What Does It Matter ? Wealth and glory, and place and power, W hat are*they worth to me or you ? ¥or the lease of life runs out in an hour, And death stands ready to claim his due; Sounding honors or heaps of gold, What are they all when all is told ? A pain or a pleasures, a smile or a tear = W hat does it matter which we claim ? For we step from the cradle into the bier, And a careless world goes on the sine. Hours of gladness or hours of SOrTow, What dees it matter to us to-morrow ? Truth of love or vow of friend — [ander caresses or cruel sneers — W bat do they matter to us in the end? For the brief day dies and the long night DEAS. Passionate kisses, or tears of gall, The grave will open and cover them all, Homeless vagrant, or honored guest, Poor and hamble, or rich and great— Al are racked with the world's unrest, All must meet with the common fate, Life from childhood till we are old, What is all when all 1s told ? PERILS OF AUTHORSHIP. Mildred’s pretty face wore a new ex- pression as she toyed with her teaspoon and the serious aspects of life were for the first time presenting themselves. +1 wish I eould do something to help John.” thought Mildred, as she gazad abstractedly out of the wind: has to work so bard,” and sb little sigh. “What can 1 do?” she | “What can I do?’ she aske again and again, as with de she straightened and arrangs dainty apartment. Suddenly her face looked a door had opened and flooded It sunlight. “I know what I will do; I will write a story, Iknow I can if 1 try gave a dered, herself touch d with do that. There is Mrs. t is a knack, not a , who has made heaps trash—all of them. John 8a} 80." Before another hour had outline of a plot was dancing in her ex- cited young brain, and as soon as she could get the time she gat down with a pad and sharpened pencil. Then came a pause. “How shall I begin?"’ She drew little geometric figures on her thoughts seeming to revolve in a circle, returning over to the place from whence they started. Fically she wrote: “In a small of’ village on the banks ‘Ob, that 1s cemmonplace, No; that will not do.’’ And she lore oft ihe first sheet of her pad and reflected again, then wrote: ‘Frank Atwood was the only son © a’ - “No, no; that is too stupid,’ and the second sheet of the pad went into the waste basket. She recalled what John ! the superfluous first three | wight with benefit to most eliminated —for John was : and literary critic, and his st wndards and ideals, were just on the meas her own. So she thought deference of what he had tedions preambles. He is right,’ she said w is the personal int characters which we are lo reading a storyx All thate that is tedious superfluity. said of as, which ories be ire of great 1 210 wision, n the for in s before le ror UE ad 1 ‘I will dash right on Wi from the heroine, which Ww at explain the situavion.” So with confidence whith came from herself at last on the rigi wrote: “Dear Frank—I return herewith the jetters. which of course I hava now uo right to keep. 1 need not it costs me, I have reflected mug! you said yesterday, but um resslved., Iwill not see you again. Any attempt to make me break this re- solve will be fruitless, God knows you have only yourself to blame that this marriage has''—— Please ma'am,’’ sald the cook, com- ing suddenly in upon the young auth- oreas, **Please ma'am, the butcher 18 were, Will you come and see him and give the order yourself alx them chops fremnched, or whatever it Bs.» letter the feeling ipon what “1 was just getting into ‘ue swing of ¢ And she left the ma: uscript upon ner desk to be resumed lar. The matter of the chops disposed of there were other things requiring at. tention. At last, however, she was at her desk again. She read over the letter with which her story opened to see now it sounded. ‘‘Beally,” said she, “I think that starts off very well,” and then she took up the b ‘ken thread. “Only yourself to blame "at this mar- riage has’ — A violent ging at the telephone again broke (he current. «‘Hallo,”” said our young novelist. “Mildred, 1s that you? ““Yea, is it you, Alice? “Yes, Mamma does not feel very well and wishes you 10 ‘ake luncheon with us. She has sent the ca Be ready to come soon a8 it arrives,” Ob. viously no more