Visiting Grandma. — BY BITTERSWEET. Tee ghie ye cherry trees! Green apples beware: “The children are coming To do and to dare. Bake up the turnovers, Grandma in “specks” Black kitten, be read To “pass in your checks.” There's mirth in the household Oh youth has its charms. There are hair-breadth escapes, There are shouted alarms. The hoe's in the chimney, The key's in the well: The first after birds’ nests, The last—1I can’t tell. They're down in the boat house, Aloft in the barn; Undismayed mount the reaper— “They Tl bust the consarn!” They fishand they swim. They row and they ride, Oh. youth is most charming, It can't be denjed! And at eve as the last drop Of sunlight is spilled, We devoutly give thanks That nobody is killed Then why. when the days Of the summer are past, Will memories pleasant All others outlast? yp i jove that we won From the honest young hearts— That will change not, we trust, When the summer departs— “Tis the talks that we had Over troubles and joys, That enchaineth our souls To the girls and the boys! MRS. CHINSTON’S COMPANION. BY W ALTER 5. BLAKELY. The servant told her that Mrs, Chin- ston was in the garden, so she went there, and guided by the sound of merry voices and the silvery laughter of pretty women, soon found her way to the lawn tennis ground. Mrs. Chinston was a lucky woman-— so her friends declared—and as the old saying goes, ‘‘it is better to be born lucky than rich.” In this case, how- ever. the two blessings went hand in hand, for Mrs. Chinston was not only lucky, but possessed of a fortune in her own right, and could well afford to in- dulge her capricious fancy to any rea- sonable extent. She was accustomed to a great deal of society, and delighted in filling her beautiful house every sum- mer with a gay party of merry people. To-day the ‘‘companion” she had secured for herself was to arrive. She had been endeavoring to gratify her caprices in that direction, which insist ed on perfect grace and beauty, and now she was likely to succeed. For lose Marlowe had been engaged to take the place of the late deposed ‘‘compan- on,” and Rose was a girl worth looking at. She was an orphan, and since her father's death had resided with her aunt —a plain, commonplace, coarse-natured woman, who made the poor girl's life miserable. Mrs. Chinston was a distant connee- tion of Rose's dead mother. Having a slight acquaintance with Rose and hear- ing of her unpleasant situation, she took a notion to have her as her com- panion. Mrs. Chinston, as a rule, was in the habit of carrying out her fancies, so in the course of time her letter reached 4 the lose Marlowe st her aunt's home in Welston. “I want you to come and live | with me,” she wrote, and stated frankly that, being in need of a companion, she | bad fallen in love with Rose, and ended | by offering her a home at Verlow, as her estate was called, and a liberal sal- ary; in return for which Rose was to read and play and sing, and help enter- tain Mrs. Chinston in her dull moments. Of course poor Rose accepted the prop- | osition with alacrity. Sitting in the cool, fragrant garden under the shade | of a giant elm, Mrs. Chinston and her | guests were watching with great inter- | est a single-handed tennis match played | between two college men, both of whom were capital players. i “(3ood evening, Mrs. Chinston."” She turned with a start of surprise. | Before her in the green grass stood a | girl—a slender, graceful girl—pale, oh, 80 Jole and worn—with large, dark, | pathetic eyes, and hair of the sunniest gold. She was dressed very simply in a plain calico dress and a coarse sun hat. | The ladies grouped about in pictures- | que attitudes in elegant robes of every | color of the rmnbow, stared superecil- | iously upon the stranger, and a cold disdain seemed to freeze them all It was Mrs. Chinston’s turn to be con- fused at this reception to her ‘‘fancy,” but she was the first to recover her com- posure. She knew that Rose Marlowe was very proud, with all her poverty, and Mrs. Chinston felt a little ‘taken back.” She arose and extended her hand cor- dially. “Why, Rose!” she exclaimed pleas- antly, “Iam glad to see you. Come with me to your room, my dear.” For Mrs. Chinston was saying to her- self: “What a fright the child looks in that horrid calico! I'll get her into one of my last season’s dresses as soon as possible.” Rose followed her conductor quietly through the beautiful garden to the house. Her head was erect and her eyes flashed proudly. “She is ashamed of me” thought the girl choking back the sobs which began to rise in her throat. Once up in her neat chamber Rose was at her ease, Mrs. Chinston insisted upon arraying her in one of her own dresses which was really simple; and Rose accepted it be- cause she felt that as Mrs. Chinston’s companion, she must not appear shabby in the presence of that lady's guests. It was a fine evening about three days after Rose Marlowe's arrival st Verlow that Colonel Frederic Maxwell, owner of “Cheepside,” the neighboring estate, had wandered away from his fellow-sportsmen and was walking slow- vy homeward through the fie his thoughts busy. His musings were sud- denly awakened by a faint, startled cry of agony. He sprang forward, and beheld on issuing from the woods » fearful sight— there, twenty yards from him, was there in wild calling for help, es Marlowe moving here and fear, i dress, which been evidently ignited by one of the children’s fire crackers wn carelessly about, was on fire, A group of frightened women was their gauzy toilettes about, red « safe hol gathe - off, ing coming in contact with the unhappy sorbams, Coming across the lawn at full speed wore several gentlemen. But Rose's life depended upon seconds. Her dress was composed of the lightest materials, and helped by the breeze—the motion —the flames were rising with fearful rapidity to her arms, her face. She was becoming a pillar of fire. At the first glance Maxwell took this in. In sn instant he saw that there was but one chance to save her, He had no coat to envelop her in. Beat as he might with his hands upon those flames he could not beat them out —at least, until they had done worse in- jury than even perhaps death, There was but one hope. Tee river. Rushing to the girl and throwing his arms about her he exclaimed firmly: “Do not be alarmed. Trust yourself.to me, miss. The river—the river! Come — pray have no fear! Ican swim-—-1 can support you!” Maxwell felt he should never forget the glance of the dark eyes she turned on him. “The river-theriver! Thankheaven!” she cried, ‘yon have saved me! Where ~-where?"” It was close by—here at their feet. A minute, and his arm was about her and they both plunged in. There was a blaze of light, a fierce hiss, then darkness. Then Maxwell in alarm found the girl had broken away from him. Hardly had he risen to the surface when he heard her address him fervent- ly: “Thank life!” “You can swim?" ed. #Oh, yes, well; but in my awful terror I never thought of the river. I was so very frightened, My head now reels. I—I must get ashore.” “Can I help yon?” She did not answer but struck more quickly out. Maxwell held back.” He say her step on the bank, then reel and fall into the arms of a maid of Mrs. Chinston’s. Maxwell, having no desire to pass through the crowd of excited guests in his wet and soiled clothes, swam rather lower down and landed near his boat- house. A few days later Rose left her room and came down stairs looking fair and sweet in the pretty white organdie, trimmed with ruffles and lace and a fragrant red rose in her golden har, Colonel Maxwell wasone of the guests he advanced from amid the crowd- “I am rejoiced, Miss Marlowe, to see you so recovered. you, you have saved my he asked, surpris- be more hurt than you appear to be.” she said, as she frankly gave hum her hand. fearful injury, if not death—and—and how can I ever repay the debt?” —the pleasure of having served you—is reward enough,” he said. “After all, my service was small You see could swim.” He was entire evening, at her side during the and Rose sought her object of Colonel Maxwell's undivides of. she soon found out—for each of the other ladies had appeared greatly flatter- ed by any show of interest in her own whieh he chose to He was 8 great favorite with all the company, and as the days went he growing jealousy and dislike for herself petty matters to display. It disturbed Rose greatly, until she remembered that she had done no harm or wrong—nothing to deserve it, After that it annoyed her very little and she went on in the even tenor of her There was not an unmarried woman at Verlow that would not have said posal of marriage from the owner of *‘Cheepside.” But Colonel Maxwell had much more sense than to pin his faith or affection either upon any of the painted dolls who came to Verlow to dawdle away the long summer days and sngle for rich husbands. He admired Rose Marlowe from the very first. The simple earnestness of the girl charmed him. He pereeived readily enough that her mind was not upon the matrimonial market, and so as time passed he awoke to the factthat he loved her dearly, and Rose could not loving him in return, for this lowly life made her very happy. Now Maxwell was far seeing, and he easily discovered the petty jealousies and heart burnings around , and one day he found out something far worse than he had auticipated. By accident he overheard a conver- sation of the lady guests who had been most zealous in their undeavors to win his “manly affections,” a conversation which revealed a vile plot. They had laid « plan to wound and humiliste Rose Marlowe, and to make her believe that he, Colonel Maxwell, waa to be married in the early winter to a Devonshire lady and had been onl smusing himself at her expense. Fred- eric Maxwell sat silent and listened to every word of the plot. Then, with a curious twinkle in his handsome dark eyes, he left his seat and went straight into the garden in search of Rose. He found her in a cool, green arbor, snd there he told her of his great love for het, and begged her to become his wife. They were together a long time, and in the cool of the evening the rowed down the river in Colonel well's It was the first time that summer that # lady had been out rowing with him, and it was the last drop in the bucket for the jealous hearts as Verlow. They decided that the blow which they had planned should fall upon Rose's defense- less head that very night She was sitting in the garden in the moonlight—she was very pale and still, but there was a calm look in her dark eyes which revealed a happy secret, The two who had fo the plot to destroy her happiness, drew near her now as though by AeSidany, and pre. Sanding not to aware of Rose's “1 like to know,” remarked one, carelessly, ‘‘what Colomel Max- well's fiancee wonld say if she knew of his flirtation with Miss Marlowe?" «Yes, indeed,” sighed the other. “Poor girl, little does she dream of his behavior when he is absent from her, He is the most unmitigated flirt I ever saw in my life. I would like to see the to-be Mrs. Maxwell now, and" She paused in speechless astonish- ment as Colonel Maxwell suddenly ap- eared upon the scene with Rose foaning upon his arm. He bowed cour- teously. “I am most happy to beable to oblige you,” he said Dy santly. “Ladies, since yon desire so much to see Mrs. Maxwell, allow me to present you to my wife! We were married this evening.” Oh, the sensation, and, oh, the disap- pointment and chagrin “Dear Frederic,” said Rose gently, turning from them all and leaning her face azainst his brogd shoulder, ‘let us pray that we may live long, long happy years together.” —-—— How a Little Boy got a new Shirt. There lived once a poor widow who Lad seven children, and all had to eat; so the poor mother had to go out to work wll day, and it was only in the winter evenings that she could spin and weave shirts for her children, so that they might not go naked. Each child had only one shirt; and, when the largest had outgrown his, it went to the next in size. Sot happened that the shirt that came to the youngest was al- ways 80 thin that the sunshone through it. The youngest child was a happy little fellow, four vears old, who had a won- derful love for animals and flowers. Whenever he saw & lamb, he ran to find fragrant leaves to feed it. When he found a young bird that had fallen from the nest, he earried it home, and fed it until it was grown, and shen let it fly away. He was fond of the spiders, too: and when he found one in the house, he would carry it out of doors, saying, ‘This little creature shall live, too.” But one time his little shirt had become so thin and old that it fell from his body; and, as it was summer and his mother had to go to her day's work, she could not make him another. Bo he ran about just as the dear God had made him. One day, as he was hunting for ber- ries in the forest, he met a lamb which looked kindly athim, and said, “Where | is your little shirt?” The littie boy an- | swered sadly: ‘1 have none, and my | mother cannot make me a new one till | next winter. Bat, no; the new one will | be for my eldest sister, and mine will be an old one. Oh, if I could only once have a new shirt!” Then the | said: “I am sorry for you. Iwill give rou my wool, and you can have a new | shirt made of it.” So the lamb pulled all his wool off and gave 1t to the little i boy. As he passed by a thora-bush with his wool, the bush ealled, “What are you carrying there?” “Wool,” said the little boy, ‘to make me a shirt.” “(3ive it to me,” said the thorn-bush. «] will eard it for you." The boy gave the wool to the bush, which passed ita thorny branches to and fro, and carded the wool most beautifully. “Carry it carefully,” eried the bush, *‘so that you will not spoil it.” So he carried the soft rolls carefully along till he saw the web of a spider; and the spider sat in the middle of 1%, {and ealled to him: ‘*‘Give me your wool, little boy, 1 will spin the threads and weave them is.” Then the spider began and work- and wove the finest piece of cloth yon ever saw, snd gave it to the child, who | trotted merrily along with it till he came to a brook, and there sat a great erab, which called out: “Whither so fast? What are you carrying there?” § “Cloth,” said the little boy, “for a new { shirt.” “Then you have come to the | right person,” said the crab. “Let me | take your cloth.” with his great shears he cut out a little | shirt very nicely. “There, little one,” | he said, *‘all that remains to be done is | to have it sewed.” The boy took it, and went on sadly; {for he was afraid that even then he | could not have his new shirt till winter, sew. But pretty soon he saw a little bird sitting on a bush, and the bird twittered, “Wait, little boy, make vour shirt.” long thread and flew back and forth, | shirt was sewed together. “Now,” said the bird, ‘‘you have as nice a shirt as | any one could wish.” And the boy put it on, and ran hap- i pily home to show it to his sisters and | brothers; and they all said they had never seen a nicer one.— The Kinder- garten, Coiling to Extremaeas. A writer in the New York Times says that the wearing of mourning garments is sometimes carried to excess, and he cites a case. He was riding in » Bixth avenue L train when a party of three got aboard—a you widow and her two children, one a girl of four and the other a babe inarms. “The girl, whose hair was go golden that it NE though the sun was streaming it, had not a touch of color about her except that which came from her hair and bright blue eyes. Her dress wasof black cashmere, with a heavy drapery of crape, ubitahe wore a black hat, also trimmed with crape. Even the little pin that fastened her sombre dress at the throat was of jet, and she carried a black-bordered handkerchief. The climax was reached, however, in the clothing of the babe in arms, a swadd- ling robe of unrelieved black crape, the little head covered with a baby's eap of the same material. The effect was posi- tively ghastly, and there was a sigh of relief when the widow and her two little ones left the car.” und of boiled and well my , salt- ed; one-quarter pound of butter stirred in while warm, two ounces of sugar, rind of half a lemon, ¢ fine with the juice, two teacupfuis of milk and four eggs; butter the tin, put in the tiare, bake in a moderate oven half an hour, The destruction of fallen apples this season will aid in lessening the | number of next year, ns ————IIII II CS AAA Porato PUDDING, ~One Why Work Yourself to Death? Lf you cannot afford to keep a servant, and must do all your own work, there are some things that must be left undone abont the house, There must be dust on the furniture sometimes, and the silver cannot always be kept bright. If the caller who ean keep two or three servants comes in and sees these things, don't feel utterly crushed and dis graced. If she will suffer such small things to detract from her good opinion of you, she is too small minded to be worth cultivating, and if she stops call- ing so much the better for you, This is not meant to upold “slack” house- keeping as a general thing, but where it is your life or your house, itis gener- ally more to your advantage, unless you are tired of this world, to save your life. When there is only one pair of hands to do it all, it is next to 1mpos- gible to keep a house the pink of neat- ness all the time. True, there is always to be found the man or woman who rises up and says there was Susan Green, who used to do all her own work, and things just shone, Well, Susan Green is a amen] creature, one out of a thousand; sup- pose you consider her a moment before you begin the heart-rending business o trying to be like her. In the first place, she had iron strength. She bw 7 kee going all day without getting very oT But this is not the case with many women. Sometimes the head will swim from utter weariness, and the whole mechanism will ery out, *‘I can go no further.” The round of housekeeping, when ———————————————————————————— FASHION NOTES. A ——— 80 radical a change, and one that has been made almost suddenly in tne fashions, ought certainly to create dis- order among the votaries of this fan- tastio sovereign. And, indeed, itis on sometimes in the eities, sometimes is the village, when one has not a very exact ides coneerning the manner in which the fashionable ladies of to-day adorn themselves. Our written inskruc- tions and our beautiful designs utter, without cessation, the same refrain, and show to our readers the actual toilettes in all their different phases, We understand there is still uncer. tainty, some indecision, and that one submits, to tell the truth not very graceful, to transform the contour of the costume in so peremptory amanner, It is necessary, however, if you care fo be in the fashion, to bow to the will of its despotic sovereign. The reign ot springs and cushions is past. They exist pc wore, The bottom of the skirt, in wool, silk or cambrie, is made quite straight and a little over two yards in width, If silk about twenty inches wide is employed, three entire breadths should be used. Also | an additional breadth for the front, ad- i justed at the top by four darts, and | which is cut alittle biasing so that at the bottom the breadth will only be | about eighteen inches in width. At the | the bottom of thie foundation skirt is placed a border of the same material as | the skirt, to the height of five inches, with a little plaited flounce of two and one-half inches. It often happens that most men's labor. The more delicate structure of a woman's frame is not built to bear as much as man's and she vantages of her dress, with its dragging weight and hampering of the muscles, If a man can keep going every minute all day that is no sign that a woman can, abont, and tells you his mother used to do all her work, be sorry for his ignor- ance—you cannot help being hurt by his hardness of heart and lack of trust in you—but don't go beyond your strength if you do fail to convince him. When the time comes to write your epitaph he will have a half dozen nice, convenient terms for the work which killed you. He will never eall it by its right name. If your bones and muscles will stand the continual strain without any relaxation, your nerves will not, | snd some day you will have to take a | nice long rest of a year or two, without | any capacity left to enjoy your vaca- | tion. Again, if Susan Green was that sort | of » machine, perhaps she had no desire | $0 be any thing else, and for the woman | who ‘likes that sort of thing, it is just | the sort of thing that she likes.” 1f your { lord and master remembers Susan Ureen | as a good housekeeper, does he remem- hing else? Was she a | ber her as any t | woman of broad sympathies of interest | ing conversational powers? Did he go to her when he wanted counsel, or rest, or oympaily } Did he talk over the last book or play or the ways of the world with her? No, you can wager your best bonnet he didn’t. He went somewhere else to find companionable women, and et he wants Susan Green and Mme decamier all in one, in you. Don't try | to come to this unreasonable demand | Have as neat and cheery a house as yon | ean, but don’t attempt to go beyond your strength. You can’t be Susan Green, and you onght not to be, if you | ean, — Detroit Tribune, -—— Alr Famine. Dr. Felix Oswald, in a recent article in a medical journal, shows that fifty- five out of 100 white children die before they complete seven years of life, but | he asserts that hardly five ot that num- ber are born with germs of an early death and that two-thirds of the remain- der perish from want of life sir. It is too commonly assumed that a child's lungs are too weak to stand ordinary | fresh air, to judge by the precautions | that are taken to shut up every possible | avenne through which pure air can | enter a room in which it is kept. There lis perhaps no subject pertaining to | hygiene upon which parents and nurses act so ignorantly or so pertinaciously | refuse to be instructed as in this vital necessity of fresh air to every human being, young or old, sick or well. Itis | ohild or the siling adult than to others, if that is conceivable when it is so cer- | abuse, however, is more notio in she case of young children, aad infants | especially, who are entirely under the | control of others in the matter, and suf- {for from their lack of judgment or | fatally misdirected prudence. | Dr. Oswald remarks: “Boys in knee | breeches often manage to remedy the evil by dint of strategy, while their setticoated juniors have to stand the sunt of paternal infatuation. Every form of disease is aggravated by the in- fluence of impure air.” Human beings oan live a long time without food, but without air they cannot live six min- utes. Their vitality is proportionately diminished by the lack of pure air and the substitution of air that is vitiated and inadequate tosupply the sustenance nired from it cause of mischief in this direc. tion is the confusion in many minds of the relations of heat and cold to pure or impure air. Rooms are shut up tightly to keep in the heat, and some econom- ical but obtuse people cannot i soo the use of having a warm fire wi the window or door open. It looks to them like a piece of extravagance an “if you want the door open what do you want a fire for?” seems to them a question incapable of reasonable ans- wer. Henoe air famine is not alone in- flicted on the babies, but is frequently made to curse the individual and the family through life. Aono AIA SA It 18 not true that the people of this nation or of any other nation work too much. They may fret too much, or they may confine themselves too much to one eternal of the same kind of well and intelligently the foundation skirt watches in color | the upper skirt; if so, make a little | plaited flounce of the same material as | the under skirt, that is to say if the dress is in old rose color and the under | skirt is in old rose silk, use a little plaited flounce of this silk on the under- skirt. If, on the contrary, the dress is | gray wool and the under-skirt of black silk, a little plaited flounce of the gray material should be placed on the edge of the black under-skirt. This done, place on the foundation skirt a large flounce, as deep as the skirt, with two | rows of gathers, and which must be a | little more than three yards in width. | This is the round, straight skirt which | all the worlk wears. The costume, fig. | A. is made after this style, only the | apron and the gide breadths are cut | longer in order that they may be light- | ly draped around the waist. This dress | i% in flexible wool; the front embroid- ered. with a confusion of reed grasses and brown foliage, in wool. The cor- | sage buttoned underneath the left arm and the shoulder, forming a CUirass Nothing on the skirt, which forms two large round plaits in the back. The design represented by fig. bis a | tailor-made costume, which is very simple. The foundation skirt of silk 1s | trimmed with a plaiting to match. The | upper skirt has a hem nearly two inches | A 3 which is surrounded by ten rows of stitching in silk. The corsage is close fitting, with two rows of buttons and an artillery basque in the back. The hat is a black broad brimmed, | open worked rice straw, trimmed with knots of plaided ribbon Plaids are in great in ses blue, or tobacco colored wool are ornamented with a plastron of Seoteh surah which forms the front of the corsage, even to the seams under- peath the arms. These costumes are original and very pretty The great demand, this year, is for plaided parasols; in place of the white, or marine blue dotted with white spot, we soe plaited silk parasols, marine blue, crossed in all styles with variegated threads. For the gentlemen, for we must not forget their needs, there are cravats of cashmere have a very oriental look and style. The round hats are truly kings of the season, and all the world declares open- ly for them, not only the very young girls, but also their mammas. Among the prettiest we notice the Prince Soleil in cream straw, with loops of black velvet trimming the under part of the front. Above a cluster of snow balls on wiage favor. Costumes sen { cream bow, and finished with narrow | black velvet strings. Next comes the | adorable, little Duchesse with a broad | brim, deeply curved, forming a delicate | sereen for the face. It is trimmed with | Saxony edge, and among the puffs of lace are placed pretty black wings and knots of | black velvet, small strings of the same | velvet are knotted under the chin. in black | alight shade for the face. The erown is | surrounded with a garland of straw- | berries with their pretty foliage. On | the back, plumes and lace mingled, fall in a scarf form, which is brought in front under the chin in the manner of a bolero. Our fourth hatis for a very young lady and is especially fresh and charming. It iscalled a village hat and is made of ited point desprit tulle. Long branches of sloes, with their light foliage snd small dark fruit, trim one side of the erown and fall in front. This pretty fruit and foliage is held in its place by a knot of ‘black velvet, and strings of the same velvet are fastened at the back of the crown, drawn in front and tied under the isin share Jomaiy very many pretty thi esoribe an to write i capeciany the flat Italian straws which are cut so fantastically that they ean be crumpled like lace and are Mways becoming We _ in a short time, describe one which is the most fanciful we have yet scen. With all these hats the new friz should be worn arranged like light curls so t and natural as to defy all criticism. It is not artificial, it is nature itself, full of charms an Fruior Lustax, ling All ot Sax year y by Saxon, out of Marionette, for $325), and Casey El Rio Rey's jockey, it by ers, out of a sister Daniels, for HORSE NOTES, —Terra Cotta 1s at Lexington, Ky. ~—Diablo has been let by in hig work. Jockey Fitzpatrick is again, —Many Philadelphia turf patrons ate tended the Wilmington. ~(ruy may be sold to South American parties, — Wood Martin will start the horses at Baltimors next week. -~Hambletonian won sixteen races at the Westchester meeting. ~}it Curry, 218}, will next season be bred to Axtell, 2.14. —Garrison is winning nearly all the races on the grass at Sheepshead Bay. —An offer of £16,000 was recently refused for the colt Tristan, by Hermit, —Proctor Knott is entered for the Bridge handicap, to be run at Sheeps- head Bay next week, —The stakes and purses offered at the St. Louis fall meeting to be held October 1 to 6 amount to $25,000, —A son of the late Johnny Murphy, the noted driver, is practicing riding himself turf, —Thne tracks at Morris Park, while legs are so wide that good starts and true running are possible. —The $5000 stake race for 3-minute class horses at New York has eight entries, and the Melrose stake, $3000, for 2.21 pacers, nine entries, —The postponed 2.30 race, “‘free to all,” at the Bridge, N. J., Fair was finished recently, Lancewood winning in 2.544. —The two horses which will com- mand attention in the Balch stallion race at Beacon Park, Boston, on Sep- tember 18, are Nelson and Alcryon, —Russia, the 6-year-old sister of Maud 8., made a record of 2.28 at the Lexington Fair, ~—Many turfmen think that Magnate Mr. Belmont. —Barnes with 16 winning mounts, Murphy 15, Taral 13, Allen 12, and Stoval, Bunn and Williams 10 each, were the principal winning jockeys at Saratoga. Lillian Wilkes broke the 2.year-old filly record in California recently when she beat Sonol mn 2.174. Lillian Wilkes is by Guy Wilkes, dam Flora, by Langford. —1It is probable that the rich Califor- nia turfmen, J. B, Haggin and Senator i hereafter keep their sta- ~—Five running records have been beaten this year. Geraldine cut the —W. P. Burch has sold all of his horses except Trousers, by Pantaloon, Day, the jockey, bought Ted Foley for £1200 after seeing him work six furlongs in 1.17. Mr. Burch says he has decided not to train for Mr. Withers, but as yet has not made up his mind what 0 do. —J. Harper Bonneli, the New York ber 6th from the Elkton Stock Farm a and the other by Leclede, son of Happy Medium, dam by Partridge’s Star of the West (sire of Capitola, 2.244). Mr. of double harness for the team from M. Gallagher, —1n the three-minute class at Lex- ington, on August 27, the chestuut mare Almater, by Hambrino, dam Alma Mater, by Mambrino Patchen; thoroughbred daughter of Australian, won a second heat in 2.204, and a third in 2.294. This gives Alma Mata another representa- tive in the 2.30 list. She is the dam of Alcantara, 2.23; Alcyone, 2.27; Alicia, 2.29: Arbiter, 2.3); and Almater, 2. 201, Chaos, winner of the Futurity stakes, is & chestnut gelding foaled on February 17, 1887. In color he is a light chestnut, with a blaze in bis face, and both hind legs white. He stands 15.3, and bas a plain beny bead and narrow muzzle, but good, open jaws, a lerge, light neck, prominent withers, deep in the brisket, and has great length from the point of the shoulder to point of hip. He has rather a long back, but it is straight, and when drawn be tucks up considerably in the flank, but he has good quarters and stifle, powerful legs and feet, He isa wear and tear looking colt, without any special beauty, and his back would cause Iaim that be could not carry e is a son of Rayon d'Or, R., and is owned by W, L. Pa., who bred him.
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