up, and four men | started back in astonishment, The taller and handsomer of the burglars was—Thomas Ardmore. Daylight found the whole village in a furore of excitement. “Missus Helen, Missus Helen!” ex. claimed one of the servants, rushing excitedly up stairs and pounding vigo- rously on that lady's door, ‘‘de bank has been robbed, an’ Massa John Whar- | robbers, an’ it's Massa Ardmore, This startling announcement brought Aunt Helen out of bed at a single bound, and she made the servant repeat the news slowly over to her, She | threw up her hands in astonishment, Bertie recsived the news quietly, ‘““Young people are never with common sense them through stern, practical rience,” There was a tinge of sarcasm in her | speech that cut deeply into the heart | Aunt Helen, She threw her arms about | the neck of her niece and silently | wept. And as Thomas Ardmore sat in his | gloomy cell he heard the joyous wed- | ding bells calling the people to witness the celebration of the nuptials of John and Bertie, who retired to the finished house with the blessing of Aunt Helen | and the congratulations of the whole vil- | lage. i ———— A ——— i Lakes of Solid Salt. | From a paper read by Sir Peter Lum- | sden before the Royal Geographical so- | ciety, London: Yarotlan means ‘“‘the { sunken ground,” and no word can bet- | the valley of these lakes. The total length of the valley from Kangruali road on the west to the Baod-i-Dozen, which bounds it on the east, is about | connecting ridge, which runs across | from north to south, With an average | hight of about 1,800 feet, but has a nar. row point which rises some 400 feet above the general average. Tothe wes! of this ridge lies the lake from which the Tekke Turcomans from Merv get their salt. The valley of this lake is sone six miles square, and is surround- ed on all sides by a steep, almost pre- cipitous descent, impassable for baggage animals, 80 far as | am aware, except | by the Merv road in the northwest cor- ner. about 1.430 feet above sea level, which gives 1t a descent of some 400 feet from some 050 feet below the general platean above. The lake itself lies in the cen- | ter of the basin, and the supply of salt | is apparently unhunited, The bed of the lake 18 one solid mass by only an inch or two of water, To | ride over it was like riding over ice or | cement, The bottom was coversd with !a slight sediment, but when thal was scraped away, the pure white salt shone out below, How deep Lhis deposil maj be, it Is impossible to say, for no one has yet got to the bottom of it. To the east of the dividing ridge is the second lake, from which the Saryks of Penjdeh take their salt, The valley in which this lake 18 situated is much the larger of the two. The valley proper is some fifteen miles in length by about ten precipitous on the north and west sides only. the eastern and southeastern end sloping gradually up in a succession of undulations. The level of this is appa- rently lower than that of the other. I feet above the sea level. The salt in this lake is not so smooth asin the other, and did not look so pure. Itis dug out in flakes, or strata, generally of some four inches in thickness, is loaded mto bags and carried off on camels for sale without further preparation. Ln Ramesses and Memnon, Rameses 11., or the Great, the Pha- roah of the Bible, was fond of seeing his hkenese in stone, since there are still remaining hatf a dozen huge statues of him, which neither time nor the rage of national enemies has been able to de. stroy. One at Thebes 1s of syenite granite, estimated to weigh eight hun- dred and eighty-seven tons. It is forty- two feet and eight inches in height and twenty-two feet and four inches across the shoulders, The figure is seated ou a tion, with the hands on the knees, and the emblems of royalty aisplayen at the feet, on the head and on the throne, There is at Memphis a copy of this status, of exactly the same size and ap- pearance, the only difference between Le the last rose of Bummer Left blooming alone,” at the pantry shelves intent on getting her task done betimes, for hadn’t **Cou- sin John” promised to drive her to O that afternoon, and Susie dearly loved to go to Ce, especially when pleasant, kindly “Cousin John" hand- led the reins, Susie was a bright little body, not particularly noted for beauty, unless clear, blue eyes, a goodly quality of red- dish-brown hair, and a happy disposition constitute that desirable quality. bhe was an orphan, and had lived here on the farm with Aunt Hester Holmes ever since hermother, Aunt Esther’sonly sister, had died, leaving her a helpless little infant dependent on the kindness of relatives, Aunt Esther never regretted having taken the little Susie to her heart and home. Her bright face and sweet voice were a cheerful innovation on the quiet | ness that generally prevailed at the farm- house. And Susie, naturally affection ate, loved her home and every animate thing upon it, from Aunt Esther and her stepson John down to the little chicks and guinea fowls which she fed every morning, Late in the afternoon Susie was safe- ly esconced on the front seat of the dearborn, with Cousin John beside her, a basket of eggs on her lap to be ex- changed at the store for tea and spices, and a basket stowed under the seat to the results of their shopping. “Now, don't forget to call for the mall, John, and don’t upset Busie,”” was Aunt Esther’s parting injunction, For Cousin John, dear reader, was a sta- dent and dreamer, *‘just home from formed you, and was apt to go about with his head in the clouds, to the risk of his own ard other pecple’s safety. The air was sweet with the scent of | orchard and field, the dust was nicely laid by the recent rain, and Susie enjoy- | ed ber ride to and from the little coun- She transacted | ions | at the corper store carefully, while “Cousin John? called ut the postoffice general book and pews stand for some second-hand volumes, At the tea-table that evening, while Aunt Esther and Susie were discussing | the afternoon’s purchases, John looked up from the letter he was reading and asked: “I say mother, do Boldis take boarders?” “Why, yes, 1 believe so. What makes you ask?’ ‘‘Nothing par- ticular, only Ed Thorne tells me here that his mother, his sister Nettle and Miss Longstreet have secured board there for a month or so—in fact have already taken up their quarters there, 1” reans,” said Aunt Esther, smiling, *\bat John and his beloved books will have to say good-bye to each other, as anything hike quietness with- ina mile of Ed and Nettie Thorne is something not to be thought of.” Susie wondered, girl like, If Nettle Thorne was pretty, whether Cousin John admired her, and hoped she would soe them alisoon, Her wish was grati- fied the next day. She was busy mixing bisenit for tea when she heard the sound of wheels, and looking from the window saw a fine team, driven by Mr. the gate In greal style, Cousin John, who had also heard the | wheels, hastened out and greeted the | They heard him invite | them, especially pressing the ladies, to | cone in and stay for tea; but they dech- ned, Ed Thorne adding mischievously: “Draw it mild old chum. As a rule | thess girls never refuse anything; bat I suppose they don’t want to frighten | your mother too much just at first.”’ Miss Longstreet told him to mind his | horses and not, their cofiversation or | “horn, rattle up to | In a moment | with laughter and many charges from | Ned to come up to see them, they drove off. And this was but the beginningof | a series of * driving and pleasure parties inaugurated and carried out in the weeks to come. Susie was always in- | cluded in the invitations, but somehow she did not enjoy them very much. She friends, but she always feit abashed by | Nettie Thorne’s exuberant spirits and | In most of their parties Ed Thorne was almost the shadow of | the stately Helen, and Cousin John | always watched after Susie's comfort, | but somehow Nettie seemed to have the | time. } All things come to aa end, and so the | pleasant summer days slipped by and Aunt Esther had promised Miss Long- street to let Susie pass a few weeks in town with her, and preparations for the visit were now hurried forward, but Susie took but a languid interest In them. She puzzied Aunt Esther sorely —with nothing apparently the matter with her, yet she seemed to be losing her color and was listless and indiffer- ent; even the shopping for the proposed visit seemed to give her but little pleas. ure, It was the eve of Susie’s departure for the city, and her new Saratoga trunk (a present from “Cousin John™ stood strapped and ready in the hall. She had basen for a walk through the orchard, and as she was coming k by the lane she met him hunting for her. “Why, here is my little red bird," he said gay- ly, with a suggestive pull at her hair. “I have been searching high and low for you, and had about reached the eon- clusion that you had departed for paris unknown by Joutsatt, without walting for the morning." “Hay, little one, is that so,” with another pull, Sasie did not answer; there seemed to ba a lump in her throat and she could not, “See here; be continued, ‘‘how do you like my mm “1 think “There, take it,” he said, "it won’ bite you.” She took it from him and sprung the catch and then stopped short again, In one side he had put Aunt Esther's pic- ture, in the other his own smiled up at her. “1 did not want you to forget your home folks, you see,” Le said, *"you will be meeting such charming people at Miss Longstreet’s,”’ “That will never sie vehemently. “No, I think your affection for Aunt Esther is as enduring as the hills, but poor me, yuu see, that’s the rub, Isup- pose you will learn the ways of most city girls and become quite a heart- breaker, in fact, be initiated into the mysteries of the charming art known as flirting,” he continued, with fine dis- ust, Susie looked at him in surprise, “Don’t mind me dear,” he said in his usual tone, “your going away has spoil- ed my temper,” “If you don’t want me to go [ won't,” Susie sald flatteringly. “What? and lose all the fun and all the sights? No, we are not 80 mean as all that, Only don’t forget us quite,’ opening the gate for her and then stop- ping short at a glance at her face, “Sa- sie!” he exclaimed, but Suse hurried on. one moment. I bad not intended to tell you this for awhile, not for a year be?! exclaimed Su- THE FASHIONS, Wooden, glass, porcelain and fead, or imitation lead, beads of large size are the latest novelties in dress trim- mings sent out from Paris, A cluster of water-green feathers look well as the only trimmiog of a fine black straw bonnet, the limaog and strings being of black velvet. The Louis XV capote of tulle or lace is the dressy bonnet of the moment in Paris. It is almost conical to accom- modate the high coiffure, White duck waistcoats are oocasi- onally worn with double-breasted frock- coats and dark trousers for dressy day occasions. Polonaises remain in vogue in spite of all the efferts to introduce more fan- ciful novelties in the form of basques and tunics. . Crepe lisse, puffed and dotted with chenille, the color of the dress, or plaited apd edged with beads, is worn with handsome dresses, Absinthe, Chartreuse and cresson are three striking and trying colors ! in gale green, which still predominate in millinery garnitures, The small capote is the favorable | head.gear for visiting, etc. A few folds of tulle or a few inches of em- broidery, with an algret or bow of ribbon, compose the whole. Btrings perhaps, you are so young, but I cannot help it. Susie, dear, I love you, love you dearly; answer we, do you care any- thing for me?’ But Susie turned ber head, “It is as I thought; I have spo- ken too soon; I have frighiened you,” he sald, 3ut Susie turned at this and said, Cousin John paled. *‘Too late?’ he asked; ““it is some one else then? one else, and that some Nettie Thorne.” Nettie Thorne!’ he exclaime, “A mad-cap like Nettie Thorn! No indeed. Why, she is engaged to be married ber- self. and when she frst came here. Her intedded husband is even now returning from his trip abroad, where he has been one Susie, my darling, is that your ouly ob- And Susie’s binshing face told him it was, Susie went to the city and enjoyed her visit extremely. Before she returned home Nettie Thorne was married and, strange to relate, Susie acted as brides- maid on the auspicious occasion. There ing Ed Thorne and Miss Longstreet and our hero and heroine, that is, if Aunt Esther's consent cau bs gained by the latter, ance A358 flow Wasling Suips Winter 1 the Arctic. In the fall, just before it gets so cold that the ice forms, the ships huddle to- gether, and each puts down two an- chors, one at the bow and one at the stern, and these hold tn from sriking against the shore or one another until the joe forms around them and freezes them in solidly. Then the anchors and rudders are taken up, and, with lumber which they have brought from home, the whalers build a substantial house Then they got the Es- kimo to build a sort of snow house over the wooden house and, so, with all this covering to protect them, they manage to keep warm and comfortable with very little fire, however cold it may be out-of-doors, Sometimes they put in double windows, the inside ones of glass, as usual, and the outside ones being made of slabs of ice, like the carious windows of the igloos. The porary houses built on tops of the ships, but in the cabin and forecastle, just as if they were cruising out 1o sea. The house is simply put over the ship to keep the real places warm, and right This “house,” however, is very useful asa place for be necessary. The Eskimo als) con- when generous whalers treat them with sea-bread and weak tea sweetened with molasses. AAAI A Breath of Prairie Alr. Many of the young Canadians who took five feet ten and six fest two, who used to wear in Montreal and Torouto pointed boots and write with steel pens, chained to the counters of a bank or business house, with no prospect of becomin partners in the business which enslav them. Since they got their lungs filled with the prairie air they have closed their ledgers and taken to building log houses for themselves, striding over the sweet grass, ng after half-wild cattle, wonthly more fosiing that it will bn their own they do not take their place amo men who are mastering a now strong Canadian youngster who will labor, working with his own hands, will get $400 a year and his board, and be to no great expense at his tail. or's, The Esouriak | are often dispensed with, but, if worn, are narrow. The very high crowned | bats are not quite in such great vogue | as they were, although exaggeration in { the height of the adornments is still | displayed, | Evening dresses, if very rich, are of | brocade and beaded tulle or lace, or of | velvet or plush ard lace. The brocade {or velvet forms the long train and | decollete bodice, the tulle or lace being used for the tablier and other draperies, | No berthes or sleeves are worn, speci { ally when the corsage i8 of velvel. | Indeed, velvet bodices are entirely | plain and untrimmed, lacing at the | back, Thanks to the combination of ma- terials worn and the fashion of wearing | the dresses in separate portions, an ap- pearance of great variety in the toilet may be produced without the enormous expense this would otherwise have en- tailed. Many gowns made up of thin materials are sent home with two bodices, one of the sams fabric as the skirt, to be worn on hot days, and the other of velyet, warm and acceptable on chilly days. Sleeveless velvet | jackets are much used for the purpose of slipping on readily and easily over the lace or canvas bodice. On the | other hand, lace jackets or polonaises, | with transparent elbow sleeves, are useful for transforming a lace or gauze | skirt into a correct dinner dress. If | the skirt be white or cream-colored, the | jacket must be of the same tint, and black ones are equally useful with a black lace, satin or canvas skirt, Twilled surahs are meeting with great favor this season, and these dure | able goods, of excellent finish and extra width, are sold in checks, stri | tiny plaids and small-patterned cades, in all the dainty and lady-like combinations of colors usually found in | summer silks, A neat and stylish { model of twilled surahs shows a ground of deep Neapolitan blue, printed in a pattern of pearl-gray ivy leaves out- fined and veined with cream wiate. I'he skirt, of plain dark blue surah, is | kilted to the knees, and two draples in “shawl-point’’ shape of the printed fabrics are plaited diagonally across the | front, and the lower point reaching quite to the foot of the dress-skirt, Fach of these drapies is edged with cream-colored Renaissance lace, the upper one being very full Both are | carried high on each side, caught with | blue ribbons just pelow the bips, and | 1ose themselves at the back among the | slight drapings of the tournure, which | is also of the printed toulard and iaoce- | edged. The Louis XIV jacket opens | over a shirred vest of plain blue slik, | and cream lace is cascaded down sach | side of the jacket, A parasol mafle of | the printed surah and lined with car. | dinal, and a gray straw hat trimmed | with a scarf of the same silk mingled | with cream lace, are en suile, | Mountain dresses for climbing | should be very short, stout, preferably of woolen goods, and plain. Large | pockets should be provided or & bag slung over the shoulde- by a | one always desires to preserve as mem- entoes of such excursions. For long and rough scrambling about mountain sides, the skirts sho propriety will allow, rough and d button closely about the ankles are cidedly preferrable, as ants and sand flies often creep about the clothing and re partico- larly as there is no privacy into wh one can retreat to remove them. Prin