THE SONC OF THE PINES.
W« are the masts of ships, "Gardens that fo.ired my blast
Nurtured for centuries ; Everywhere men, below:
Btorm-wtud and mountain-breeze Dancer and toil and woe,
Taught us our harmonies, Wonders ye may net kuow,
Kissed us with mother lips. All these I saw and passed.
8e» how the tender and stera "Nay, but new melody
Heavens have bidden us rise, Bring I to greet your ears.
Crying, "Behold the eyes \e. without doubts or fears,
©f stars in the faithful skies:— Not all in vain are the years ;
Lift up your heads and learn !" Lo, I behold the Sea!"'
Hear how the Sun doth laugh, Long hath it called to us
"Climb ye thus, sons of mine? Here on our mountain-side.
Beok ye for things divine? Patient we wait, we bide.
Yours is the sunlight wine:— Dreaming of waves and tide:
Take of my warmth and quaff." Do they not murmur thus?
Cometh our bard, the Wind, Masts of the ship to bet-
Bringing us songs, and salth : This is the tryst we kei'p,
"Nav, this is naught but breath; Hearing the unseen deep:
Striving and love and death, And we answer in our sleep.
These X left, far behind! We shall beh ild th« Sea!
—Josephine Preston Teabody, itj Youth's Companloa.
$ THE TRAM PS KISS. t
A wet, boisterons night. Along a
rain-sodden country road u man, with
his hat brim pulled forward over his
eyes, slowly plodded his way. He
had left the city more than two hours
before, and its lights had disappeared
with the oncoming of the storm.
The weary pedestrian suddenly
paused and leaned on the knobbly
stick in his hand. No! he was not
mistaken; the light he had seen ema
nated from a cottage window—a cot
tage that stood just off the turnpike.
Surely every heart did not beat unre
sponsive to the cry of hunger aud
cnarity! Surely he was not doomed
to die of starvation and fatigue in this,
a Christian laud!
The grimy lingers closed tightly
about the stick, and the starving man
approached the door of the little cot
tage. The sound of voices reached
his ears as he stood for a moment ir
resolute. One was the deep, gruff
voice of a man,and the other was that
of a woman. He knocked gently upon
the door. It was opened, and a stal
wart yeomau appeared. The wayfarer's
eyes wandered from the cozy fire to
tlie repast on the table before it aud
from thence to tho ruddy face above
him.
"Well, what d'ye want?" snapped
the cottager.
"A mouthful of food—l'm starving,"
replied the wayfarer.
"Food, eh! thet's allays the cry,"
snarled the other. "Why don't yer
work fer it,same as Oi do? Ger away,
or Oi'll set the dog on yer!" and the
door was shut violently iu the suppli
caut's face.
A low moan escaped his lips.and he
leaned heavily against the trelliswork
before the door. Wheu at length he
turned from the cottage and sought the
open road a strange light had entered
his sunken eyes—the light of despera
tion— madness! Wild, incoherent
words fell from his lips; an exultant
laugh gurgled in his throat. Hai;k!
What was that? Something was ap
proaching from behind.
Ah! that something was a cyclist.
He could see the small, trembling light
of the lamp and could hear the suck
ling sound of the tires on the wet
road. The starving wretch stepped
back beneath the shadow of a tree, aud
as the solitary cyclist drew near he
placed himself directly in his path.
"Great Scott, my man! where the
dickens have you sprung from?" ejac
ulated the rider, a young fellow,as he
dropped lightly from his machine.
"It's a good job I was going easy; if
I hadn't either you or me, or both of
us, would have been fitting subjects
fer surgical research by this!" aud the
speaker gave his broad shoulders a
shake to dislodge the rain from his
storm cape.
"I wanted yon to stop," said the
other, his words coming through his
set teeth.
"Indeed, aud for what reason?" in
terrogated tho cyclist, trying to see
the features of the last speaker.
"I—l want help," and the knobbly
stick was lifted, undiscerned by the
cyclist, a few inches from the ground.
"Help, did you say? Then you're
'on tho road?' eh?"
"Call it that if you like, but—l'm
starving!"
"Good heavens! Yes, now I see
your face I don't doubt it! Here, old
chap, for goodness sake go and get
something to eat," and the young fel
low plunged his hand iu his pocket.
Suddenly a thought seemed to strike
him.
