“A Sister Swoet Endearing Name.”
A sister, sweet endearing namel
Beneath this tombstone sleeps;
A brother (who such tears could blame?)
In pensive anguish weeps.
1 saw ber when in health she was
A roft nnd matohless grace,
And sportive pleasures wanton'd o'er
The dim ples of her face,
I saw ber when the ley wind
01 sickness froze her bloom;
I saw her (bitterest strokel) consign’d
To that could cell—the tombl
Ob! when I heard the crumbling mould
Upon ber coffin fall,
And thought within she lay so cold,
And knew that worms would crawl
P'er ber sweot cheek’s once lovely dye,
1 shudder'd as { turn’d
From the sad spot, and in mine eye
The full warm tear-drop burn’d.
Again I come—again I feel
Betlection's poignant string,
Ax | retrace my sister's form,
And back ler image bring.
Herself 1 cannot—{rom the sod
She will not rise again;
3ut this sweet thought, *'She
God,"
Reileves a brother's pain.
rests with
TENNYSON.
MY HUSBAND.
1t was wilh a feeling of inward rage
I could not repress, that 1 stood dressed
before my moror the mni:ht of Mrs,
Irvington's ball, and saw reflected in its
depths the white muslin which
done duty so many times before. True,
the scarlet flowers fastened on the
shoulders and in my hair served as an
but when, a half an hour later, I stood
in ihe dressing-room of our hostess,
surrounded by gay, laughing
with shimmer of satins and silk asa
background,
feminine eyes the same dress, altered
only by a few fresh towers
make me wretched, could only peer
longingly into the future, as 1 gazed
shudder.ogly into the past, and see no
silver lining to the cloud.
peaceful home, although I could in no-
wise shut out the causes of my discon-
row.
I was thinking only of its bitter side,
wondering why
sto 4 watching the dancers in a quilt
nook, when I beard a voice say:
“Mrs. Irvington, I want you to pre-
gent wie to that little girl who just en-
tered the 1oom in white and scarlet.
Her bright eyes inlerest me. ”’
“Ah. Kate Heynolds! With pleas-
we.
ing me, she gracefully went turough
the usual formal phrase:
“Mr. Bayard—Miss Reynolds.
my oid fricud, Mr. Bayard.”
My fist wonderment at
kK ite,
his having
sayings awakened, The face Lent
upon me, seemed old
thoug.. in reality he was bt
years my genior, but his eyes burned
with the fite of eternal youth, and re-
deetned what otherwise might
been ciuHed plainuess,
It was a pleasant surprise when he
it
iv
old friends, and so it grew a matter of
course that he should come often
our house, and that we sbould look
upon him almost as a brother.
amazement was unbounded when one
lay soy father called me to him, aud
ad:
you. ™
I could not realize the
knew nothing of my own
somehow the way seemed opened for
words, I
1 could see the world, enjoy its beauties
for we; and so I gave consent, Yet in
atiou and excitement
over the
were mine at last, in keen appreciation
of the priceless gitts Mr, Bayard actual-
think of him as a lover.
chungre no whispered confidences,
greeting was the saline AS ever, save
that he now always kissed my brow,
and (hat sometimes I eaught lis glance
fixed upon me with an intepsity which
startled me. But a moment later he
would speak in his usual calm tone,
awd I would forget it,
It was with a sense only of exulia-
tion that on my bridal morn gazed with
pride tuto the wirror, which once again
reflected my form. No shabby muslin,
‘10 scarlet flowers, saw themselves here
to=day; but all was white, pure sheeny
white, ‘I'he lustrous silk trailed far
tehind me; orange blossoms gleamed in
my dark hair and fastened my bridal
veil; diamonds (his gift) shone from
sims and throat, and glistened in my
ears, 1 needed not the words of others
to kupow that I was beautiful. But
when al last it ail was over, when I
had received the congratulations of my
friends snd relatives, when my vanity
hast been fed to its full, and 1 returned
ounce again to my own room, for the
first time there burst upon me the re-
ality of what I bad done.
My traveliyg dress lay upon the bed,
wy trunks were ked., We were to
sail that day for Europe, My husband
had business counections in England,
and we were to make our home there.