authors! ip to-day. So slipping her paper into her desk she de- parted, The new purpose of authorship brought a great light and hope iato Mildred’s life. She pictured to herself his reading her story, possibly review- ing it. After he has written all kinds of nice things about it I will tell him that 1 am the author; or—and her beart turned cold and sick—what If he ehould say it was trash? For, of course, ike other good critics, John was sel. dom pleased. If things were all excel- Jent, what would be the need of critics? So he had cultivated the art of discov- ering Naws in what seemed to ordinary readers pure gems, He had developed rather a talent for pillorying people ina single terse phrase, and was much valued for his skill in beating down with the editorial elub tender young aspirants who were trying (to make themselves , This sounds bratal. But he was only professionally brutal. in his personal characteristics none would be more tender or sym hs Mildred knew of this caustic vein and believed it too—as she did also all of John's attributes and gifts—*"but,"” ghe thought, *‘if he should say any of those dreadful things about me; what should 1 do? Ishould never—never-— tell him,” And so during the entire day she thought and planned. New intricacies of plot suggesting themselves—vivid and interesting scenes coming before her stimulated Imagination. | Her mother urged her remaining and | sending for her husband to dine with them. Her secret desire was to return, but she looked at her mother’s wistful face and had not the heart to refuse. She would stay and send for John. That gentleman arrived at home at the usual hour. Ashe put his latch of the quick ear which was listening for it, and of the pretty apparition which would meet him in the ball, **By | jove,”” he thought, vswhat a lucky fel- | low I am!” to meet him. He was consclous of a | little chill of disappointment, and still more as he wandered through the rooms and found all silent and de- serted, He rang for the maid. “Where is your mistress?" “she is out, sir. There's a | sir, somewhere,”’ and she anxiously about, “Oh, is note, looked it on | starting to go for it. “No matter, I will get it,”’ and John turned his inpatient steps toward his wife's room. There was no note on the lid, His eyes were riveted upon | the wards before him: Dear FraNg-—1 return | the letter which [have no longer any right to keep. 1 need not tell you what it costs me a. into ice, [ have reflected much upon what you said yesterday —— s'Yesterday!''—John felt as If he were going mad, “wYesterday!''—and he had so trusted her! The room had | grown black and a great sledge ham- read on—upon what youssid yesterday, | but 1 am at last resolved. 1 will | see you again. Any attempt to make | me break this resolve will be fruitless. | blame tht this marriage bas—— John stood for a few moments as if i his muscles tense. seemed to come to him, signature; it is not hers. He looked | again, How could he doubt it! He | knew too well the turn of every letter. He was alternately livid with rage and | choking with grief. His dream of hap- piness vanished, Something like a | curses came from between his closed teeth, “She loves this man, and she meets him and tells him so, and only yester- day. Oh, it is too borribie!” He buried his face in his hands and groaned, *'I shall go away; 1 shall pever’’— At that moment the tele- phone bell rang. He took no notice of it. *I shall never”— Again itl rang long and loud. What should he do? There was no one else to answer it; he must go. So he said hoskily, “Hello!” is that you?" The situation was shocking. How could he reply? there was no time for retlection. He knew that the Central | office would share all his confidences | through that infernal piece of black | walnut and ebony, So he sald: “Yes “Why do you not come? | waiting for you.” How well he knew the preily | tions of that voice! “1 wish po dinner away —good-by."”’ It might have been the conventional | telephonic **good-by," for it ht con- tain a profounder meaning. The effect at the other end of the line cannot be described. Ten minutes later a cab drove furiously up to the | door of the apartment house, and Mil dred, with white face and fast beating heart, rushed into the room, and would have rushed into John’s arms if he had | let her, | “You are going away,” she said | breathlessly. | * You are a very clever actress,’’ sald | that gentleman, repulsing her intended | embrace, +A what?’ said she, amazed. **John, | what's the" — — | +A very clever actress’ said he quite as if she had not spoken, ‘‘but hereafter we will have a more perfect understanding and you need not trouble yourself.” “Why, John,” said she, “have you lost your senses?”’ **No; on the contrary, 1 have re- covered them, I am no longer a dupe, I was fool enough to think you’ = “John, for God's sake tell me what this means!’ “Oh, Mildred! Mildred!” said he breaking down utterly. **Why did you pot tell me like an honest woman, that you loved some one else?” : “John, you know, 1" “Stop!” said he, *‘Stop! do not stain your soul with any more falsehood.” “You need not have married me,” went on the wretched man, “God knows I wish you had not.” She tried to put her arms about him as he paced to and fro in rapid strides, but he pushed her away angrily. **No, no more of that. That has lost iis charm,” Mildred burst into tears, “1 never-—would—have—believed— you would " sobbed she. **What have I done?” “Done?” shouted the exasperated man, “done? Why, you have spoiled the life of an honest man, who doted on you, believed in you-like a trustl fool-—who would have risked his life on your honesty’’—— “Stop,” said Mildred, and she gath- ered herself up toa fuller height than John’s eyes had ever before beheld in Dinner is inflec- am going mig A moment later he heard the mes- genger call, then heard his wife give an order for a cab, then saw her packing a handbag. He lutended doing so him- self. But somehow having heard her do them was infinitely harder to bear. Mildred was very angry. ‘Not a thing of his,” she said to herself as she stripped off her rings and gathered her trinkets. ‘My purse, teo, she thought, and went to the desk to find it. Her husband had been watching for this, He knew she would try to secure that letter. Oh," said he, *‘you are a little too late. You should have thought of that before.” These, to her, unmeaning words, ut- tered with much concentrated bitter- ness, made her seriously doubt his | sanity. She looked at him curiously. How else could she construe this in- comprehensible fury? she pursued. The thought had calmed her resentment. She went to his side, placed her hand kindly on his arm, ‘‘My dear John,” said she, will you explain to me what all this means?’’ He felt touched, and oh, how he | longed to take her to his heart; but that | could never be again. | “Will you first explain to me,” be | answered, trying to be hard and cold; | “explain to we where you were yester- { day?" ! and she tried to be very calm, “Ah, yes,” he went on. ‘‘You can look very innocent, but, woman, look up the paper. Mildred looked at it bewildered; | she read: “Dear Frank.” ualiy deepened into an expression of io- | terest and amusement, She | stood it all. | witnessed this unaccustomed, this ex- | traordinary change and laughter peal | after peal of silvery laughter—rang | through the rooms, She tried to speak, | but could not. | John in his turn began to think that | she was mad, At last, with lears roll- ihg down her cheeks, not from grief | this time, she said: | you dear goose~-that's my slory and you ever—ever so much money —and | now you have gone—and spoilea’’—and crual’’ ——— Her sobs, together with Jol enfolding arms, stifled the rest | my angel, I have been such a | Can you ever forgive me?” é brute. - op scl For The Ladies, Seldom do we find so much wisdom on the dress question in so few lines as | is contained in the followipg paragraph. | ic advice: Stiff materials are less manageable and graceful than soft ones, One dull stuff and ove glossy stuf unite better than two glossy or Iwo dull ones, Colors near the face should be soft and indescribable. A woman to be well dressed and to forts on tints few and good, Antique lace will last forever, re- | piease, Being yellow, instead of snow white, it scarcely ever shows dirt. SOON wears oul. The worst extravagance is to buy “shoddy” matenals got up by unprine cipled traders to deceive the eye. One or two really fine jewels are in far better taste than a quantity mediocre ones, Q silks wear greasy, | outlasts three silks gatins, and that ger than colored. A set of good fur is never any loss, as it can be cut, rejoined, dispersed, uni. ted, worn on an evening dress, or a mantle, at will, without harm, A dress or jacket properly made and properly fitted by a good dressmaker, that a good satin and three cheap black velvet lasts ion- by a novice, will look and hang well to the end, while the other will not, | to remember what your wardrobe con- ! tains, as two dresses can often be com- | bined into one nowadays if the colors | are happily chosen, which is a great | sconomy. Ladies who study economy will never adopt the outre in anything, for outre | fashions never last long. Women of taste are content with a few things—and those good—in lieu of a quantity of cheap finery. | Never buy a bonnet that will not go with all your dresses and jackets likely to be required while the bonnet lasts— unless you can afford to wear one to match each suit. Extravagance in dress means not only spending too much money on it, but also the patronage of foolish fash- ons devised simply to waste mate cheaper than the cheapest pale mate- tial, though its original cost be double, TAP chaos of millinery is not beautiful from an artistic point of view, and probably mischisvous from a sanitary one. True skill in making up materials consists not only in fitting the dress but in giving to every morsel of stuft its due value. Who is Napoleon. Ponisi—* ‘Now speaking of reat men, what So you think of Napoleon Bona- par 1" Miss Poindexter (from Philadelphia) “Pghaw! he was nobody, Who was his grandfather?" Miss Bunkerhill (from Boston)—‘'1 don’t think he could have amounted to much; he had no muddle name, ”’ “Miss Goltham (from New York)— “How much was he worth?” . Miss Poreine (from Chicago)" ‘Did he make his money before fire, or since?" Miss Montespan (from St, Louis) “Did he belong to one of our old French families?’ Miss Mount Vernon (from Baltimore) ~*1 never of him; but — wasn't he some sort of relation to Taltivanva Wana no vined AAS A are aA ALN AIE Phoasbhe's Romance, Phobe Tavson was sent to Grand- Aunt Garraway’s at the foot of High peak, to get out of the way of Mr, Mid- dleton De Motte. She was a little disappointed that the snug Queen Anne coltage was not more dungeon like, and that the solitary mountain path tarned out to be a well. traveled turnpike; and Mrs, Garrdway, instead of being a hook-nosed old crone with a gold-headed cane and a temper, was a cheerful old lady, whose cheeks were tinted with fresh bloom like a winter apple, and who wore a black silk dress with lace rufiles, . “Darling Auntie,” faltered Phebe, after she had been in banishment for several days, ‘*may I tell you a secret?’’ “Confide entirely in me, my child,” patting her on the cheek. “Well, then, he met me under the apple tree last night,” confessed Phebe, “You've written to hum, then?” said Grand-Aunt Garraway, with a shrewd twinkle in her hazel eyes. “Y.yes,”’ owned Phoebe, “1 told him it was unlike anything that I had anti- cipated. I described your pretty furni- ture and choice china and the solid sil- | ver tea service, with the Garraway monogram on it, and your set of | amethysts, and he came on by tho earl- | {est train.” “Oh, he did?" “Je said he was hungering and thirst | ing for one of my sweet glances,” added | Phoebe, very prettily. “And he slept | on the hay in the barn last night.” | “My dear child, this will never do. { He must come here.’ “Here, aunty?” “1t isn't in the fitness of things that | my graudniece’s suitor should be sneak- ing around the back orchard and sleep- | Ing in the hay-loft like a tramp.” Phmbe colored. “But what else could he do, Aunt | Garraway 7° said she, | “For that very reason,” said the old | lady, with digoity, *‘I ask him here las a guest, Harry Sanford, is to be here from Bos- | ton, but there is plenty of room. Harry | shall sleep in the cedar chamber. Mr. | De Motte shall have the red room. | Where is he now?" | reading the newspaper in the smoke- | house,’ guiltily confessed Phoebe. “Call him in. Tell him he shall be | welcome,” sald Mrs, Garraway. Mr. DeMotte was tall and troubadour- like. He had dark, pensive eyes, and | wore a very handsome satin neckiie; and if his finger-nails were not as clean as Mrs, Garraway liked to ses, still some | people thought different on such sub- { jects, |" “Harry Sanford looks the most of a | gentlewan,” thought Mrs, Garraway. And even [harbe, in a mental compari- gon, could not help owning to herself | that Mr. Sanford was the most at his ease, | “Bat then,” thought Phoebe, hasn't any diplomatic troubles on his mind. 1 wish, though, that dear Mid dleton wouldn't eat green peas with a fork, and that he would take a little | more notice of the chalr covers, and not drag them off every time he sits down, I hope 1t won't make my grand-aunt | nervous.” Put Grand-Aunt Garraway | her sweetest, and seemed | nothing amiss, And Harry Sanford diligently talked politics, and did his best to amuse the stranger. Nevertheless, when I'hebe went 10 | bed that night she was not so happy as | she expected to be. Fora diplomat, | Mr. De Motte was not so remarkably | intelligent after all, and she Was very certain that his grammar was not aito- gether correct. She hoped that Harry | Sanford had not observed it. + ‘he smiled to notice In the dead of the might Grand-Aunt Garraway’s hand fell softly on Pha be's shoulder. She started up. “Hush!” said the old iady. utter a sound, stairs with me.” “What 18 the matter?’ gasped the girl. | “Your fine lover is breaking into my | big cherry-wood bureau,” said Mrs, Garraway. “Ile has a complete kit of burglar’s But don’t look so frightened, | my dear. The jewel-case is there, but it is empty. Harry Sanford has the pins aod pendants at the County Bank. He's welcome to all he can find. Harry and the farm laborers have got his ac- complice safely tied outside, and they re “Don't Get up and come down i 1 | tools, But come 1 want you to see for your- steps across the threshold. quickly! self.” And, standing on the staircase, where she could peep through the transom light into the back parlor, Phebe be- held her troubadour lover picking locks business-like manner, In spite of her resolution she uttered a little ery. Mr. De Motte looked up and saw her. The next instant the room was in darkness. “But we caught the fellow as neatly as possible,” Harry Sanford said, after ward, with the empty jewel-case in his and a lot of silver spoons in his breast pocket. He's an old hacd, the Albany authorities say. ‘Light. Fingered Lemuel,’ they call him, and he’s safe to get a long term in the peni- tentiary.'’ Alas, poor Phoebe! Harry Sanford set himself so dili- gently to work to console the disillu- slonized maiden that he soon succeeded in restoring her temporarily eclipsed smile, So the expedition to Grand-Aunt Garraway’s proved a success after all. The Middleton De Motte engagement was broken up, and there is every prob. ability that a new one will rise, Phanix- like out of its ashes, semis AAI ARNT Youxo Spindrift Sm has escort root in his chat, Miss’ Marshatl-Neal "You don’t know how much I en- joyed the play last mht!" { ION NOTES. TS A A A FASH 1 —In a dark begonia-colored velvet a medium shade is used to suggest the foundation and underbodice. The lat- ter shows in the palest tones a frilled lisse handkerchief, so folded as to give the appearance of a jabot escaping from one side of the full waistcoat. —Crepe lisse is also being adopted | by youthful wearers, and is especially | adapted for the soft-plaited draperies, into which it seems to fall of its own | accord. it 18 likewise used for the fashioning of that sort of draw baby bodice, which is a revival of this season. A specimen of this was shown in a shade of lisse under a bodice of peach satin, having on its surface a conven: tional primrose. | —Tulle is entering very extensively | into the evening dresses of debutantes, and has a soft, simple effect when | mingled, as it often is, w.th clusters of baby nbbons, The latter are some- | times supplied in heights to border | closely kilted flounces of tulle. A | tulle in a shade of buttercup was | draped with folds of wide faillie, and had long sprays of bluets and grass | carried from the shoulder to the edge | —Evening-dress for a bride: The and trimmed in front with a tablher of embroidered silk muslin, fastened on the left side by a large flowing bow of | white satin and a cluster of red and | white ostrich feathers, Satin train, fall- ing in full, ample folds. Low cuirass- bodice of brocaded red velvet, com- pleted by a drapery of embroidered silk muslin. No sleeves, —A pretty ball-dress for a young lady is of embroidered white tulle over rose-colored silk. The front is formed revers of brocaded rose-colored silk on | slightly draped, and at the back a pafl of brocaded rose-colored silk, Bodice of the same brocoded silk with the fzont i : like a plastron; narrow drapery of faille round the top; short sleeves of the bro- caded silk gathered ontoa band; bow | —JIn the latest importation of cos- | tumes there 13 an evidence of increas- | ing brightpess of coloring, even tones | as bright as geranium are be seen upon some of the cloths now used. When the general effect inclines to be ymbre, brilllancy is descernible through some folds, or it is imparted by means of revers, a breast plate or a panel. Ouoe side of a bodice often dif- fers from another, so that folds appar- ent he right are usually absent in dress of violet velvet is tr umed all round with ao embroidery border standing out in lighter shades of the same color. Two lace panels open in the middle of the skirt, and are gathered gp at the sides under orna- ments of beaded passementerie, Low velvet bodice, with no trimming round the top but a row of beads; but the beads are continued in a torsade pat- | tern down the middle of the front; there are ornaments of beaded passe- menterie upon the shoulders, but sieaves, ~In visites latest models are well curved in at the waist, tighi- fitting at the back, with a rounded or pointed basque, or loose fronts coming down in long peaked lapels. They are made of plain or brocaded velvet, silk plush Ottoman silk, lined with quilted silk, and trimmed with a fur border, or else a rich passementerie | fringe and edging; but for winter fur is the more elegant trimming. Cana- dian beaver, minnever, skunks, chin- chila and fnzzly astrakhan are favorite furs this season. —An elegant evening toilet 1s moss-green French faille, put on in full gathers at the back so. as to form a puff. Tablier of ivory white lace, | draped up on the right side, and falling in an ample quilling down to the edge | of the skirt; on the left it falls in bias plaits,. Bodice of moss-green plush, open in the shape of a heart in front, no he or of i i i a lace drapery commencing from the shoulders, fastened with a rose in the | middle of the breast, and thence draped across to the left hip, where it | is lost under the bodice. There are no i sleeves to this bodice, but only bow of mossgreen falle on the left | shoulder. i ~<A gown that had its bronze veivel front worked in 2 dog-toothed pattern, shaded from gold to black, was draped | with chartreuse satin, and had side | fined by the embroidery. The long- | pointed embroidered bodice, displayed | waist marked in the dog-toothed de- | st While for morning costumes the | short belt is brought to a point some | inches below the waist, in dresses for evening wear the leading Paris house carries it straight from one side seam to the other, to end with rosette or buckle. ~The prevailing tone of the hand- some dinner dresses is ve of a subdued drapery in rich material, be- ing 80 arranged over a brilliant foun- dation a8 to leave scarcely any of the latter perceptible, whereas, in fact, the bright coloring is supplied where it can | be given most artistically. A velvet in | brown, showing an embossed pine apple in its natural size, has the effect of a polonaise to the folds of its skirt, which is draped to afford glimpses of colored satin. The same i well as evident the passementaerie Jeaves that form the carried across the waist line in front of the bodice. rchased HORSE NOTES. —Dantel Swigert’s horse Kingeraft that died on passage from England was well insured, — Tremont and Den All, the best of Virgil's get on the turf in 1886, won beiween them $59,000, —Dr. Lobb has recently purchased an 8-year-old black gelding from Can- ada with a record of 2 594. John 8. Campbell's horses won seven cf the first twelve races at the New Or- leans’ winter running meeting, —Miss Nellie Burke, the famous equestrienne, 18 at New Orleans with a string of twelve horees, five or six of —R. 8. lore, of Philadelphia, has purchased from J. N, Wilson, of Eas- Bird, by Major Miller, dam by Kemble Jackson. —FEd. Garrison, the famous young jockey, has settled down for the winter at his home, at Parkville, and will not join Captain Brown's stable al Mobile until March 1. ~The Driving Club of New York will probably take a three years’ lease no likeiihood of the property being di- vided by streets within that time. —Major Leavett says he expects LO give J, H. Gould {trotting record, 2.281) and Bessie M, (pacing Ie ord, 2.16%) a fast mile to pole next spring. He claims that they can go weh gether, 1 WO $s Wa Silvio, Jupin and in stakes during 1586, sons of by 1K. E. Roberts, of Georgelowa, 18s the only son of Lry. —Johnny Campbell says that he does pot intend to take Jim Gray through not take up the on of Ten DBroeck until spring, find will not start him until he reaches the East. —During the last four years the get of the English horse Hermit have wou: 883, £30,801; 1884, £20,236; 1885, £30,- hy., Silvio in this coun- just £350 short of that by which Bend Or topped him this season. —W. H. Wilson, of Abdaliah Park, bas sold to D. W, Woodmansee, of Midway Park, SL Paul, Minn, the ch. f. Minnie Winnie, foaled 1884 record 2.50, by Simmons, —W,. H. Fearing, of the Newminste Stud, Johnstown, N. J., bas sold to Mr. Pierre Lorillard, Jr., the chestnut filly Golden Rod, foaled IBS5, by imp. Hurrah—La Gloria, by Lever, Goiden Rod was the original name of Mr, Cor- rigan’s noted mare Modesty. Bel. the 2.241 four-year-old stallion, by Electioneer, recently boughs from Palo Alto Stock Farm by H 5 $10,000, will remain in Marvin's care next season. Since the coll's re- turn to California he trotted a quarter in 32 seconds, syved {1 WiiLii ~The Futurity Stakes of 1880 of the Coney Island Jockey Cl which closes for entries for mares recently, promises to egnal the expeclations of ts projectors, At last accounts it i 258 nominations. J. gin, of California, bas thus the most liberal subscriber, named fifty-four mares; A. thirty-five; W. IL. Scott, i Baldwin, thirteen. Hh 1ad B. Hag- far been having J. Cassatt, teen: E. J. —The New England Association of Trotting and Pacing Horse Breeders held a meeting at Boston, December 23, 1896, and elected the following of of Boston; Vice President, Hon. George B. Loring, of Massachusetls; Colonel John C. Clarke, of New Hampshire; C. H. Nelson of Maine; H. J. Calls, of Vermont, and Henry Ball. Jr, of Rhode Island; Secretary, S, W- Parlin; Treasurer, J. R. Graham. —.P. 8. Talbert, Lexington, Ky,, has made the following sales: Silver Mine, yearling b, ¢.. by Alcyone, dam Silver Lock, by Mambrino Chief, for $3500, and Oawood, weaning blk. ¢., by Wedgewood, dam Roxana, by George Wilkes. to J. S. Clark, New DBruus- wick, N. J.. for $1000; Quartermaster, 3 years, br. ¢., by Alcyone, dam Qui Vive, by Sentinel, to Rundle & White, Danbury, Conn., for $3000. Astrione, 3 years, bik. f., by Alcyone, dam Jessie Pepper, by Mambrino Chief, to L. J. Rose, San Gabriel, Cal, for $2500; weanling b, c¢., by Baron Wilkes, dam Alma Mater, by Mambrino Patchen, to Lee, Mass, for $2500; S.year-old b. 1., by Mambrino Patchen, to W. HH. Wilson, Cynthiana, Ky., for $1000; Celeste, 3 years, b. f., by Alcy- one, dam by Neil Robinson, to William Hawson, Almont, Can., for $1000; yearling b. ¢., by King Rene, dam by jes in Michigan for $5000, ~The past season has been an off one for Chicago, and there have been but three horses who have distinguished themselves as public performers. The bay mare Opal, 2.24, by Jay Gould, owned by N. S. Jones, and driven by John Kelly, started eight Limes and was first three times. Starting without a record, she finished (he season with a record of 2.24. The gray stallion Moody, 2,184, by Swigert, owned by Dan Brown. and driven by Lewis Fay, faced the starter fourteen times and won first t times, reducing lus record from 2.23} to 2,18}. ‘The chestnut gelding Cuarlie Boy, 2.20}, owned by F. T. Berry and driven by John Atkin. son, has eighteen maces to his eredit out of twenty-two starts, and chopped off hav started the season Eo 2 A i i
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers