a womimme— Ss Wao Aro Changed! 2 1 We feel our love has long grown col And yet wedare not own That, day by day, a silent change Has o'er our spirits grown. We see it, though our eyes the whib Are blinded Ly our tears; With words of former tenderness Woe strive to mook our fears, But we are changed. We are not sus, As we were once of old. Oh, would to God that we had dled Before our love grew cold | We've struggled hard against our ‘ate, Our hearts still warm to keep, As wayworn men strive with the old That numba them into sieep. We have uot let one unkind word The bitter truth reveal— The world knows not, must never know W hat both of us now feel, That we are changed, Wearen As we were once of old. Oh, would to God that we had die Before our love grew cold ! ne. Boum, like the felon bound of yo Toto the lifeless clay, Linked to a love long dead, that s:0¥ Fach moment more decay, In secret we must hug our bonds. Till death will set us free, I weep, my wife, to think that 1 tave forged these chains for theo; For we are changed. We are not one, As we were once of old. Ob, would to God that we had d Before our love grew cold! RC I TR “UNDER THE STUM or; Samson Kepper's Court ip Any shrewd observer of men or man- per remained a bachelor at two score twenty, was looked upon as a prize by all the marriageable young ladles. Possessed of good looks, an excellent comfortable house, a pair of whlskers, have taken his pick among the maidens of Grassborough. He was a him aeseribed ashaving a distirguished fondness for gooseberry pis, chickens and fine horses, tray an inclination for connudial hap- plness,. He commenced paring his addresses to the amiable Miss Lucretia Lane, a worthy and pretty lady, who, it was said by everybody, excejt a mul- titude of bLeauties—would make him an excellent wife. Now, Sams waited on Lucretia, courted her,is Crassbor- ough gossips termed It, for fire years; and it was well known to Samson’s friends that more than fifty times he was on the point of offeri hand. But damson did not an offer for reasons, whicl ough would have been gla I'ne lanes lost patience w of the house of Kepper. Lu said was at his disposal; bu! see no sense in requiring ye up his mind to marry. The Ww sertain hints designed approach of lazy-paced I which had the effect of ing shower-bath on the ardor of ep- per. He avoided Lucretia’s ty for a month. At the end of time, convinced of the impossibili ving without her, he called on Sun- day night, as in former da; I'o his astonishment he found her ipying the small parlor in compan Brooks, a wealthy widower thirty- five. Mr. Brooks and Lucietia sat together in the chimney corner, and Samson sank into a seat opposite, ke such ‘assbor- Know. we heir 1, they could ake the unsteady voice. “Nay,” said Lucretia, changing eolor rapidly, and looking at the back log. It was snowing and b ing out- side at a frightful rate. T! widower settled his chin in his neck a pompons_air,and tried to cerned, Lucretiacoughed, ar blushed, and moved about In her air, as if she had eaten something h had distressed her, while M Lepper glanced uneasily from his door, and played with his any timid young man, Whe to go to a champagne sup penetrate the sanclimoniou a Quaker meeting by mista “Hem! thought I'd call how you were,’ observe after a long pause, turning and grossing his limbs with to appear al ease. “Thank yous Hope you v. come again,” faltered Lucretia, And not another word was spoken for half an bour. At length Samson, after a series of preliminary hems, and anxious glances at his hat, summoned courage to say: “*iuess 1'll be going,” with a move- ment toward the door. “What's your hurry?” asked Lucre- tia in a feeble tone, “Nothing in particuls:— ess though I had better be gomg. Go | night.” “Good night, if you mus’ go.” Stumbling over a chal in his en- deavor to appear uncon rned, and buttoning the right hand appel of his surtout to the left hand t.:sel of his dress coat, an error whieh "eo did not discover until he had reach! Lhe snow banks before his own door, Mr, Kep- per took his departure, lea ng Lucre- tia with the widower, in a regular courting attitude, “Nice young man,” observed the widower, glancing at Lucretia and laying his arm on the back of ber chalr, “Nay,” said Lucretia, topping to put a stick on the andirons “Used to be pretty neighborly, 1 understand.” “Yes—yes—quite!” Lucretia was crimson, “Nothing but a friend, I suppose?” **Oh, no.” “Hem! and if I should that is, if any one else should wish to mary you, he wouldn’t be in the way.” “1 don’t know why he should,” ibs like ending should mee of AmMson, is chair tempt ET A ertemtom ee The clasp of the arm about her walst tightened. “Ah! hem! and if—it was me?"’ «You? hal there's no danger of that, I nam, said Lucretia, trying to laugh ito Another movement of the arm and Lucretia’s head lay on the widower’s shoulder. “Bat I am Mr. Brooks, “Oh, 1 didn’t suppose—if that’s the case,’ stammered Lucretia, pretending to struggle a little, This afforded the widower an opportunity for clasping her walst still closer. He laid his whiskers against her wet cheeks, to the eminent peril of Samson Kepper’s hap- piness, and the smoothness of his own Sunday dickey, then you might have heard a kiss, ' “There! nowosay you'll have me,” exclaimed the widower, “If you--want me to.” Lucretia thought of Samson and | hesitated. Samson was certainly a desirable man, but Lucretia | twenty-three, It would be sweet- 10 | become Mrs, Kepper, but it was awful | to think of becoming an old mald. The | widower’s affection at that moment | struck Lucretia as a happy medium— a comfortable certainty, although it | promised no uncommon happiness; and i she murmured: oI will,” And this is the manner So" in earnest,” exclaimed in which | caution and indecision, lost the fairest her for live vears. Mr. Brooks took his new bride home, to fill the place of mother to his three children, and Samson, who had a mar- | ried sister with a small family, in poor | with them an old bachelor to the end | of his days. On losing Lucretia, Sansom, | spair, had made a vow never to marry. Yow. ing Lucretia the mother of three chil- more. Samson was fond of children, and Lucretia was more of an angel in his eves than ever. He visited her, car- ried her children presents, and did all | in his power to console her in her afflc- | tion, and the youmg widow dried her | tears, planted some flowers on the grave | of the lamented Brooks, and smiled | encouragingly on her old lover, People | began to talk again. “Samson and Lucretia are going to | gossips, But two years passed; every- | body was puzzled; and the fact that was a mystery. To marry the nother | of six children, and take her and them | home—for Samuel could never make up his mind to settle on the Brooks of his sister's family. Besides, Jane, his sister, and Mr. Bunker, his brother- lute mind that chided him for assum- ing such respons.bility as the matrimo- nial station occupied by the late la mented Brooks. “I should like to see you married and happy, dear,” Mrs. Bunker would say, ‘for notwithstanding ali our affec- tion for you, I am afraid you are sometimes dissatisfied with your present mode of living.” “Oh, 1 assure you again, sister," Samson would reply, **1 appreciate your { attentions,” “And 1 am sure we delight in doing for you. Still, if you desire 10 marry. take somebody worthy of you, and | nothing would please me better. But | Mrs, Brooks, a widow with six chil dren! 1 beg of you, if you value your | peace of mind, don’t marry another {man’s family. Look for somebody else.” | vice, for she well knew he would never marry any one but Lucretia. son hesitated. Although he sighed for the widow, he felt that he would be ungrateful to marry against the wishes | of those who did everything to make him happy; who were so kind and dis. interested in furnishing to his comfort; and who thought so little of the pro- | perty which would fall to them, pro- | werp perfectly willing—amost anxious | that he should marry | widow with six children. Such was the state of affairs, when | whish the wind had torn up by the | roots, not far from the house. Having thrown his vest on the ground, and rolled up his sleeves, Mr. Kepper com- menced chopping off the log, about eight feet from the butt, 1t was a hard