DAYS THAT NEVER RETURN.
Over the strings of my harp to day
loats a song that is half a sigh,
ike the sound of leaves when the wind
sweeps by,
Like the sound of breakers far away,
As they beat and sol,
As they beat and throb,
Till I hear a voice in “Le d stant roar
On that lovely streteh of sandy shore,
Over the strings of my harp today
Floats a song for the dying year—
A song that Faris with an anshed tear
Through the winter twinght, chill and gray ,
As the breakers sob,
AS the breakers throb,
And I hear the voice with its old refrain,
For the days that never come bac. agains.
Over the strings of my harp to-day
Floais a song for my sweet, lost Jouth--
For oh, I would give, in ve y trulh,
Riches and fame and power away
To dream once mors
Those bright dreams o'er,
“It is 8 vain regret,” sighs the old refrain,
For the days that never come back again,
Over the strings of my harp to-day
Floats a song for the dying year;
A song that thrills wit an unshed tear
Like the sound of breakers far away
How they beat and sob!
How they beat and throb!
And I hear that vole with its old refrain,
For the days that never come back again.
— Unidentified.
i
OLD FRIENDS ONCE MORE.
BY WILLIAM PERRY BROWN,
“How we all change!” is often heard,
reminded, in various
tered looks and
buaintances.
No remark is more trite and common-
ways of youthful ac-
embracing every
from joy to sadness,
of hope to the vale of disappointment.
“Only twelve years, yet it seem¥ as if
another age had intervened,” said a
friend rather sadly to me one day.
variety of feeling,
ing out upon a charming landscape. A
ted from the family garret were at
either end of the divan, each nourish-
ing an amber tinted lily or two. Her
“gown” was medieaval, dull tinted and
lustreless, with a touch of Etruscan gold
here and there, snd *her manner was
characterized by an air of gently ex-
hausted melancholy. In her lap was a
ing photographs--the portraits of class-
mates and friends of other days.
Twelve sears ago she married and
went away. Recently she had return-
ed flushed with western prosperity to
her old home. She is looking, as she
speaks, at the picture of four of her old
school ma es. One was Beatrice, the
poet and valedictorian of the class in
which my friend graduated. Beatrice
wears ber white graduating gown. She
has a pale, serious face, and hair loose-
ly hanging, though innocent of bangs.
My friend remembers the sense of un-
rest, the vague Byronic yearnings with
which Beawice filled her copious
rhymes, always vowing that she never,
pever would marry, because she was
sure not to meet her ideal this side of
Heaven.
1
out of the village grocer’'s. Her arms
were full of bundles and by her side
was a |.ttle Beatrice, to whom she gave
ginger snaps from a paper bag, to keep
the child still while the two old friends
talked. My friend hardly knew her,
she was so changed, in manners as well
as looks. She was gay, smiling and lo-
quacions. She was no longer peusive
and dreamy; she had grown stout and
matter-of-fact. She talked chiefly
about the weather, the price of butter,
the scarcity of raspberries; and said
that Robson (ber husband: was no man-
ager at all. In brie’, Beatrice was
keeping boarders, and to my friend's
surprise, growing fat upon worry and
work, despite an indolent husband and
the low rate of board.
The old time Beatrice was fond of
soft clinging fabrics in her dresses, and
the girls thought her a genius, born to
“right the wrongs” of her sex in some
grand, mysterious way. And here she
was, her great mind contentedly settled
upon making one dollar do the work of
two, with three pretty children ang a
husband whom she loved, yet who could
aot make a living. As to her ideals,
perhaps the less said of them the bet
ter.
Two of the other pictures represented
Dolly and Isabel, both favorites of the
school and the viliage. The boys sent
them valentines and took them “baggy
riding.” The girls shared caramels
and pickios and new novels with them
cheerfully. They had mo end of u:ti-
mate friends, full of school girl confi-
deuces, and swearings of eternal fidelity
through after life. My frieud herself
had interchanged a score of delicate
feminine secrets with each one of them,
and had vowed unutterable affection,
and when school days were over began
a correspondence with Isabel that was
intended to end only in death. It last
ed three months, I believe,
The other day she met Dolly ins
street car. Her early beauty had faded,
there were more lines upon her fore-
head and beneath her eyes thau time
alone would bave placed there, Time
seemed to Lave been assisted by discon-
tent and a habit of fault finding, towlly
f« reign to her youthful days; and per-
haps held in abeyance Ly the geueral
agreeableness of everybouy then,
But Dolly's benlth hud failed, people
cowed to be so consuderste to Ler
wh ms, admirers grew less and less ut-
tentive, she was sill nomar ried aud had
snuk deeply into the typ.cal esteer of
old muid-h od, The staple of her talk
now was upon her ailments, upon the
dissgreeable traits of her acquaintances,
tion of things in general for ialling so
mneh below hier own expectations of the
way they should be. Doubtless good
besith aud an affectionate hustand
wonld have changed all this, but these
were pot fortheoming, and my friend
telt sad when she left Dolly.
Ivavel, sie met the previous snmmer
at a watering place. lsabel wus fush-
jonabie, and bud married a financial
megnite, who burrowed away at he
office the year round, wh ie his wife
squand: red money 1utown and conntry
miter siriet couv utionsl standards.
Isabel's Lusland is thirty yours the
oldest tn | ¢. éy have no eluldren. From
u gay aud winsome school girl she had
developed into n married coquette of
the udroitest kind. She is st once
Lear less, selfish and jpradent. Men
follow atter her whenever she cares
Cathet, Bhe dr ows (homo to tie verge of
extremity, yet never oversteps the lines
of social propriety, aud more than all—
is never enthused or confused. The
skill with which she extracts entertain-
ment from the hearts of men and the
envy of women 1s only equaled by her
after indifference to the source of
both.
Other old time faces. my friend saw,
youthfully portrayed in the old album,
and as she recalls their traits—then and
now—she finde much to surprise her
and something to grieve over as well
as jlesss Manners have altered, faults
and virtues have growam or fallen
away, but in most instances the radical
basis of character has developed natur-
ally under after influences, though in
somo producing strange results, to a
superficial eye.
In examining herself, she finds that
her present condition, though differing
much from youthful anticipation, is
{ largely the result of outward causes ad-
justing rather than creating certain now
well defined channels of taste, feeling
and thought, She is yet much the
| same, though 1 a different way.
| Reflection convinces her that the
girls that she used to know and herself,
have developed into a good deal such
women as might have been expected,
taking everything into consideration.
| Not always such, however, as they or
their friends did expect—which is often
quite another thing. There are no
| changes so various and wonderfal a
nature, for the reason that
| those of
the most unaccountable.
a
Why Minnie Could Not Sleep.
She sat up in bed. The curtain was
| drawn up, and she saw the moon, and
| 1% looked as if it were laughing at her,
| “You needn't look at me, Moon,” she
| said, “you don't know about it, you
can't see in the day-time. Besides, I
am going to sleep.”
She lay down and tried to go to sleep.
Her clock on the mantle went tick.
tock, tick-tock.” She generally liked
to hear it. But to-night it sounded just
as if it said: **I know, I know, I know.”
“You don't know either,” said Minnie,
opening her eyes wide. “Yon weren't
there, you old thing! you were up-
stairs,” =
Her loud voice awoke the parrot, He
took his head from under his wing, and
cried ont, “Polly did!" *“That’s a wick-
ed story, you naughty bird!” said Min-
nie, “You were in Grandma's room,
so now!” Then Minnie tried to go to
sleep again,
ed white sheep, just as grandma said
she did when she couldn't sleep. But
there was a big lump in her throat.
“Oh I wish I hadn't.”
Pretty soon there came sa very soft
patter of four little feet, and her pussy
jumped upon the bad, kissed Minnie's
cheek, then began to ‘‘pur-rr-r,” It
was very queer, but that too, sounded,
as if pussy said, “I know, 1 know.”
“Yes, you do know, Kitty,” said Min-
nie, and them she threw her arms
around Kitty's neck and cried bitterly.
“And—I-—guess—-I--want—to-see—-my
mammal” 4
Mamma opened ber arms when she
saw the little weeping girl coming,
and then Minnie told her miserable
story. “I was awful naughty, mamma,
but I did want the custard pe so bad,
and so Iate it un, 'm-st a whole pie,
and (hen, I-—1—0, I don't want to tell,
but &'pect I must, [ shut Kitty in the
mntry to make you think she did it
But I'm truly sorry, mamma.”
Mamma told Minnie she had known all
about it. But she had boped that her
little daughter would be brave enough
to tell her all about it herself, “But,
mamma,” she askel, “how did yom
know it wasu't Kitty?" “Because
Kitty would never have left a spoon in
the pie,” replied mamma, smiling.
Kentucky Church Chronicle,
Sometning Curious About Birde,
In the early spring the first birds to
make an appearance here are the robin
and the blae-bird, and a hittle later
come the blue snowbird, song sparrow
and pewee. The bird that I greet
with the greatest enthusissm is the song
sparrow. Many years ago [ made a
of this bird which to me was very in-
teresting. It appears that this bird is
not content to sing one monotonous
song like most species, but it has » list
of tunes, something like the hand-or-
gan grinder, which he sings all through
the nuptial season, woo ng his faithful
mate while engaged 1: her household
duties. If we listen to his songs we
will find that after repeating his little
ditty from fifteen to forty times he will
change it to another, so entirely dif-
| ferent that we can hardly believe it to
be the sume bird singing. Then he
! will enddenly take a third tune, sad so
will sing about nine distinet tunes
‘Lhese nine tunes he mings without
waristion during his lifetime of from
one to five years; but no two song
sparrows ever have the same list of
tunes, unless Ly accident they may
huve one or more of nearly the same.
When Oetober comes with
winds. verging on to November, the
bird weands its way to ite Southern win-
ter bome How they spend their time
| there 1 do not know, but when the sea-
son for their nuptial home arrives,
they eome buek to the same old loeali-
ty. to the same garden or hillside,
wherever it may be, and we hear the
same tunes repea‘ed that we learned
the year before.
that returned five successive years,
| singing the same nine tunes each year;
whether he kept the same mate all this
time I cannot ray. Femile birds never
| sing; a chirp is all they give. The
| roug sparrows have a locality which 1s
their home and they do not allow any
| other of the species to intrude npon
| their hunting yronnds. An ucre or two
{ of land is about all they claim, Pass-
ing their boundary asother pair of the
#8 coies will te found. 1hey never lo-
‘cate in the middle of a fell like the
biny winged or Savaunah sparrow,
ferring the om skirts, banks, gardens
sud roadsides for ther homes. Some
may smile and donbt wy tale, but I
have made a stndy of tie birds for
many years and huve learned to know
them all by their songs. —[ Grandpa.
Burren or eans of milk way be kept
perfectly cold by being wrapped in a
u litle water, where (ir ie
Domestic Helps.
