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-
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