job, Samson afterwards said, and as the sun came pouring down upon him, he was quite exbausted anfl heated. Leav- ing the main portion of the trunk hanging by a chip, in order that blocks might be placed under it to keep it from falling to the ground, Samson stuck his axe into the log and began to look for a shady place to sit down. Near by stood a stately basswood from the roots of which sprung up a luxu- riant growth of shoots, surrounding the parent tree. Reflecting that these would not only shade hum from the sun, but also serve as a protection the swarm of flies, he deter- mined to find a resting place among them. Mr. Kepper found a comfort able spot where he was quite concealed from the sun and flies, and there lean. the ancient basswood, 1n- in which a nice i to be crushed under an avalanche of roots and clay. Mr, Kepper, however, sat still, and was soen lost in another revere, from which he was aroused by an extraordinary occurrence. It after- wards appeared that Joe Symes, the hired man, who was at work repairing a fence near by, had twice or thrice cast his eyes in the direction of the fallen tree, Hearing the sound of Mr. Kepper's axe no longer, Joe aw the worthy man in the hole, under the roots of the tree; and In a little while, start. led by a smothered concussion, he looked again, and bebeld the stump turned back. At that moment Mr. Bunker ap- peared, and inquired for his brother-in- law. Both looked in the direction of the stump, and seeing nobody, Joe suddenly exclaimed: “I bet Kepper has been ketched under the butt of that tree,” Mr. Bunker thought that it could not be; but Joe assuring him that the last time he saw Mr. Kepper he was in the hole, and they both ran to the spot. “Good Lord!’ cried Symes, ‘‘here’s his jacket-—there’s his axel vow, he’s a goner.,”’ This was the exclamation which aroused Mr. Kepper. He looked through the bushes and held his breath, “Impossible!” said Mr. Bunker, ner- | vously. *‘Can’t be.” “Where's Mr. Kepper, then?’ de- | ‘Why, he’s walked off, I suppose,’ | “Walked off 1n a bilin’ sun without his hat? look here.”’ i Symes picked up the old bachelor’s | close by the basswood bushes, i i { i i i i “| deglare, that loo Bunker. Mr, Kepper was on the very point of | showing himself, to end the joke and | have a grand laugh over it, when Mr, | ks bad,’ muttered | Now Mr. Kepper could not have | such a state of things looked | He himself would be deeply | impressed with the conviction that it under the | stump.’”’ Yet the manner in which | Mr. Bunker made the remark, accord- | ing to Kepper's way of thinking, | To be brief, Mr. | i i { not conceal, and Mr. Kepper | ! “Looks bad—guess it does!” eried | Symes, and he swore by George that if | Kepper wasn’t under the sump, he was, | kind of a duty they owed | “Dig him out! ‘twould take an age,” muttered Mr. Brunker, rubbing his “Tell you what, Joe, if he’s there tie digging would save a man’s fe. | is there before we begin, “There! to be sure he's there, bring the shovels” exclaimed I'll Joe, i | i i the world.” “Don’t you think the oxen could pull the stump over? I'll bring them and | try it” “The dogs,’ muttered Kepper, giv- ing way to the momentary fancy that he was in the bad predicament sup- | "1 never | Why don’t you go to dig- ging. junker walked around the | and finally exclaimed, loud enough for | hits brother to hear: Buried sure as guns! Ho! here comes Jane. 1 wonder what she'll say?” i Mrs. Bunker came running to the | ¢ state of excitement, “Dear me,’ she gasped, “Joe says Sam is under the stump.” “Well,” said Bunker, “1 s’pose he | *3'pose he is?" groaned Samson. “Oh, what shall we do?” cried Jane, greatly agitated, sgracious how horrid. | Can be be got out? How long has he been there?” “Long enough,” whispered Bunker, “The old devil must be stone dead. Of course ita horrid, but then we ought to be thankful that he has made his will.” “Oh, yes; Samson was a cautious man. He was prepared,” cried Jane. “And if he was to be sanatehed from us, we ought to be thankful that he didn’t marry first.” “Well, he was a good boy, have his faults.” “Was 1?" growled Samson in the bushes. “The widow Brooks may go to the devil now,” said Bunker, with a grim smile and a long breath, “Oh, she may, eh?" thought Sam- son, “That odious match isoff my mind," sighed Jane. “Well, its probably for the best, He couldn’t have lived many years, you know,” “Couldn't! we'll see, n. “And its consolation,” added Jane more ly, “to know that, although we have lost Sa our children are provided for, re comes Joe with the oxen. My poor dear brother. Oh, save him, Joseph. He may still be alive.” * Possibly,’ whispered Samson, hoarsely. fh. , Banker, help me with this log ¢ round the top of the stump,” “Fudge! they can't pull it” said Bunker, if he did " muttered Sam- 80 “My will, 1 know it,” said Samson, walking off. “But where are you going?” asked the anxious Bunker. “To inform Mrs, Brooks that she has permission to go to the deyil."’ “My dear brother, I meant—-" “You mean to consign her to me, to be sure, You called me an old devil [ am glad my noble minded sister, that the odious mateh 18 off your mind. But it happens to be im my mind, as you supposed this cursed stump was on my body.” Jane sobbed on his neck, but Samson pushed her away. “You consoled yourself with the recollections of my will, when you thought I was dead,” he muttered, “And now that I am alive, you are inconsolable, Here, Joe Symes,”” he cried to the wandering laborer, ‘*here’s my hand. [D’ll remember you. Throw that log chain around Bunker, and shake him into the middle of next July, and you'll do me a service.” And he strode away, leaving Jane weeping hysterically, Bunker gnawing his nether lip, and Joe Symes laughing =o that he could hardly stand. Samson Kepper never entered his own house again, until the Bunkers had moved out of it, which event was | of speedy occurrence, and then he did | widow, now Mrs. Kepper, and all the | little Brookses. And now Samson was very happy, for he had but three things to repent—that he had not married Lucretia fifteen years ago, instead of allowing another to enjoy her freshest bloom—and that the years during which he had been feeding the selfishness of married life,—and that all the dear | pers, - wl -_—— - WHAT FINERY COSTS, Filius Unfitness to Becoms a Wife, Said I to a much experienced I mean those dresses that are actually required by a girl who intends to go everywhere and look smart?"’ “Well,” sald mamma, ‘‘I've not been extravagant with my girls, yet you know they have all been well | dressed. This is the outftt I allow for | 4 first winter, and I find the more at- ! tractive it is the sooner the girl gels A cloth costume for the street, tailor made, with a toque to match, $125. A silk and woolen dress for church and afternoon wear, in- cluding a jacket, $140, and bonnet, A reception dress of dark velvet, yith hat and muff, An evening costume of black to match, $200. A tea gown, ww s wish “Good heavens, vou haven't tioned ball gowns yet?” “I'm just going to. men- A simple gauze A more And a third for very smart occasions, 8175 Two or three pairs of walking shoes at $11, and say four pairs of | slippers at $7. Then gloves of all and a variety of handkerchiefs, silk stockings, fans, ribbons, etc., which | are dear to the girl’s heart.” “Bat do you mean to say that all! these things are necessary?’ “[ should be sorry to think that one “(Jan you give me any idea of what | remark, “Easily. a hundred. First, 2000 cards at $1.50 Johnson charges $3 a | He charges | and other services at the door, which sum also includes the use of an awning | The | some people attempt Lo serve an elabo- rate menu.'’ During all this talk I had been jol- self confronted with a pretly array of | figures, thus: i Cloth costum®. ........ «es Silk and woolen costume and bonnets ......... cov Velvet reception dress complete. Evening costume TEAROWN . «. « ccas sesssrnnsn anes A simple gauze dinner dress A satin and tulle ball dress. ... Astill better One. .....coveenevss Sealskin sacque Gloves, stockings, shoes, etc... Sortie de bal Tea, everything included. ....... $125 | 158 200 200 0 00 125 175 200 100 190 150 ——— aw . “This is what I make it,” said I, handing ever the slip of paper. “Is that w it actually costs to bring out a girl?” “Rather under than over the rule. And, mind you, this is only a begin. ning-—the cost of the first 7 “Well, good-day, Mrs. antifal So sorry your daughter is not at home. I had no idea she Was sO expensive.’ “Had you.” Binding the Ancient Liar, Not long since a gentleman then a chorister of a certain choir in Vermont, wrote to a pnblisher in Boston for a copy of that popular singing book entitled: “The Ancient Lyre.” In his commu- nication he used the following language: d me the Ancient Liar well The publisher replied: *‘My r—I do not doubt but that the he who has been ‘a liar ,) has been, and still tit will be Ss Simoa to HORSE NOTES. - A mile racetrack 1s 10 be built at Niagara Falls. Bob Johnson, shipped to Germany. —Pancoast will be given a chance to beat 2.20 next season. —P, F. Foy has decided to sell Dick Organ; record, 2.24}. —There are 303 entries for the Eng- lish Eclipse stakes for 1887, — Dan PAffer gave John Murphy his first lessons in horsemanship. ~J. 1. Case has purchased one-fourth interest in the stallion Saltan for $5000, —The horses of the Locust stable will hereafter be entered in the name of Mrs, George L. Lorillard. 2.22}, has been of 1880 has received 810 pominations, and a few more ave expected, his own. —Robert Steel has purchased from Moor, —James Golden, of Boston, has sold to James Humes, of Merrimac, Mass. , the brown gelding Bijou, 2.26%, by Farmer's Glory. —Robert Steel Thought, b. m., bas sold to J. B. Barnaby, of Providence, R. 1., who will drive her on the road. —Shamrock, by Buccaneer, Fernleaf, by Flaxtail, the coit that December 18, —Cremorne, b. ¢., foaled 1885, by Great Tom, dam Charity, and the ch. Goldwire, foaled 1885, by Great Alaska, have dled, the S. Brown, owner Troubadour. —The Dwyer Brothers have teilly for price was $15,000 for the running qual- ities of the filly. som, dam Hecla, and Mr. Holton’s bay filly by B are matched to trot mile heats, three in five, owners to drive, for a supper for ten persons at §10a plate at Baltimore, in the spring. —Grand Sentinel, stallion in Michigan,” accounted died at poisoning. His owners had twice refused Lim for $20,000, —In England, during the year 1884, 238 colts and 232 fillies, in all 470 foals, 125 stallions, sold for The 8 coltsfand 7 fillies by r 3 in = $ a 11 LO sell 900, an average oi $5126. The second highest average was reached by Pet- rarch, by Lord Clifden, but only two The 5 colts and 6 files by Her- son of Newminster, Twelve of the get of Foxball, 7 mit, hammer, and the average price Was John T. Stewart, of Council Bluffs, the ch. 8. Panique, fodled 1881, by Alarm, dam Maggie B. B., the dam of Harold, Iroquois, ele., bY Imp. Aus- tralian. Muggie B. B., Panique’s dam, produced Iroquois, the only American won the English Derby, and the only horse that ever lived that won the three events—the Prince of Wales stakes, the Derby and St. Leger. Panique stands 15} hands, ood body, neat head, neck and ear, and excellent back, hip and loins. He was a winner at 2 years old, and won both the With. ers and Belmont stakes at Jerome Park, $14,000, —Fd. Corrigan, in a letter to the Wilkes® Spirit, says: “1 always prefer running for stakes in preference to purse races. The sort of stakes that I said I would not enter and run for ave those $400 and $500 stakes, where they re- quire owners to pay $50 to start, or $25 forfeit, ete. sort of stakes 1 do object, and will not enter for them, That reminds me 100 much of when I had trotters and paid ten per cent. to enter, and some places it required six to fill and four to start, or no race. The first horse would get purse, and perhaps his owner would have to his share ta the mob, they used to call it the ‘gang’-—to keep from being run over or fouled In some way. At that time 1 used to drive my own horses, and know just how it was, Well, I qui that 1 won to do better; but if I because they give good, is » little steep. 1 pearly as many stake each year, and any- either East or FASHION NOTES, —Velling and varous laces are used for young lad.es’ dancing dresses. They are invariably made to clear the floor, snd are considered far Lore stylish and appropriate than trains for the ball-room. ~The fashion of veiling flowers in tulle has now spread to jewels. Pearl and precious stone neckiels are to be worn under the guimpes or chemiseties of high dresses, and for OW bodices the necklaces will be veiled in tulle. — Another dress had a front made of a single flounce of point lace over a front of sain, with body and long train of gold brocade. In more simple dresses there are very artistic designs in plain faille or satin, with overdress of plain or fancy tulle, very desirable —tH0 6 charming, inexpensive dresses are made of delicate tints of cashmere, veiling and various thin fab- themselves, Some pretity combinations all the fashionable shades, — Young ladies wear delicale crapes crepe de chine, with lace, for There are also some with lace-trimmed skirts and basques of bright colored-plush, with bead gar- niture. A pretty dress of this sori Las a skirt of pink and white striped is particular becoming to a celica blonde with a rose-leaf complexios ~— Bridesmaids usually wear transparent material mounted on a silk satin foundation, Large-weshed silk net or tulle, with chenilis pom- pons, or gauze, is a favorite for these When colo intro- is added | to white, as white and gold, while and ° Suede, white with brown, e€ic.; the BOTA 5 beading, yellow velvet gashes, yellow | gloves accompany such toilets. The new Suede passementeries, with tan Sueds gloves, Suede shoes and stock- ings £0 match, are very stylish and are worn with gauze dresses that have | scalloped hand-embroidered flounces. —Thehodice of the bridal dress Is | frequently made with a waisteoat of | erossed folds, which may ba gauze or point d’esprit net or silk mull, the high-standing collar matching the | folds. The long, full twain hangs | straight from the bouffant tournure, | the panel is either of two or three lace flounces or of pearl-embroidered | galloon, or of clusters of pearl flower | ornaments; the skirt Is edged with a | pinked-out ruche of either silk or satin. A single spray of pztural orange flow- | ers is now worn in the hair, and the | face, is fastened with some ornaments; real blossoms are also worn on the bodice. The gloves are undressed white kid, and the shoes are either white kid | or the material of the dress; ivory white satin or colored silk, with a satin lustre, are the chioce materials, | Although white velvet and white bro- | cade are occasionally introduced as panels or to show the petticoat, the rich, simple web of one material is pre- | ferred. — In children’s millinery there is an | endless variety. New shapes do pot | seem to have crowded out the old; but the old are all here, with the new ones | added. One of the most welcome re- | turns is the Normandy bounet, which wore out its welcome two or three sea- | sons ago. It 1s a far more sensible | covering for a little child’s head than a | hat or bonnet which would leave the | ears and face entirely unprotected from | the intense cold of this climate, and, | made as they are of the softest plush [ and velvet, they are as elegant as the | most exacting could desire. A beauti | ful creation 18 of golden-brown plush, { with a fall plaited front to shade the | face. This is filled in with frills of soft | white lace, with an intermingling of | pale-pink ribbon. The crown of the | bonnet 18 very full and high. On the | outside, brown ribbon of a shade cor- | responding with the plush is massed | ARaInst the front of the crown. Six | dollars was the modest price mentioned | by the young saleswoman when the | writer inquired the price of the little | gem. | Jt would seem that the extreme point of magnificence had been reached In evening dresses. They show marvels of handiwork in beads and embroidery, in riehness of materials and in the elaborate garnitures that emi lish them. There are pew designs in em- broidered fronts for full dress toilets. These show beads of rook crystal, gold and irridescent tints, and are wrought with infinite pains and skill, Sowers shaded in the various colors in almost perfect likeness of natural growth. New fabrics for even- : FE »§ Esis af $e ik i
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers