My Lost Self
You wonder why my eyes are dim with
tears,
Then, shall I tell you? Long and long
ago—-
Bo loug ngo! years piled on weary yoars—
Thove was alittle child 1 used to know.
And every day and night aud every hour
We took lite's gift together, sun and
shale,
And saw the rainbow shining through the
shower,
And heard the talk that butldiog robins
made.
We thought the world was ours to come
and go
About its Lighways, finding treasures
are;
Wa thought 211 heaven was ours, and fash-
ioned so
Grand castle after castle high in air!
Ah! now I find the world a desert wild;
No room in all the sky for tower of mine
But most of all I miss my comrade child,
Her brave, true courage and her faith
divine,
Dead? Clanged?
only know
That sometimes from the mirror's shin-
ing space
In my own featores, worn and faded so,
1 catch a ghimmer of the bright lost face.
I know not, sweet, 1
MADE A PRISONER.
“Welcome home, Alf, my dear boy!”
My brother grasped my hand as he said
these words, and did not release it un-
til he had led me up the tune-honored
steps of our ancestral home, and begun
to assist me to unfasten my great-coat.
“+ And how are you, my lad?” he con- |
tinued, without giving me time to reply |
to his hearty reception. **Why, you |
look as brown as a berry, and certainly
none the worse for your fifteen years’
nabobism.”’
I bad just returned to England after
having endured the trying cliinate of |
India for fifteen years, and had hasten- |
ed at once to the old mansion where I |
had been born, and which was, at the i
time of my story, in possession of my |
eldest brother, Stephen. Our family |
bears the hovored name of Stanley, and |
are a younger branch of the noble house |
of that name. They had been settled |
for many centuries in a wild part of |
the Northwest Riding of Yorkshire, |
upon an estate that was very beautiful |
from an artistic point of view, but very |
poor from a pecuniary aspect; and con-
sequently many generations of younger |
sons had been forced to push their way |
in the world, as I had.
My half-brother Stephen was twelve |
vears older than I was, and had always i
regarded me with an affection more |
fuiheriy than brotherly, delighting in
giving we pet names; and even when |
years of foreign travel had tanned my |
originally fair complexion and silvered |
my hair, I was amused by the way In
which, upon this our first meeting after
many years. he ignored the present, and |
kept up the old manners and sayings
which had characterized him when I
was a boy at Stauley House, i
A substantial repast was provided for |
me in the old dining-room, and after I |
had done justice to it, and the gray-
headed butler {who had ofliciated in my
father’s time) had brought in the wine,
Stephen and I were soon in deep con- |
versation on topics peculiarly interest |
ing to me,
**So you think the old place is chang-
ed, do you?” he said, musingly, in re- |
ply to a remark of mine, *‘1’'ve not |
noticed it; but it may be, it may be.”
“Indeed it is, Stephen,” I said. *'I |
hink you are allowing the best part of |
the house to fall into decay. Now in |
my fathers's day the west wing—’
“Hush!” he cried, interrupting me |
with a startled look in his eyes,
“Don't mention that, for Heaven's |
sake! She loved those rooms.” :
In a moment I liad grasped his hand, |
“Forgive me, Stephen!’ I exclaimed, |
as the terrible pas’ flashed across my |
mind, and I saw 1 had Opened an old
wound. §
“There is nothing to forgive, Alf, |
my bovy’’ be said, looking nto the!
bright fire with an anxious, troubled
face. “You could not know of all the |
norror of that terrible time.’
Indeed i could not, for I was but a |
boy when | went to India. Neverthe-
less, I had heard sufficient while there |
of wy brother's unfortunate marriage
to convince me of the pain which any
allusion to it would give him. 1 haa
heard how he had married a beautiful
girl, and how fondly he had loved her,
and bow, after three months of married
life, she had deserted him, With whom
or whither she had gone no one knew;
and Lier name had become almost a for-
gotten sound at Stanley House,
I changed the subject of the conver
gation, and tried to make him forget
the unpleasant recollections which my
words had raised, by relating some of
the most amusing adventures that had
befallen me whilst abroad; but, though
he listened with interest, and seemed to
try to shaky» off the gloom that had set.
tied upon Lis wind, he never quite re-
gained his wonted cheertulness during
the remainder of the evening, and re-
tired carly to rest, excusing himself by
saying it was his custom.
Among the evils of civilization which
my somewhat stormy passage through
Jite had taught me, that of late hours
was Ly no meaus the smallest, and
knowing that it would be useless for
me to turn into bed before midnight, 1
put on my hat lit a cigar, and strolled
into the grounds to get a breath of
fresh air.
It was a fine summer night, The
moon was shining brightly from a clear,
starlit ky. I knew every foot of the
ground, and visited many of my favor-
ite haunts, and it must have been after
Seven o'clock before 1 to think
returning. cigar gone out
when I Dg od the bottom of the long
avenue of tall and beginning to
feel chilly I somewhat quickly
towards the house, crunching the gravel
beneath my feet as I went. As I drew
near the front door, my attention was
attracted by the sudden ubiafie of
a man bear a lantere, bad evi-
ed to speak to lnm, when, to my great
astonishment, after glancing at me
eagerly, he turned away without any
sign of recognition, and hurried rapldly
in the direction of the deserted west
wing. My first intention was to call
out after him, but upon second thought
I “decided not to do so, for I wus per-
suaded that he had seen and recogniz-
ed me, and that perhaps my company
might not be desired, so 1 entered the
house, and was soon in bed and asleep,
The next morning when I came
down stalrs, I found Stephen already in
the breakfast-room awaiting me. He
was standing with his back to the fire.
“Good-morning, Alf,’? he said, smil-
ing in his cheerful manner. *‘You are
an exception to most lovers of late
hours, I see.”
“Yes,” I replied, ‘I sleep soundly,
and therefore rise early.”
“You'll find the nights long and dull
here, I'm afraid, after the excitement
to which you've been accustomed,”
“Oh, no, not at all,” Isaid, “There
are 80 many old associations about
Stanley House that 1 think I shall never
be dull here, Now, last night 1 stroll-
ed through the grounds, and did not re-
turn until close upon midnight,”
“These late hours seem to me tobe a
very stupid custom, and one which I
could never cultivate. 1 think, my
boy, that you would have been much
wiser if you bad turned in when I did
and slept until morning.’
“Why, I dare say 1 was in bed be-
fore you,”
Yn
“In bed betore me? he repeated
s
seem to see not, Give me ons word,
that I may hefir you as the satne Ste-
phen that you were before this fearful
malady overtook you, Let me again
sed the light of heaven and the faces of
my friends!’
I crept softly nearer the door, and
got into a position from which I could
partly distinguish the occupants of the
room and their surroundings.
It was a handsomely furnished apart-
ment, half boudoir, half drawing-room,
Every luxury which the heart or brain
could desire was scattered about in end-
less variety. In the centre of the floor
stood my brother, but with such a
strange, wicked, frenzied expression on
his face, that, had I not known his
teatures well, 1 should have thought
that it could not be he. Before him
knelt a woman whose face was buried
in her hands.
**You shall not leave me thus!” she
cried, as he turned to go, **I must, I
will have my liberty, 1 tell you!”
She had started to her feet and ran to
the door. But Stephen, still without
any chapge in his fixed countenance,
seized her roughly by the arm, and
pushed her from him and walked quick-
ly toward the door.
I hardly had time to draw back into
the shadow of a curtain when he enter-
ed the room where I was and walked
quickly across to the landing, closing
this last door after him and locking it.
Thus I found myself also a prisoner, 1
beard his footsteps descend the stalrs;
and then the sound died slowly away.
For a few moments 1 stood puzzled
with a puzzled look, **What do you
mean?’
less you finish your rest and rise before
twelve I, M."
**You must be joking, AIL,’ he said,
incredulously. “I was in bed by nine
o'clock, and was up this morning at
six.”
“Surely you must be mistaken,
Stephen, for I met you or your double
at the top of the avenue last night as I
was returning to the house,”
‘Impossible!’
“Indeed, I did. I would have spok-
en to you, but you hurried away, and |
I thought you had seen me and wished
to be alone.”
“It could not have
never out of the
o'clock.”
I was |
seven |
been
house
me,
alter
All that day I was haunted by the
recollection of what I had seen ou the |
previous night, and of my brother's |
denial, I had heard singuiar stories of
had left England, and could not help |
3 i
wondering if Le was still addicted to |
seen him walk in bis sleep, andas 1 had |
only half believed the tales I had been |
told, I was not inclined to accept this i
lem. However, I was determined to
solve the mystery.
As soon as all were in bed, therefore,
on the night following that on which I |
had arrived at Stanley Ilfouse, I again |
went out into the grounds, determined,
if 1 met the mysterious person whom I
bad seen on the previous night, to fol- |
low him and see who he was, The
moon was shining fitfully from behind
the stormy clouds that now and then
stirred and whistled in the branches of |
the trees, I paced. upon: the grass be-
peath the tall elms that pointed their
foliaged branches to the frowning sky.
bouse, which bad been so long shut up |
and left to fall into decay. So great, |
indeed, had been my brother's horror |
lest any portion of it should be touched |
by human foot, that not only had he |
boarded up every window and door that |
communicated without, but he |
had also caused to be bunit up every
door that had given access from it to |
the main body of the building.
My head was full of thoughts of my
boyhood as 1 walked to and fro. I re-
membered many happy days spent in
those rooms, for they had been my
father’s favorites; and it was not with-
I looked at
them, deserted and ruinous, simply be- |
caus, a false woman had also loved
them.
I had waited until past midnight, |
up my quest as
hopeless, and was about to relurn to |
the damp gravel walk approaching, 11
drew back into the thadow of the trees,
and peered forth into the darkness, for
at that moment a thick cloud shut out
the light of the moon. Nearer and
nearer the footsteps came, and at
length the glimmering of a lantern
shone out on the darkness, The man
bearing the light went up to the princi-
pal enirance of the west wing, where
he paused, and a moment later 1 heard
a key shoot back the heavy lock; the
next instant the light and the man
disappered as the door closed behind
thew. >
Animated and excited, I stepped
quickly but softly across the gravel
walk to the door, where for a moment
I paused and listened. A footstep was
ascending the creaking staircase, I
waited until I heard it on the second
flight before I tried the door. I found
it open, and entered softly, closing the
door behind me, Before proceeding
further, I cautiously took off my boots,
and then I asce the cold clammy
stairs that smelled of the tomb,
From the second landing there open-
ed a suite of apartments, which 1 re-
membered had been called the strong
rooms, because they were in the very
heart of the building, had few win
dows, and only the door for ingress or
egress,
The heavy oak door that opened into
these rooms I found was ajar, and a
bright light streamed out lLetween the
opening. To my great eo A
rg Bed a Wr
voices in y! t
first 1 was so amazed that I could not
distinguish a single
spoken; but as 1 became calm, and,
after dea close to the door of the
room from which the sound '
I distinctly a woman's voice in
tearful accents saying:
“Oh, if ge love me, deliver me from
this Ya have I dots that I
not loved with » true
as to what course 1 sliould pursue, I
force the massive lock, or when morn-
ing came to attract the outer world;
for, as 1 have said, the rooms were
heart of the west wing, and the few
windows which had of yore let in the
light of heaven to them had been filled
up with strong masonry.
I was aroused from my thoughts by
chamber.
Stephen had closed alter him,
ed and then entered. My tap had
the graceful form seated in a char, in
an attitude which betokened despair,
and her beautiful
heveled hatr falling in waving
about her,
“Madam!"”
my hand upon her shoulder,
pale, tearful, horror-stricken face, that
shrunk away in fear. “Who are you?
Pray do not hurt me, 1 kosow 1 am
helpless, ’'
It was some time before I could con-
vince ber that 1 wus really a friend;
tion blunted, Dy degrees, however, I
made ber understand who 1
how I had come there; and then, in an-
swer to my questions, I gleaned
history of her captivity.
When my brother married her
was & handsome girl of eighteen, and
be was verging ov middle age. For
she
and attentive. Just al
the end of that time, however, he dis
covered, accidently, several
for some days afterward hie was moody,
jealous and strange in his
One night he entered her room with
that fixed, frenzied, wicked look on his
face which she had never seen there be-
fore, but which had marred his feat.
ures, in all her interviews
since, and directed her by sigus to lol-
low Lim, a mandate which in ber terror
she readily obeyed. He conducted her
oil lamp, aud then left her, locking the
door behind him, At intervals, for
bringing food and clothing with him;
bearing himself in
manner. Al length he led her back
cation with the outer world,
had visited her almost every
ing as hie caine,
“I think shose foolish
husband, have turned his brain. 1 was
warned before I married him that he
was affected by the peculiar malady of
sleep walking, and that when under its
influence he not only lost complete con-
trol of his reason, but also seemed tw
live a double hfe, When awake he
was generous, frank and good; but
when in a sompabulent state, | was
told he was morose, jealous, wicked
in one word, insane; and that in his
waking hours be had no recollection of
what took place or what he did in this
latter state,”
Fortunately I found 1 had my pow.
der flask In my pocket, and thus was
able to set myself and my unfortunate
brother’s wife at liberty by exploding
the locks.
I took my protege to the rectory,
where the rector, who was an old col-
lege friend of mine, wus not a little
surprised to receive such visitors at so
eatly an hour,
ore returning to Stanley House I
rode on the rector’s cob to wy brother's
doctor, who lived two miles away. and
consulted him upon Stephen's sad cons
dition, He told me he was quite aware
of the facts of the case, but that he had
not for a moment thought the malady
Bad buen capable of doing so much mis.
jac or cure him,
At the doctor's request, I
lock i, ovr my hi
0’ : .
in
1
v to me, Do not
Jook at me with eves so glassy that they
we
and two hours afterwards I went out
to meet the doctor, When I met him
we proceeded to the west wing together,
but as soon as I reached the door | saw
it wus ajar—Stephen had been there be-
fore us! I hurried into the house, and
was about to run up stairs, when I
stumbled over some article at the bot.
tom, The doctor, who was following,
carried a lantern, and its light soon re-
vealed the bleeding form of my brother,
“He is dead,” sald the doctor, after
making a hasty examination of the
body, *In his frenzy he must have
dashed himself down the stairs. Poor
fellow! we have been too late to save
him!"
Five years have fled since that time,
Stanley House has been renovated, and
again holds a happy bride and vbride-
groom. A fair face looks over my
shoulder as I write, and drops a tear
upon the page, forgetting the darkness
of the past in the brightness of the
future,
IN ont
Old and New Fashioned Winters.
Old men’s memories of the weather,
which are full of the “hard winters”
of their youth or early manhood--win-
ters which far exceeded in severity
these later ones with which the present
generation are familiar—are not sup-
ported by a table which has been re-
cently published giving the dates of
the closing of the navigation of the
Hudson river since 1816, In 1845 it
was closed by the ice on the 4th of De-
cember and so remained until February
24th, 1846, But in 1876 it was closed
on December 21 and remained shut up
till March 26 th, In 1817 it was closed
on December Tih, bat in 1823 not
January Oth, In 1831 1t was again
closed on December 5th; in 1836 on
| December Tthy in 1840 on December
i 5th: in 1843, on December Oth, hut in
| 1847 it was closed on December 8th, in
| 1868 on December Oth, and in 1868 on
{ Decomber 6th, in 1885 on December
| Bth, in 1886 on December 6th, In 1825
bth,
in 1820 not till January 11th and
{it was not closed until January
{ 1857 only on January 15th.
jon November 21st, inlS827 on XNov-|
{ ember 25th, in 1835 on November 30th, |
{in 1838 on November 28th, in 1842 on |
1871 on November |
30th in 1875 and November 23d, 1880,
Between 1816 and 1851 (both
| clusive), it was closed 2% times ia
al 30 times
and
| November 28th,
De- |
in that!
{both |
f
A
1RaT
ATS 4
ber dates of closing of the latter corres- |
pond very nearly with those of the earlier |
The average date in the latter
mer, In regard to the date of opening,
which always occurred as soon as the |
engaged in commerce, it occurred five |
1819 and |
1850, and only once in corresponding
years between 18564 and |
In the former period it was de-
layed five times till April and four times |
(renerally the open
ing took place in March of both periods,
and here again the average in favor
We know of no belter gauge, eXcept-
ing the record of the thermometer |
itself if the average temperature of our |
winters for nearly threequurters of a |
century than the clesing aud opening of
Iiy the Ogures we have given
it will be seen that the “old-fashioned |
winters,’ of the sewverily of which |
wore |
not different, in degree’ from the new |
fashioned ones. There were early and |
late winters then, and early and late |
springs, but so have there been during |
i
FASHION NOTES.
- Cloaks entirely lined with fur are
worn as carriage wraps only. They
are too heavy for walking. The red-
ingote of fine cloth or velvet, edged
with fur, 18 the most fashionable of
mantles for walking or visiting.
-1n plain fabrics the most in vogue
are thick soft Thibet cloth with hairy
surface, double twilled cheviot, thick
warm Indian vigogne, double French
merino, twilled cashmere and soft
smooth ladies’ cloth. The latter Is also
much worn in narrow stripes,
Long boas are much worn, and
also small fur capes or collars, as we
call them here. Mufls are still made
quite small, The fur muff needs no
trimming: the fancy muff alone, of
velvet or plush; 1s trimmed with a
large bow of ribbon, a bird or a spray
of flowers,
— A novelty of the season is the very
perfect imitation of braiding and satin
stitch embroidery in monochrome over
cloth and cashmere, Separate pine
patterns and sprays and borders of
various widths are woven into the ma-
terial, but give the effect of being
worked by hand, Panels, skirt fronts,
plastrons and facings are wade of this
imitation braiding, and the plain ma-
terial 1s always to be had to match for
the rest of the costume,
~ Foundation skirts are unaltered in
shape, Most of them are 24 yards
wide, and furnished with one steel,
which is placed rather low, and not
tied at all tightly. Notwithstanding
the raid against pads, they are still
worn, If will take some time to con-
vince 8 woman that she looks well
without a dress improver, and at pres-
ent the appearance of the few who
have discarded Lhe appendage does not
impress one to the contrary. There
are some new tea aprons introduced;
plaiting of black lace over black or red
thin silk, with a folded watered silk
in depth, and long loops and ends
hanging at the left side. They are
often made at home, and the lace may
be purchased at most of the
shops already plaited,
—Some hats are quite earicatures,
contorted and owler;
but the generality are smart and also
graceful on the head. A large feit one,
recently worn at a race meeting, had
two slits in the turned-up brim, on one
with two Jong quill feathers
was gray with black silk trimming,
and red coral butions. The long gray
cloak, worn as a wrap, was lined with
red and gray shot silk, finished off near
bon of good width, which reached the
ground, and fell from a bandsome
double throat clasp of coral and gold.
—Green in millinery, appears to be
the winter are rich and becoming, es-
pecially to those women who have a red-
fashionable, especially for young girls,
All the trimming 1s placed on the top.
A novel siyle of trimming these hats is
boa at the back of the hal, cary it
round between the crown and brim
till it meets behind, fasten it round the
throat, and let the end fall over the
shoulder. A few high loops of velvet
are placed on one side, or well up In
front, Another pretiy felt hal has the
if that does not imply a late spring, it
can delay ilscoming without fear of |
protest or reproaci
ser—————————
Beaten for Ones.
Josh Billings arrived in San Fran- |
One of the reporiers of a daily |
paper immedistely found bilm. The
following are the odd answers fo the |
ordinary questions: i
“What do you think of our glorious
climate?”
“A hen with one chicken is always |
“What do you think of the Chinese
“Dirt is something put where it does
not belong.”
“What is your opinion of the leading
wen of our State?”
“The rooster which crows loudest
don’t always taste the best when he's
cooked,”
“What do you think of Califorma,
anyway?"
“Far-oll countries are always said to
be fall of marvels,”
“Want is your opinion of the super-
visors' report on Caninatown?"’
“The boy cried ‘Wolf!’ so often, that
when the wolf did come nobody went
10 his assistance,’
“What do you think of the One-
twelfth Act?”
“I is better to die of overeating
than to starve to death in the midst of
plenty.”
“What do you know, anyway?" end-
ed the reporter, in despair,
“Young man, it is better to conceal
one's knowledge than reveal one’s
igonoranue.
- In furs, sealdkin is as fashionable
feather ruche carried round the bro.
side, overlapping the crown.
-- Winter fashions being mow well
defined, there is no louger any hesita-
tion as to the styles wost ln vogue,
our readers,
A dinner dress is of ron gray allie
and gross grain silk of the same color,
brocaded with large purple pansies.
There 15s a foundation skut of thin
sik, which remains mvisible, A skirt
front of faills, put on almost pian
over th 8 foundation skirt, is finished
at the fuvot with a desp gray silk fringe,
headed with three narrow flounces,
slighitly gathered, about two inches
deep. A redingote of the brocaded
silk remains open to show this skirt
front, It is composed of a back piece
cut princess fashion, and forming,
from the waist, two treble plaits; the
side pieces next back are also fimished
each by an ample plait over the skirt.
The fronts and front side pieces termi.
nate at the waist under a wide scarf,
which is draped across the front and
puff, with one large lappet edged with
fringe falling down to the front of the
skirt. The fronts of the bodices open
HORSE NOTES,
~Ogsler, the young jocky who broke
a leg by being thrown from Prince
Karl at Guttenberg recently, will not
be able to ride again this winter,
‘~'L'hiis year Jerome Park will begin
on May 15, and close on Decoration
day, May 39. Brooklyn will bessin on
Saturday, June 1, and race until Juno
15, when Coney Island wiil follow.
~Wilham Hendrie, of Hamilton,
Ont., bas purchased, In Kentucky, the
b. 1a, Canoble Les, by Springbok, dam
Leena, by Ousterman, Jr. Canoble
Lee is the dam of the fast filly Banjo.
-—J. B. Haggin and Marcus Daly, of
Anaconda, Mon, have purchased,
through I’. J. Willlams, from Joh 8,
Clark the famous trotting mare Fa.
vonia, 2.15, by Wedgewood, dam
Fadette, tby Alexander's Abdaliah,
Messrs, Haggin and Daly are the
owners of an extensive horse breeding
ranch at Anaconda, and Favonia will
winter in the bracing climate of Mon-
tana,
~—At Clifton, on December 17, after
Cricket had run in the second race she
dropped dead while being unsaddied,
Cricket was a gray mare, foaled in
1882, by Duke of Magenta, out of
Felicity, by imp. Eclipse, she out of
Fidelity, by imp. Glencoe, and was a
famous sprinter in her 3 and 4 year old
form, when raced by trainer James
Rowe.
~The Philadelphia Driving Park
Association will give two trotting and
pacing meetings next year, one in May
and one in September. The associa
tion is now free from debt, and the
Board of Directors recommend that lar.
ger premiums shall be given in order
to attract the very best horses. A new
Board of officers will be elected this
month,
— At the Turf Congress held at Cin.
cinnati in December, rule was passed
making all persons ruled off the tracks
for fraud by the National and Ameri-
can Trotting Associations ineligible to
appear upon the race-courses belonging
to the Congress, The Kansas City and
Denver Overland Clubs applied for
membership,
| ==During the past twelve months ab
| the various combination sales of saddle,
road, harness and trotting bred stock,
held in Kentucky, 1304 horses passed
under the hammer for $473,557, an
average of $303.14 During the same
period of time 732 thoroughbreds sold
for $423,125, an average of $578 03,
{ The total namber of head thus sold,
including all breeds of horses, is 2006
head, and they brought the enormous
{sum ot §912,927, a grand average of
| $462.81,
— Walter Gratz’s runners are winter.
| ing at daratoga. The string the com-
| ing season will comprise the following,
| whose ages, corrected from January 1,
| 1880, will be as noted: Elkwood, 6
| years; Fletch Taylor, aged; Aasirienve,
| 5 years; Pocatello, 4 years. Wynwood,
| 4 years; Rustic, 3 years; Goneaway, 3
| years; Blue Lock (brother to Sir Dixon)
| 3 years; The Forum, 3 years; Century,
| 3 years; Farceur, 2 years; Trapeset, 2
| years; Cervantes, 2 years; Polson, 2
years; Warsaw, 2 years; Arcade, 3
| years; Maddlesione, 2 years; and Rhoda
| Gily, 2 years,
-The New Eaoglasd Association ol
| Trotting Horse Breeders at its annual
| business meeting beld at Boston, elec-
ited the following officers: President,
i B. D. Whitcomb; Vice Presidents—
| Maine, C. H. Nelson and W. C, Mar-
| shall; New Hampshire, John B. Clark
{and Warren F. Daniel; Vermont, J.
iC, Parker and W. 8S. Batley: Massa.
{chusetts, J. G. Davis and F. BR. Far-
| num; Rhode Island, James Hanley and
| Henry Ball; Counecticut, 8. H. Rane
| dell and ;. 1. Clark; Secretary, 8S. W.
| Parlin; Treasurer, J. R. Graham.
| ~The Dwyer Brothers are looking
(about for a track on wheh to have
| winter racing, Their idea is to race
| late in the antumun before the regular
{season has closed, and early in the
{spring before it has begun. They
{ argue that if Clifto» and Guitenburg
cau do so well with the slight atirac-
tions they offer, what might not a
more pretentious race-course do with
larger purses, better horses, better ac-
commodations, ele.? The track will
undoubtedly be located in New Jersey.
M., T. Dwyer, Hot Springs, Ark., will
remain until March,
—James H. Goldsmith drove thir
teen horses to their best records last
season, as follows: Atlantic, 2.211 (on
a hall-mile track); Beauly Bright,
2214: William, 2.18§; Cleon, 2.23;
Geau Smith, 2,184; Company, 2.19%;
Lever, 232}; Suverthread (pacer),
2.1564 Gillig, 2.323 May Gould, 2.24}:
Lougford, 2.214: florton, 2.856%; Bily
Stewart (pacer), 2.194, and Unle D.
(pacer), 222}. At whe Poughkeepsie
meeting he started six horses, and won
five first moneys and one second —
a larger number of successful *“‘wins”’
than was made by any driver at aay
one meeting in the Circuit of 1888,
The borses were Company, Gean
Smith, Cleon. Longford, Sidverthread
and Beauty Brigut.
— While driving In Uentral Park N.