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