BY KATHARINE ARMSTRONG,
—
1t 18 exceedingly helpful to the one
who has the care and management of
the table, the cuisine of a family, to]
find herself in cond tion to make ready |
a hasty lunch whenever unexpectedly
ealled for. 1t is an uncomiortable po-
sition for materfamilias to have noth-
ing at hand, already cooked, and be
obliged to send ont—depend upon out-
side cookery—for any one knows the |
baker's work, even of the best, 'tis not |
like the “home-made,” with the home-
made taste and flavor, Of cakes and
pies and other dainties, we do not
speak now, but of the more substantial
parts of a lunch, the main dish of
which should naturally be culd meat of
some sort. One week have a cold leg |
of mutton; another, a piece of spiced |
beef; another, a corned or smoked |
ham. All will keep 10 a cool place for |
sevaral days, and ‘*variety is the spice |
of life,” and change from one meat to |
another enbances the relish for all. |
Some families, we know, almost never |
buy mutton or lamb, believing no meat |
18 quite as wholesome as beef; but |
those very people are the ones who |
most thoroughly relish a dainty chop |
at the table of a friend. Nothing but a
groundlss whim, a foolish notion, pre- |
vents their buying a meat themselves
that is quite as delicious and as nour-
{ishing as the best beef. We mean, in |
speaking of meat, the best quality of
i all kinds, A little of the best 18 more
desira.le than a good deal of inferior |
quality.
We will try to give a few ideas in the
preparation of meats desirable ‘‘to have
in the house,” ready for convenience or |
emergency. First, very naturally, |
comes smoked tongues, They are pro-
fitable for families, as there is very lit- |
tle waste to them. They should be
soaked over might in milk-warm water, |
and put into cold water over the flre
the next morning; boil slowly for at
| least four hours, and allow to become
! cold in the water; then removethe skin
| and slice in thin beginning at
the small end and entting diagonally in
such a way that there will be no small
slices, all uniformly large. Cold tongus
| is a common dish, sure enough, but it
18 essy to tell whether it is cooked and
sliced by one “understands his
business," or not. Itis a far break
fast dish, as well as lunch dish, and not
amiss, among other meats, for dinner,
served with spinach.
A cold boiled ham is a very
| the housekeeper—so many ways in
which the meat can be utilized for the
| different meals. It can be brought on
for the principal meat for dinner when
hot; can make sandwiches, when cold,
i for the school children or for picnics;
a few slices on the breakfast or Innech
| table will not come amiss, or the
| ged parts can be scrambled with eggs
| in three minutes, and make a very sat
| isfactory dish, or made into eroquets
with eggs and cracker crumbs. The
| slicing of a boiled ham should begin at
the larger end. It should lie in cold |
water over night preparatory to boil.
ing, be well washed in the morning,
and put into cold water to boil--at no
time allowed to boil rapidly. A quart
| of sweet cider should be added to the
water, also alarge spoonful of molasses,
| Fifteen minutes’ Dotti for every
jonan will be the exact time to cook it,
Nothing is gained by hurrying the boil
ing of meats of soy kind, especially of
suit meats. It only hardens them, and
makes them tough and course. Ham,
like tongue, is better cooled in its own
broth; then it 18 moist, snd delicate in
color. A change from boiled is to give
it more slow cooking and browning in
the oven. The skin being removed,
place it in the oven, the fat side up,
having first brushed it over with beaten
egw, and sprinkled it over with fine
bread ths, oly Put one pint of cider
in the pan, and baste occasionally
bake one hour. A stuffed corned ham
is an agreeable change. Have the bone
removed and fill the cavily with a
dressing made of stale bread crumbs,
salt, pepper and sweet herbs—all
mowstened with an egg and a little but.
ter. Secure iu a linea cloth, and beil
| till done, cooling 1n its own liquor.
Another good way to prepare meat |
for luncheon, and make delicious the |
unsightly bits acd pieces of good meat, |
18 the fc wg: “Chop finely all the |
‘odds and ends,’ rejecting the discolor- |
| od pieces and gristle. Add rolled soda |
| crackers and egrs enough to!
make all of the consistency of s stiff |
| batter, adding salt, pepper and a little |
butter. Put into s well buttered pud-
ding disk and beke ome hour, When |
| cold tara out and slice for the table.
| A few sweet herbs added, give variety, |
| Some use raw beel—raw meat, for this |
| dish, but we have found most satisfac.
| tion in using that already cooked.
Croquets will also make use of odd
| and ed remsins of any sort of
| meat, by using one cup of chopped
| meat, one of milk, oue of fine crumbs,
‘a little melted buttert two egge and
| plenty of seasoning. Form into ero.
, quets with the bands and fry brown in
| hot drippings.
Most people will relish a salad made |
(of meat in the way; ebop finely a
' couple of pounds of cold boiled corned
| beet, add two-thirds of a eup of vine
| far, a spoonful of sugar, one egg, a
' little pepper, best and mix all well to-
| gether nnd put in a saucepan over the
| fire, when boiling, pour into a buttered
d sh to mould. Cat in than slices and |
serve on lettuce, i
An appetizing warm dish ie made in |
this way; take clear tender lean beef, |
about a pint, when finely chopped, raw |
steak, add one small minced onion, a |
| little salt and pepper, make into round, |
flat cakes, with the bands, and fry a
' rich brown, in butter, thicken the te
| ter remaining in the pan with a little
| lonr and water blended, and pour
| over the browned cakes. — Observer,
slices,
who
mine to
Tag
:
ib
Tae Hon, E, Everett, the American
| Benator, once bad his health proposed
| thus by the artist Story: “Here's
| Lowrning—when Ever-it rises it grows,”
| Everett, springing to his feet, at once
(exclaimed: “I beg to amend! Here's
ito Lgaruing--whenever it rises it grows
| but never above one Story.”
However goud you may be, you have
faults; however dull you may be, you
can Bud cut what some of thw wre;
Lund, © vever slit thes may be, you
bud bet er minke some patent efforts to
gel quit of thei,
The Pride of the Poor,
‘Where'er I take my walks abroad,
How many pour I see!’
There is the proverbial blind man st
every street corner, a vender of odd
things forever dogging your heels, a
little flower girl at your elbow when-
ever you are in a hurry, and at night.
when the company have all dispersed,
there is a tramp ut your back door,
Yet, thanks to a free government, an
inspired business sentiment, and » con-
to strive, the poor of our country are
hmited—very limited, compared to the
destitute that exist under more despo-
But the beggar and the itinerant are
not the poor. Theyare tradespecple— |
following a profession to their own Jik- |
ing—and since others do not strive for |
it, they have a monopoly snd make a |
good thing out of it, too. No; these |
are not the poor. The poor are in hid- |
ing. The.r wants they never tell, un-
less you make a bold search to find |
them out. They pass you every day in |
the street and unless you look very |
closely you will not discover that then |
clothes are poorer than yours. ‘The |
s'ruggle and the pinching goes on ina |
fa behind a ver
effectual screen. If the clothes will
stand a cursory glance, the shiny marks
view. If the tops of the boots will]
match your own in decency, the soles, |
you may be sure, have holes, that let |
the poor proud feet come once too
on stormy days, and the case may be
followed to a consumptive patient on a
dying bed.
Not only do the poor hido in the |
busy haunts, bat they walk side by mado |
with you in society and you never sus- |
pect it,
{
i
expensive gathering.
to some plausible excuse,
course you swallow,
6 Sunday School.
time,
not all come together every Sunday,
one of the little ones blurted out: ‘Be-
tase we've only one dood fy ock for us
all.’
She was a marvel to look at--a little
old lady in black with a close fitting
bonnet edged with white. It is true
Ouly one came at a
neat darns, but she looked so clean
and sweet, and had such a cheery smile
on her white thin face,
‘Oh! Come in, do.
please stay bere and rest.’
Only a look from the faded eyes, but
oh, so tender, as the tottering steps
drew timidly near the welcome hod
“There. Pleaso take this chair: for
I know from experienc: it is the easiest
in the house. Fhat's itt Now [1 will
make yous cup of tea, for I'm sure you
need it.’
A little more bustle and fuss, an oe-
easxional brush scross the eves when
the old lady was not looking, and soon
the little table of refreshment was
placed before the guest. Another of
those tender looks, as she was enjoined
to partake of what was before her,
ust then the door opened, In came
someone who looked every inch a mis.
tress,
3
i.
‘Mary, who have you here?
Mary explained, but the explanation
did not seem to satisfy,
The poor old lady gave a slartled
look in the direction of the mistress,
and then rose witha not unbecoming
dignity and moved towards the door,
‘Stay, where are you going? 1 want
you to have something to eat, especial-
ly now it is laid for you!’
‘Thank you, madam,’ was the sweet
but proud reply, ‘but I could not eat 1t
now, Good day.’
She went out, but the thoughts that
troubled her were not harsh or bitter,
Instead, sbe was murmuring: ‘Poor
Mary, poor girl! I shall be very much
distressed if she gets
through me?
A tramp entered a confectioners
store. The young lady behind the
counter looked hard at the tattered
coat, the dented, slouching bat, the
grizzled face, as he advanced and in-
stantly made up her mind that he had
come begging.
‘Sorry,’ said she brusquely, ‘but we
haven't anytlung to give you.’
and then lifting his bead as proudly as a
_y ‘Didn't ast yer. A
penny eake, please,” and down went
the money with a ring,
It is not always sale to judge by ap-
noes.
She lived in a very uncomfortable
attic, where the sun poured down on
the roof day after day, nod the showers
when they came seemed rather to scald
than ecol,
Stiteh, stiteh, slitch, day in, da
out, and only a bare living gained.
knock at the door, an perative,
‘Open please,’ and in stepped a haughty
young dame.
‘Is my dress finished?’
‘No Miss; 1 am sorry, but I
nd, and it has
boen very hot. The needle was held
suspended a moment, and the quiet
face lovked up worn and tired, as if to
swmbhasize the words.
‘You promised it this avening, and if
1 do not get it by eight, yov may nos
expoet any more work trom me.’
here was something unlearable in
the tone, and the geusle soamutress
looked up quietly, while a slight blush
illumined her pale features. ‘Very
well, madam, You remamber I said it
would be finished to-day or to-morrow,
I have done my best. You shall have
the dress to-morrow. God evening.’
She drew her small, emaciated figure
to its full height and uslered ber visi
tor out with the air of wn injured
ween.
It sre the door wu well olosed,
she dropped to the flocr, a poor deso-
late hea ‘Mother, mother! Why
can't I die and come to you? y are
sll alike. And now she will not
me any more work. But I cannot
it, if starve. Oh Gd. have pity,
take me!’
Yet in our blie man
eqnal, Sealy, wd
The Bomelter the phrase here, the
tter,
We are to be pitied as well as the
street arabs. Just think of the draw-
backs to our rose-hued plans for doin
good. At evening, in richly-car
and softly-lighted rooms, fired with the
glow that a pretty story- just read
from one of our leading magazines—
has left, we feel a poignant sympathy
with our less fortunate fellows. In
dreams we extend our hands, and
bend smilingly over picturesque rags
and dirt, and feel so satisfied about our
charitable frame of mind, But in real
life: ‘Oh, Iam so busy. I am en-
gaged with company. I'll attend to
the case later.’ 1t is 80 easy to forget.
It saves us the trouble of confessing
that our idle evening dyeams will not
stand the daylight.
‘God helps those that help them-
selves.” You frequently use this ex-
tion and feel justified in doing so.
Vell, let your street arabs learn it.
¥OOD FOR THOUGHT,
Don’t mistake pleasure for happy ns,
Conversing with God assimilates the
soul to Him.
[Affe 1s the best school, and conscience
the best guide.
Nine-tenths of a.an’s ills come only
as they are invited,
Berve God by doing commen actions
in a heavenly spirit,
Persons who have dirty back yards
leave dirty memories,
Our best friends are not those who al-
ways come with taffy,
The man who is always sober is al.
ways on the right road,
Never ask a man for his advice unless
you ars wiliing Lo accept it.
Every momentof time may be made to
bear the buiden of something which is
eternal,
They need to, But what are you go-
ing to do about those that are strug-
ling to help themselves,
1hese are the poor. As deserving
poor they should find the well-worn
Open
parade of their poverty, Respect their
delicate pride; it is the link that binds
them to this world.
ad them, your sympathy to
What if yon should be among the
proud poor yours-lves some day! These
very ones would be the first to help
you from their slender means. Only
the heart and the character can make a
justifiable distinction between men; for
we are ali born equal,
‘My coat Is a coarse one, an' yours may be
wine;
But we baith ha'e a leal heart, unspotted fo
shaw ;
Bae gi'e me your hand, we are brethren a’,
Your mother has lo'ed you as mithers can lo'e;
An’ mine has done for me what mithers can do;
twa:
Bae gi'e me your hand, —we are brethren a’,
We love the same simmer day, sunny and fal
Hame! O, how we love it, an’ a’ that are
therel
draw
Come, gi'e me your han
Seasonable Things and Where to
Evy Them.
It is a matter of universal assent,
that the real statue of an individual
may be determined Ly a glance at his
feet, for these metabere are usually the
Inst to fall iine and so complete
the pioture of physical enlture and re.
finement. The style and graces of the
grande dame way be assuiacd Ly any
young woman gifted with a fair amount
of adaptability; the fashion of her cos-
tume and the precise manner in which
she wears her bonnet can be easily imi-
tated, bat Milad's pretty pedals in
their well-fitting boots or Lies are not so
easily copied. Tlds difficulty, however,
nto
the modern shoe.
There are so few fanltless feet that
the art of the shoemaker is, of neces-
come all defects,
Among those who occupy a high 1ank
in this department, is A. J. Cammeyer
of Sixth Avenue aad Twelith Street.
| The throug of buyers io be found in
his spacious and finely appointed store,
during all hours of the day, bears wit.
ness to the (ruth of this statement,
He lends and controls the best class
of trade both in the city and out of it,
cellence and elegance.
to be cited in connection with this
popular establishment, is that the
| seliedule of rrices at all seasons com-
| mends itself to people of moderate means
Goods are bought 1n such quantities
and so quickly Sapo of as to war-
rant moderate prices to all customers.
| Just luw, unusual reductions are offer-
| ed, and those who would secure these
| bargains should avail themselves of
| thus cpportunity to purchase the best
class of goods sat low rates. Their
| Fall catalogue will be rescy by the fif-
| teenth of Se tewber, and will contain
about four hundred illustrations, to-
gether with explicit diroctions for foot
measurements. This eatalogue will be
promptly sent, by mail, to all who ap-
| ply for it, and those near to or remote
rom New York can order anything in
this line which he may desire, by fol-
lowing the instructions for measure-
ments indicated and originated by this
well-known house.
*
* »
Hitherto, nothing has been found to
aid ladies in the proper and satisfaco-
tory arrangement of the hair, yet there
is no part of the toilette which adds so
much to & lady's perso a rance.
No matter how rich and eo t the
costume may be, or with what grace it
may be worn, if the hair is not eareful-
ly arranged, the entire effect 1s spoiled.
A pleasant fact,
Ax ErmctRoruatep Koo, -Abont three
years ago, a silver-plater, named Down-
Ton Sh hu a
y prepared, into a silver , Bl
A on the battery. The result was
a silver
showed the «minute pores of
shell, and appeared to be a delicate
work of art. The egg was exhibited
tor » long time, and not one person in
a hundred would believe it to be any-
thing but a cunning specimen of
silversmith’s art. One , to settle a
discussion, Mr. Downing cul the silver
egg in two, and it was found to be as
fresh and sweet us the day it was elect-
roplated. Its silver touting had her-
metioally sealed the pores of the shell
Since then experiments have been made
which have resulted in divulging « most
astonishing
and eh
Tenderness makes a woman gratefn’;
| & noble manhood compels all her deep
| instincts of love,
i Of course it is not a crim» to be poor
i but it might just as well b: when its pez-
| alt'es ure so severe,
{ There is something better thana re-
| vival, and that is a christs life that
| doesn’t need to be reyived,
The mischief of it is that, though
traveling takes the conceit out of 2 mn,
| coming back puts more in,
The talent of success is nothing wore
{ than doing what you ean do well, and
| doing well whatever you dc.
{| Whatever else may be wrong it must
| be right to be pure—to be just aud ten-
| der, and merciful and honest,
{ The trouble with your pretty man fs
| that he is Loo pretty to be useful and
| not pretty enough to be ornamental.
| What would be the result if we never
| engaged In any undertek'ng upon which
{ we would po! ask, sincerely, Go1’s bless
| ing?
Better follow the sterpess of a truth
| than the glittering delusion of a lle.
Men often follow lies because they
shine,
Ninety-nine per cent, of ambition to
try snd 1 per cent, of talent 18 all that
18 necessary Lo succ:ss in whatever we
undertake,
When aman bas done a good thing
he sits down to rest, but when he has
done a bad thing he loses no time in
doling anther,
Beware of prejudices; they are like
rails, and men’s minds are like traps.
Prejudices cr-ep in easily, bat it is
doubtful if they ever get out,
The next best thing to being bappy
one’s self is to be able to make others
so, Perhaps that may be the sort of
happiness they have In the next world,
Leisure is time for doing something
useful; the leisure the diligent man will
0: tain but the lazy man, never; so that
a iife of leisure and a life of lazizess are
{wo things,
The value of what many a man says
depends upon what he has sald previ-
‘ously. Hehasearned the right to speak
, with authority, and people listen {0 Lim
| a8 one of that character,
Nevertry to getalong by substituting
muscle for brain. It is not hard work
| that ‘gets tiere,” but the i1ight kird
of work well directed, which may be
done with comparative ease,
The world is a looking-glass, and
gives back to every man the reflection
of hisown face, Frownatit.anditw lil
in turn look surly upou you; laugh at it,
and it is a jolly, kind cow panion.
No soul can preserve the bloom and
delicacy of Its existence without lonely
musings and silent prayer, and the
greatness of this neces Ly is in propor-
tion to the greatness of Lhe son’,
Some people, rather than lose a good
| metaphor, or & fine s:ntence, are often
tempted to assert what is not altogether
| accurate; and they have their reward.
| They astonish but do not convince,
| Good character largely depends upon
| the constant repetition of good actions
| unt! they become habitual; and whet-
ever innocent Weans are necessary tw
secure this shonid be used. The best
should have the preference if they can
| be made effective; but it is useless to
| press unavailable motives to which
there is uo response in the heart of the
one to be influenced,
Courtesy is said to cost bat little,
while it gives its possesser great gan,
Iu one sense this is true, but in another
se180 courtesy costs the subjection of
se!'; and that is pot a little thing, by sny
weans, The essence of courtesy is the
‘nstinetive giviug to others the first
piace in one’s thoughts and words and
sotions, The attainment of this grace
costs a grea dea’; and It is worth more
than it costs,
Our post of duty is never 'o more than
one place at the same ime For the
time being, we always in one
place, and iu one place . we rec.
Uihues Gale duit we shall never have
| Ten on to that we ought, perhaps,
to oe somewhere else than just where
we are, when we are in a place where
our present duty lies, —and we never
have a right to be anywhere, eves for
& moment, where It is not our duty to
be. There sno such a thing ss a choice
between duty and its ng We
ought always 80 be where we
8d it would be wrong for uigengey
a6re,
Courtesy le the unostentations giv
of due deference and due AUioas Sixing
others, He who would seem
i;
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