1 was to leave all whom I loved, and go
away with this man, My sister stood
watching me with tearful eyes, and at
last words broke forth:
“Why did I do this thing? Oh
sister save me! 1 do not love him! i
hate hm! I am too young to go away
from you alll Have pity, have mercy!”
Then all sensation left me, and 1
dropped senseless on the floor. When
my «yes again opened, only the old
familar marks surrounded me, My
halt sil vet ing Desir ny bed, with an
mt Raths OR 0 tT SWE TRC, My
bird caroled sweetly in his cages
it all a dream, then? No! Too vivid-
ly the scenes of the morning again caine
before me, I moved restlessiy upon
my pillow. In a moment Jean stood
by my side,
“Mr. Bayard!”
“Where is he?”
“Ie sailed, dear, on your wedding
day three weeks ago to-day. Ils busi-
ness was imperative, and so he left you
in our care, You have been very ili,
Kate, and must not excite yourself,
When you are stronger there Is a note
from him we were to give you, Try
and sleep again,”
I heard her words with scarcely a
sensation, unless one of relief, and
closing my eyes was soon lost in dres me
land.
Between sleeping and waking, Ina
ort of stupor, the hours glided into
days, and the days into weeks, during
which, gradually the strain upon my
brain relaxed, and strength crept back
into my frame,
1 questioned,
in my hands,
languid indifference, and read the lines
lis hand had penned:
“Imperative business, dear Kate, de-
mand$ my departure, but I leave you
in the hands of those who will tuke
every care of you. You will find at my
| banker's unlimited credit, and 1 beg
| placed at your disposal, Make for
{ yourself a home where you will, and
say to your futher it 18 my desire your
sister Jean should be your companion,
1 ask only that you may be happy.
Your hustsand,
PAauvL Bayarp,’
3
| the sense of freedom —that 1 wus unfet-
{tered todo as | would, E werly I call-
ed Jean, and said:
gratified, so that some day, when you
| meet your tate, young and handsome,
poor, you
| have no need to question,
Two years gilded by. My every am-
| bitious dreamn was realized, Scme-
{ times, in my own house, surrounded by
| guests, a sense of the stru
my position would steal over me.
| Without a thoaght I ran into my draw-
{ whether he be rich o
| ing room, and stood amazed,
A gentleman, with bair streaked
with gray sat upon the sofa and rose
upon iy entrance I bowed as to g
| stranger. “Kate,” T heard a voice
| say, and in another moment I had rec-
ornized my husband, I welcomed him
as warmly as I could, but it all seemed
so strange, so new, 1 could tutor
my lips to say all I wished they might
| utter,
ed, I found him no curb to my freedom.
My wish seemed his law. He never in-
| truded his presence upon me, and I
grew to watch for his coming,
him ming
gracious word for ail, with pride.
Miss Raymond was &
that summer, Tall, elegant and grace-
ful, she queened it royally. At first 1
re the sparkle in
not
v
| watched with pleasu
her eye, the flush upon her cheek, as my
husband approached. Talking togeth
er, they would seem to for;
existence and live iu a worl
| gradually another and a di
ing took possession of me.
eagerness, and now and then to steal
beside them, and kneel, perhaps, al my
husband’s feet, to listen while he told
her some tale of adveuture or travel,
At i times he would always pause Lo
give me a smile of welcome, or pass his
hand through my hair, Or in some way
give me token that he koew I was
pear. One day, laughing and talking
with Mr. Coburn, one of my husbaud’s
| friends, he turned suddenly, and said:
“I{ow much we shall all regret when
| Mr. Bayard leaves us! How can you
let him go?
A hand of ice seemed clutching at
| my heart as I answered, as mdifferent-
i ly us I could:
STC
ing shortly? I have not heard him ex-
| press any such determination,”
“Indeed! Then I fear [ have done
wrong in telling you. He told me this
afternoon be expected to sall next
month for Eurvpe, to remain indefinite-
tly. I presume he dreaded letling you
know his determination. I regret ex-
tremely I have unwittingly done so.”
As soon as [ could escape unnoticed
| T left the room. I returned, shifting
| and opening the hall door, step; ed out
upon the lawn. The grass was heavy
with dew, the night air damp, but had
should not have known it, when sud-
| denly a voice called my name, My
| husband stood beside me,
“Kate, what are you doing, child,
out in this damp air? Are you so
wretched that you must wander off
{ alone by yourself? Poor little girl!”
{ came to me, I sprang into his arms,
and laying my head on his breast, sob-
bed out:
“Paul, do not leave me again,
me with youl”
“My wifel Do you mean it?”
“Indeed, indeed I do. My life has
been so empty all these years, though I
knew it not. 1 know that I ain but a
child, but you shall mould me as you
will; only try to love me agaln, only
take me wherever you may go.’
Closer and closer I felt myself drawn
into his embrace, while upon my lips
fell the first kiss my husband had ever
imprinted there,
“On your wedding day Kate, I over-
heard the words which told me you
hated the man you had married; heard
you beg for mercy and for pity to save
you from your fate. Child, do you
think else any power could have drag-
ged me from your side—any earthly po-
tency induced me to put an ocean be-
tween us? There iz no necessity, my
darling, for my again leaving you, I
had determined to go only that 1 might
make you free; only that I could no
longer look upon your fresh, young
beauty and keep down the rising pas-
sion of my soul, For this moment
this hour—which atones for all my
years of suffering, I had no hope.
Chald, are you sure, sure, you Know
what you say?"
“Paul, my love, my husband!" was
my whispered answer, ‘how can you
generously stoop to pardon. The X
was but 4 ehild, weak an! will’ul, who
Take
knew not her ow: heart; but years
have taught me the value of the jewel I
threw away."
As 1 bade my guests good night a
few hours later, standing by my hus.
band’s side, my eyes reflecting the
voiceless content in his, Belle Raymond,
stooping to kiss me, whispered:
“You have found your happiness at
last, Kate, 1 have read it in your face.
Keep and prize it. It is priceless.”
Long years have passed since then,
but each year only adds to the lustre or
the gem I wear nearest my heart,
sss A A A AAAI
HOW 1 WRITE MY NOVELS
“The Dutchess” Tells How Her Stories
are Born and Written.
To sit down in cold blood and delib-
erately set to, lo cudgel one’s brains
with a view to dragging from them a
plot wherewith to make a book is (I
have been told) the habit of some
writers, and those of no small reputa-
tion. Happy people! What powers of
concentration must be theirs! What a
belief in themselves—that most desir-
able of all beliefs, that sweet propeller
toward the temple of fame. Have
faith in yourself, and all men will have
faith in you.
But as for me, I have to lieawake o’
nights longing and hoping Tor inspira.
tions that oft-times are slow to rome,
But when they do come, what a de-
| light! All at once, in a flash, as it
| were, the whole story lies open before
me-—a delicate diorama, vague here
{ and there, but with a beginning and an
| end—clear as crystal, 1 can never tell
| when these Inspirations may be coming;
| sometimes in the dark watches of the
night; sometimes when driving through
| the crisp, sweet air; sometimes a word
in a crowded drawing-room,
{ rising from the book
them with a rush to the surface, where
carried home ir
| the *‘dressing”’
| ough,
But just in the beginning it was not
| so simple, Alas! for that first story
| of mune—the raven I sent out of my
ark and never saw again. Unlike
y triumph. After
of them is sunple en-
to roost; it stayed where I had sent it
| whose office it lay, telling me
have It back if I enclosed stamps to the
. fore
i duty to “consign
basket.” 1 wasonly sixteen then, and
lit is a very long time ago;
i always hated the words **
ever since, 1 don’t remember
+
waste paper
that 1
sad
4 » Fue
sent that
remember that I was both
| sorry. At all events, 1 never
miserable twopence halfpenny,
| conclude my first MS, went
| fire of the heartiess editor
So much comfort I may have bestow
; ed on him, but he
| and yet who can say what good he may
i not have done me? Paths made
smooth leave ihe feet unprepared
rougher roads. To step always 1
primrose ways is deatn to the highs
Yet for the hours 1 spent
over that poor rejected story, bu autify
ing it (as I fondly, if erroneously,
lieved), add a word here,
ment there! So conscientiously
ed was I, that even the heading
chapters were scraps of poeiry |
ed) done all by myself, Well,
mind,
| they
+ 1:
10 Lig
1.08 ' viytvs ¥ %
eft me comiortiess;
2 L0
Sires, Oh,
be-
ing
‘ s13
Atug Hn seul
. i
inde
say upon the stage, 1
WW ell, "
For a long twelvemonth after that I
never dreamed of putting pen to paper,
I had given myself up, as 1 were, I
was the most modest of children. and
fully deeided within myself that a man
so clever as a real live editor must
needs be, could not have been mistaken.
! He had seen and judged, and practical-
ly told me that writing was not my
{ forte,
Yet the inevitable hour came round
| once more, Once again an idea caught
put it into words
this time, but it was too strong for me;
{ that early exhilarating certainty that
there was “something in me,”’ as peo-
| ple say, was once more mine, aud seiz-
{ing my pen, I sat down and wrote,
| wrote, wrote, until the idea was an ob-
ject formed,
|© With closed doors I wrote at stolen
imoments, I had not forgotten the
| quips and cranks ultered al my expense
| by my brother and sister on the refusal
i of that first-last manuscript. To them
| it had been a fund of joy. In fear and
| trembling I wrote this second effusion,
| finished it, wept over It (it was the
| most lachrymose of tales) and finally
| under cover of night induced the house-
| maid to carry it to the post, To that
| first unsympathetic editor 1 sent it
| (which argues a distinct lack of malice
{ in my disposition), aud oh, joy! it was
actually accepted. I have written
many a thing since, but I doubt if I
have ever known again the unadulter-
ated delight that was mine when my
first insignificant cheque was held with-
in my hands,
As for my characters; you ask how 1
conceive them, Once the plot is res.
cued from the misty depths of the
mind, the characlers come and range
themselves readily enough. A scene,
we will say, suggests itself--a garden,
a flower show. a ballroom, what you
will—and two people fait, A young
wan and woman for choice. They are
always young with me for that matler,
for what, under the heaven Wwe are
promised. is so altogether perfect as
youtal Oh, that we could all be young
forever and forever; that Time,
“That treads more soft than e'er did mid.
night thief,”
could be abruptly slain by some great
conquerer, and we poor human things
lot, loose, deflant of its thralls] But no
such conquerer comes, and time fies
swiftly as of yore, and drags us head-
long, whether we will or not, to the un-
attractive grave,
1f any of you, dear readers, is as bad
a sleeper as [ am, you will understand
how thoughts swarm at midnight,
Busy, bustling, stinging bees, they for
bid the needed rest, thronging the
idle brain, compel attention, Here in
the silent hours the ghosts called char
acters walk slowly, smiling, bowing,
nodding pirovetting, going like marion-
elles through all their At night
{ have had my gayest at night
my saddest. All things seem open then
to that giant Imagination,
Here, lying in the dark, with as yet
no glimmer of the coming dawn, no
faintest light to show where the closed
curtains join, too indolent to rise and
light the lamp, too sleepy to put one’s
foot out of the well-warmed bed, pray-
ing fruitlessly for that sleep that will
not come—it is at such moments as
these that my mind lays hold of the
novel now in hand, and works away at
it with a vigor, against which the nat-
ural desire for sleep hopelessly makes
battle,
Just born (bis novel may be, or half
completed; however it is, off goes one’s
brain at a tangent. Scene follows
scene, one touching the other, the
characiers unconsciously fall into
shape; the villain trkes a ruddy hue;
the hero dons a white robe; as for the
heroine, who shall say what dyes from
Olympia are not hers? A conversation
suggests itselt, an act thrusts self into
notice, Lightest ot skeletons all these
must necessarily be, yet they make up
eventually the big whole, and frow the
brain-wanderices of one wakeful night
three or four chapters are created for
the next morning’s work,
As for the work itself, mine is per-
haps strangely done, for often 1 have
written the last chapter first, and
founded my whole story on the one
episode that it contained,
Asa rule, too, I never give moro time
to my writing than two hours out of
every day. But 1 write quickly, and
have my potes before me, and I can do
a great deal in a short time, Not that
I give these two hours systematically;
when thie idle vein is in full flow 1
fling aside the pen and rush gladly into
the open air, seeking high and low for
the enildren, who (delighted thought)
will be sure to help me toward
outside has tempted me to aspire,
thing is, I think, a mistake,
may at the moment revolt is surely a
straining of the mental powers both
rash and cruel, Mr, Anthony Trollope
in his delightful memoirs tells us that
he did so many words at such an hour
| every morning without fall; and one
cannot help admiring the obstinacy of
the mind that could drive itself to get
through so arduous a task without any
noticeable flagging of the genius any-
where.
Many other authors, I fancy, would
find it {mpossivie so to flog the literary
| spirit into shape, As I have said, even
the two hours in the day that 1 feel it
ive up to pen
| are not always accorded, have
been moments when, having tried van-
ly to round my sentences lo my Salis
| faction, I have risen in quick wrath
and flung my flending pen
iI UNO
far corner, and my back reso-
here
toy rand
Larue
FASHION NOTES,
~I1eavy ribbed black velvet is strik-
ingly effective when made up in lonz
cloaks,
—Orange lace, satin, brocade, or-
ange colored velvet bonnets, opera
cloaks, bonnets, tea gowns and theatre
jackets made up in conjunction with
bronze or receds velvet shot with gold,
are a late French fancy In dress and
garniture,
— Trimmings of fur are worn wher-
ever a fur band can be placed. The
manufacturers have been successfully
experimenting in dying furs, conse-
quently a number of new shades have
appeared, Sable takes tbe lead in
price and elegance,
~The muslin cravat edged with fine
lace, which was also a feature of mas-
cullne dress after the Restoration, is
now worn, The ends ars not now
as Jong as they were at that period,
hardly longer than the bows. Tinted
crepe is used very often instead of pure
white in the making of the dressy
cravals whieh are worn under the
chin in the Directoire style of dress,
— Fringes which have been neglected
so long, are agaln In vogue, The
Marabout feather sad Chenille fringe
for out door garments, and those of
silk or net for dresses.
The slashed fringes for cloth dresses
with an acorn of the sams color of the
cloth fastened on each individual strip,
18 very unique,
~The more 11ke the Russian style an
article approaches, the more fashion.
able it is at the present—even the Rus-
sian blouse is still a great favorite, and
is worn at theatre as well as in the
bouse and with the dinner toilets, It
is worn by young married peuple as
well as girls, bat in any case it should
pot be worn by those who are short
and stout of stature.
—A pretty skating costume for a
young girl is a plaited skirt and blouse
blue striped cloth, with
in the back of plain red Hearletta
cloth, A short jacket of heavy tan
broad cloth, lined throughout with
satin of the same shade, must be open
A red
bon, complete this simple and neat
costume,
A FrExcin RIDING
horss back ridiug
is indeed a most exhilarating
exercise.
bine Melton cloth, bound with braid
on bodice laps and edges, and fasteved
crochet butions. The bodice
| that should have been covered with
scrawling letiers,
To force t
bad
ously is of untold
fresh, always the Dest
ler may
solicited outh
wild
tires by a calm and
we mind is, in my opmion,
business,
It is always
which the
Thess un-
as
ind are
mina an
value,
of
3 vit 13a hale
De capaiue,
“h # f tha
Ursis of We
beaveawand
wii
tie sprays sent al
2 OCeLn
a promise of the power Lhal reigns in
| the now quiet breast,
Thus dreams are value ; and
dreams most spontaneous al
unsought of all things) I owe much.
Tue Ducitess
A Sweet VY oloe,
slumberio
of
{those
1
I'hwere is no power of love 80 hard to
iget and to keep as a kind voice. A
| kind hand is deaf and dumb. It
{ be rough in flesh and blood, yet do the
| work of a soft heart, and do it with a
| soft touch,
| that love so much
| voice to tell what it
needs as
means and feels,
|
| right tone.
i and be on
One
he wall
must start
hi night and
in youth
day, at
that shall speak at all times the thought
of a kind heart, But this is the time
when a sharp voice is most apt to be
got.
say words at play with a quick sharp
tone, as if It were the snap of a whip.
When one of them gets vexed you will
and a
Such a voice often speaks worse
feels. It
made up of a snarl, a whine,
bark,
than the heart
It is often in mirth that one gels a
voice or a tone that is sharp and sticks
to him through lite, and stirs up ill-will
and grief, and falls like a drop of gall
on the sweet joys of home. Such
these get a sharp home voice for use,
and keep their best voice for those they
meet elsewhere,
I would say to all boys and girls:
“Use your guest voice at home,”
Watch it day by day as a pearl of great
price, for it will be worth to you in
days to come more than the best pearl
hid in the sea. A kind voice 1s a lark’s
song to a hearth and home. It is to
the heart what light is to the eye.—The
Household,
—“_u" “-
An Economical Way of Living.
A physician in London has been try-
ing an experiment to see if it were pos.
sible to exist on nothing but meal and
water for a month. He has been liv.
ing on it for over a week, and feels
well. He says he felt hungry the first
few days, having no variety of food,
but that Las passed away, and he now
has no desire for other food, and feels
remarkably well, He eats a pound of
meal a day, made into cakes, and drinks
about a quart of water, This mode of
living costs him a little over a peuny a
day, and he seems to enjoy it. No
need for anyone to starve, if one can
live on that small amount.
A MID II UI SA
Strawberries are pow only $11 a
quart.
~Dresses with stort trains are
worn at informal dinners, five o'clock
teas, and 1n making carriage calls,
A new pattern for a nighigown
has the sleeves joined on ihe back
piece and put on with foe close rows of
gather: ; the fronts are ulio gatiersd,
small turn down collar 13 embroid.
ered in blue, In Russian embroidery,
which comes down the middie of the
wristbands embro'dered to correspond.
slantwise at the Lop
lar of white linen,
A high shirt coi-
~The fineness and elegance of un-
derclothing is carried to an ¢xcess Dj
Parisian women. Over the chemises of
cambric and Valenciennes laces is
The underpetticoal Is
slightly quilted sllk, matched
and trimmed with black or
white lace, The overskirt is quite as
elegant if pot more 80 than the dress
— A walking costume is of myrtle
green Amazon cloth, trimmed with
moleskin., The skirt 1s
ul t is covered by a
drapery neatly forming a second skirt,
Lox pleat at the back.
The bodice,
in the soldat Fravcais style, is double
—One of the most convenient and
a bag to be worn on the arm.
silver bro-
bag, of
3
{
i
i
comb and brush, handkerchief, and in
fact all the paraphernalia, 1t is vel
vet with applique work or panting
outside and closed with a clasp: the
others are drawn open by striogs and
all are lined wih satin,
—A very handsome costume for a
young debutante, has a full but per-
ored laces with designs of heavy raised
threads io pale pink or some other
color, over an underskirt of consirasi-
ing color, 18 the latest noveily for
evening dresses for young girl) over a
skirt of maise colored silk. The waist
is low cut in the peck and has high
Empire. A wide
sash is tied around the waist, broad-
fly bows on the shoulder which gave it
AD alry appearance.
~The turban and the toque still
take precedence of all other shapes in
close hats, The new shapes sit grace-
fully upon the head, and many of them
are covered with the soft plumage of
the dove, the gold or silver lophorous,
or the golden brown merle. In spute
of all that has been said against the
destruction of birds, and netwith-
standing the rigid rales and resolutions
drawn up by humane societies, there is
but little diminution ia the demand
for bird decorations for hats and bon-
nets. Empire vels are worn, and the
wearer looks as if she bad her head
shirred into a lace bag,
—Among well dressed women dark
green and dark blue, trimmed with
beaver, figures conspicuously. The
fur appears round the edge of the ski
mostly only on the front breadths
as wide revers on the coats, A band
of it often forms the deep, closefitting
brim of the toque, while cloth mateh-
ng the costume is folded and drawn
u above it. Some
> the viouna skirts have a band of
watered silk about five or six inches
deep placed at the same distance from
the edge, and wide sashes of the back,
This style is carried out in black
watered silk on dark green, terra colla
and bright crimson. The bodice has
calls, waistcoat and revers of the silk,
nent in front, much pinched up at the
back, snd adorned with wide black
moire ribbon. All skirls are hung
simply.
HORSE NOTES,
set
~Dan'el G. Engle, Engletree Stock
Farm, Marietta, Pa. will send his
stock to the Woodard sale In Kentucky
in a patent padded car provided with
air brakes,
—3in2e the present Monmouth Park
Association was organized 1n 1878 it
bas given in added money $1.131.199, of
which amount ths coatribution last
year was $210,850,
~1t was Mrs. Langtry and not Fred
Gebhard, who purchased Friar Tuck
and the four English mares, “The
Jersey Lily” has decided to establish a
thoroughbred stud on her California
ranch,
—The Island Park Association has
been reorganized, and in the futare
will be under the management of John
Mack and R. H, Hunt The new
management propose giving a running
meeting in July.
—Danlel Strouse purchased a new
road horse recently in the gelding
Hiram Miller, record 2.224, by Tom
Kimball, dam by Royal George, The
boys will have to look out fer him, for
it is said that he is a *‘corker.”
-—The stallion Antevolo (2.193),
lobert Steel’s recent California pur-
chase, was shipped for the East Feb-
ruary 1st, in company with his fall
brother Anteso (2.16) and four or five
other horses, Anteeo will stand In
Kentucky.
~Sam Bryant owner of the famous
3 year old Proctor Knott, announced
that his colt would not start in the
Kentucky Darby. He gives as a rea-
son that he fears hurting the horse by
80 hard a race early in the season and
thereby losiug richer stakes later.
~Robert Steel, Cedar Park Farm,
Philadelphia, bas sold to C. M Woeod-
ruff, Newton, N. J., the b. f. Fiutlter,
Medium (2.204) by Happy Medium and
the b. m. Effie (2 27}) by Almont dam
by Kentucky Chiel. Flalter was a
blue ribbon winner at the New York
horse show last year.
—Stamboul is the younges! msmber
of the 2.50 list who also has a represen.
tative on that honorable roll. Hse was
foaled 1882. and when a 2 year old
begot the bay filly Nshushta, whose
On Jdan-
race at Los Angeles, Cal., beating her
— Choctaw by Saxon, dam Fanme
Ludlow, died at Brooklyn. He was
bred by Mr. Lorillard, at Rancocas, the
that Pontiac ws foaled
, and was sent to England
with Pontiac and Ewmpesror as a year-
ling in October, 1882, but was a {allure
there, He proved a success when he
was brought back to America, in 1884,
and in the colors of Wild & McCanll
won a lot of races,
—Thers was no off “ial on the grand
circuit who took better care of horse-
men and treated them more liberally
than President Daniel J. Campan, of
the Detroit Driving Club. He also at-
vended carefully to little details, kept
the track in good shape, snd cleanliness
nrevailed about the stables aud build-
ings. Big crowds were al Lhe summer
meeting and got the worth of their
money. We thick nm a preity good
President,
~John Marphy, while driving ia
New York a few days ago in a road
cart, bad a very Darrow escape.
Hooked to the carl was a colt bsiong-
ing to Gabe Case. Just as he reached
126th street the axle broke in the cen-
tre, and the wheely turning ia caught
The voung horse
— Major Dickerson. of New York,
has sold his stalllon Sir Waiter, Jr., 0
year old record 2.184, to Waldo T.
Peirce, of Boston. He will be driven
on the road this winter and go into the
siud next spring. Major Dickerson
has still some good ones lefl, among
them Queen Wilkes, record 2233. a
Califoruia Gilly, by Crown Point (2.24),
dam Flirt, record 2.29, and Jaue Eyre,
that can beat 2 30, [sasc Fleming, an
honest and industrious young was and
a good remnsman, drives for the Major.
—8. A. Tanner was the successful
bidder for the lease of Belmont Coarse
for ope year from next April The
Belmont Driving Cluob memuership is
growing rapidly, and now is the time
for those who have not subseribed to do
so. The spring is approaching and they
will want a place to speed their horses.
it should be a good opportunity for
Mr. Tanner to “‘spread’ himself as a
landlord, and thereby fall Into the good
graces of the many gentlemen subscribe
ers. He can make the track and its
surroundings look as though some one
was in charge. As Mr. Tanner has
lately taken unto himself a wife for
‘better or worse’ he will have a chance
to know, with his two enterprises,
whether ‘marriage 13 a fallure’ or a
success. No ‘pitch in,’ Tanner
~The Dwyers have never lel Lhe
great 3 year old stakes go by default.
They are too valuable, old
can win $75,000 worth of stakes nowa-
days. When the Dwyers have found
themselves without a stake oolt they
have always purchased ona. Last sea-
son they were in just such a fx, and
they bought Sir Dixon, he
only colt owned by pariies who would
sell, Emperor of Norfolk belonging to
Mr. Baldwin, and Raceland and Prince
Royal to Mr. Belmont. Again they
are confronted by a similar difficulty.
All the best 2 year olds of last season
are owned by parties who will
has Salvator and PF
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