"But money would be no use to
yon," ho said; "you want food, and
you can't buy that any nearer than
the town. Stay, I know. lamon my
way to a house half a mile further up
the road—the house is called 'The
Hollies'—you can't mistake it; there
are two turrets; besides, anyone will
tell you which is Mr. Templeton's
house. I will ride on—ah! I see you
know Mr. Templeton; but you have
110 occasion to bo afraid of him. He's
a justice of the peace, I kuow, but he's
got a soft heart—and if he hadn't, his
daughter has. * * • Well, I'll just
spin along and see there's something
ready for you to eat when you arrive."
The young fellow had placed his
foot on the step of his bicycle to
mount when he felt the tramp's touch
on his shoulder.
"Well?—you understand me, didn't
"Yes, I understood yon, but——"
"But what?"
"Who is this Mr. Templeton whom
you just spoke about—is it Robert
Templeton, the celebrated architect?"
"Yes."
"And is he related to you?"
A shade of annoyance crossed the
young fellow's face, but only for an
instant.
"No,uot exactly—as yet," hereplied
with a laugh. "But I may be related
to him before long - at least I hope so,
as a sou-in-law,you know."
"Ah! I had forgotten; lie lias a
daughter."
The knobbly stick lav on the ground
now, and its owner was trembling like
a leaf. With an spring the cy
clist seatel himself in his saddle, and
as his feet found the pedals he looked
round over his shoulder.
"Don't forget," said he; "the house
with the turrets. I will vouch there
is a good, square meal awaiting you."
And witli that he rode away through
the drenching rain.
Robert Temploton, the world-famed
architect, sot in his study deep in
thought. From some distant portion
of the old hous3 tho sound of a girl's
fre-th,young voice,singing "Love's Old
Sweet Song," reached his ears. Sud
denly the song ceased, and Robert
Templetou knew the dreaded moment
had arrived—knew that Harold Frank
lin had called for his (Teuipletou's)
answer.
He had promised to give it that very
night —that very hour—and Franklin,
anxious lover that ha was, had braved
the inclemency of that night to hear
that which meant either life-long hap
piness for him or a d earv drag of
"stale, flat and unprofitable" e\istence.
Templeton rose from his chair and
paced slowly about the room.
The story he lia.l to tell Harold
Franklin wai inevitable. How would
he receive that story? Would he, in
his great love for Clarice, laugh the
deception to scorn; or would he heap
contumely upon the narrator's head
and leave the girl who loved him. for
ever? No, banish the latter thought!
Harold Franklin was a true English
gentleman —not one of the soulless
creatures who sometimes pose a-; such
—creatures of veneer and vapidity—
but a man with a heart as sound as
one of the oaks of his native land; a
man who valued his fellow-creatures
for their true mind-worth and uot sole
ly ou account of the'.r wealth of the
world's goods.
Half an hour passed,and Templeton
was still pacing about his study, when
a firm step approached, atid a knock
sounded upon the door. Templetou
went across and threw it wide open.
His visitor was Harold Franklin.
"And so you have come for inv
answer, Harold?" said the architect,
after their formal greeting.
"Yes,sir," replied the youn:? fellow,
with a quick look in the other's face.
Templeton placed a chair for his
visitor and sat down facing him.
"But where is Clarice? It is neces
sary she,too,should hear what I have
to say," he said.
"Claric? is acting the good Samar
itan to a poor fellow I me! o i the
road," said Franklin. "Ho was faint
with hunger, HO I presumed to invite
him to bite and sup beneath your roof,
Mr. Templeton. I trust my presump
tion did not overstep the bounds of
my ac piaiutanceship with yourself
"You did perfectly right, Harold,"
interposed the elder man."And
Clarice, you say, is attending to the
poor fellow with her own hands?"
"Yes,sir; she preferred to do so."
A few minutes later Clarice Temple
ton entered the room, and both its
male occupants were surprised to see
her eyes were tearful. "You have
been weeping, child?" said her father,
as she sank down ou the hassock at
his side.
"Yes," she said softly; "it was
something thit poor man did an 1 said
when he was bidding me good night
and thanking me for the food I had
placed before him."
Robert Templeton was too much
engrossed with his own thoughts to
reply to what Clarice was saying.
".My child," he said, after a short
pause, "it is only right that you
should hear what lam now about to
say. It is only right that the man
who desires to make you his wife, and
who is here tonight for my answer,
should kuow your history— and mine."
The young lovers gazed wondering
ly upon the speaker, and their hands
sought each other's instinctively.
"History, sir! I scarcely under
stand yon," said Frauklin. "1 know
already that you, the most illustrious
architect of the time, were, in your
youuger days, far poorer than you
now are. Have you not told me often
that your early struggles were fraught
with privation? Your history, sir; is
one that redounds to your credit."
"I do not refer to the struggles of
my youth, Harold; it is something
else—something which concerns Clar
ice. It is this: Clarice is not my
daughter!"
The words were spoken at last.
"Not your daughter?" whispered
the girl, her face blanching deathly
pale.
"Sit down again, my child,and listen
to my story. It is an old story—a
common theme for novelists, but true
in my case:
"Two brothers fell in love with one
girl. One of the brothers is studious
and aspiring; the other is wild and
careless. The girl chooses the one
who thought of tomorrow as a time of
pleasure and hated the plodding life
of industry. The brother who was
studious guarded his secret well;
none knew his heart was rent with un
requited love. He smiled and spoke
commonplace words to the woman
who had unconsciously broken his
heart; but in the solitude of the night
his thoughts would ever wander from
his books to the dream that had been
shattered.
"He left his native town and settled
for a short time in Manchester. One
day he received word that the brother
who occupied the place he himself had
ofteu dreamed to fill had been ar
rested on a charge of forgery. The
charge was well-founded,and eventual
ly hew.is sentenced to 15 years' penal
servitude.
"This was two years after his mar
riage and one year after his child was
born. His wife never recovered from
the shock, and when the husband had
served but one year of his imprison
ment she was laid to rest. I reached
her side a few hours before she died.
She begged that I would take care of
the golden-haired prattler she was
leaving behind —take care of her until
he had served his period of imprison
ment. I promised, and when the
earth closed over the body of her I
had loved I took the child away—the
child that resembled the mother so
much. Yon were that child, Clarice."
A silence fell 0:1 the ltttle group as
Templetou finished speaking, and the
golden head of Clarice had drooped
forward until it found rest on the ar
chitect's knee.
"And what do you expect me to
say, Mr. Templetou?" ask.3d Franklin
at length.
"I expect to hear you say what your
heart prompts you to say."
"My heart prompts me to say that
nothing you have told me tonight has
altered my love for Clarice, and I re
peat again—l love her dearly, and she
loves me; we ask your conseut to out
marriage. "
"And I give it, Harold," said Tem
pleton, taking Franklin's hand and
wringing it. The young fellow stooped
and raised Clarice from her dejected
attitude, kissed her streaming face,and
they passed slowly, side by side, from
the room.
An hour later the lovers stood at
the end of the wooded drive bidding
each other good night. The rain bed
ceased falling.
"And to think, Harold, that I, who
have always felt proud of my parent
age, should be so disillusioned; to
think that I am the daughter of a
felon!" aud as the words fell from
Clarice Templeton's lips she sought
to chock the sobs that filled her bosom.
Franklin drew har throbbing form
closer to his side.
"Nay, sweetheart, let not the news
trouble you so. l'ou are not to blame
for what your father did, and he, per
haps, by this is sorrowing for his past
cruelty and wickedness. However,
let us try to forget him and the past
aud be happy in our mutual love and
the golden days to come."
Engrossed as the lovers were, neither
of them were cognizant of the proxim
ity of a third person—a man, who
crouched in the shadow of the trees.
"Yes, forget him and the past,"
murmured the latter; "it is only light
that you should. As for him! "
and the crouching figure stole softly
away.
"But tell me, Clarice," said Frank
lin, "tell me the cause of the tears I
saw in your eyes when you joined
your father (I shall always call him
snch) and me in his study."
"It was the poor man—the tramp
"He did not frighten you?" broke
in Franklin.
"Frighten me, Harold! No, some
thing (juite different. He said I re
minded hiiu of one he loved—a daugh
ter who is lost to him forever—and
and he asked me to—to kiss him, Har
old."
"And you did?" queried Franklin,
smilingly.
"l'es, I couldn't refuse. Besides,
he was an old man, you know."
« » • ♦ • • •
Tho following day there was found
in a pool some miles away the dead
body of an unknown man. It was
the tramp.—Tit-Bits.
llangkok, an E«ntern Venice*
Bangkok, Sin:u, i3 variously called
by those people who revel in compar
isons, the "Venice of the East" and
tho "Constantinople of Asia;" in the
first instance, because of the many
canals that run through the city, and
in the second, because of the hun
dreds of wretched aud ownerless pa
riah dogs that roam its streets with
impunity. There is much truth in
both comparisons. Certainly, Bong*
kok is the home of the gaunt and
ugly pariah dog, which speuds its life
foraging aud getting just enough to
keep life in its mangy carcass, multi
plying meantime with the fecundity
of cats and a tropical ciime, because
Buddhist's doctrine forbids its kill
ing. Outoast dogs are not the only
pests whose multiplication in Bang
kok may be charged to Buddhism:
more noisy crows perch of an early
morning on your window-casing and
the tree immediately beyond it than
in the space of a day hover near the
Towers of Silence at Bombay await
ing the pleasure of the vultures that
feed on the last earthly remains of
those who have died in the faith 0/
the Parse*.—Harper's Weekly.
Domestic Thrill*.
"Have you ever experienced the e*-
citement of being aroused from sleep
in a house at night when it was on
lire?"
"No, but I have several times gone
through the excitement upon my
wife's announcement of her belief that
tue baby had swallowed her thimble."
—Chicago News.
I THE REALM 1
| OK FASHION, I
l»iiiiiiiiM«iMiiiiwiil
NEW YORK CMT (Special).—Blouses
in the style shown below may be worn
with a straight full or gored skirt for
school, outing or general wear. French
blue and white serge is here prettily
GIRL'S BLOUSE.
united, mixed braid in the same.color
ing forming the trimming. The
blouse is simply shaped with under
arm and shoulder seams, the lower
edge being completed with a hem,
through which elastic is drawn to
regulate the fullness. The fronts are
cut away >n V shape to disclose the
braid-trimmed shield, a box plait be
ing applied below, through which the
cl6sing is made with small mock
amethyst buttons and buttonholes.
The standing collar, which is joined to
the shield, closes in centre back; the
shield, beiug sewed to the right front,
is closed invisibly under lapel of
Bailor collar on left. Tho sailor col
lar, with gracefully curved lapels, is
a pretty feature of the blouse. The
one-seamed sleeves, gathered top and
POINTED DRAPERY FOR CLINGING SKIRTS.
bottom, are finished at the wrists by
deep round cuffs. Attractive com
binations may be effected by the mode
or one material only may be used.
Flannel, cheviot, tweed, serge or light
weight cloth, pique, duck or Madras
are appropriate materials, while braid,
plain or ruched ribbon, gimp inser
tion or embroidery may bo used for
decoration.
To make this blouse for a girl of ten
years it will require one and one
half yards of material forty-four
inches wide.
Useful With Clinging Skirt*.
With clinging skirts, the old-time
fashion of over-skirt drapery has been
successfully revived this seasou. The
style presented in the large engrav
ing is one of the most graceful, and
forni3 part of a costume of fawn-col
ored cloth, trimmed with applique
embroidery in black and white silk.
The drapery is of circular shapiug,
single darts at each side of the centre
seam fitting it closely at the top. The
closure is made at top of tho centre
seam, with double buttons and loops
or single buttons and buttonholes, if
so preferred. The drapery may be
open in front either partly or to the
waistline, in which caso no placket
need be made in the back. The drap
ery is curved high at the sides, aud
may be laid in jabot-like box pleats or
allowed to fall hee in pretty ripples
all around the sides and back.
Overskirts in this style prove de
sirable for remodelling gowns, as they
do not always match the underskirt,
and the same fabric is introduced on
part of the bodice yoka, sleeves, col
lar, etc.
To make this skirt in the medium
size will require two and one-half
yards of material forty-four inches
wide.
Strings For Summer Bonnets.
Fashion seems on the way to adopt
strings much more generally thau
was deemed possible at the beginning
of the season. During the spring sea
son, at least, wide strings of Mechliu
tulle, tied in a big bow under the
chin, were extremely fashionable, and
there is no doubt that they will be
maintained throughout the summer.
Tulle strings may be apnlied to any
kind of hat, toque or capote, even
those wherein tulle does not enter as
a trimming, when they are fastened
to the back of the brim in a little
ponf. Bather more than two yards
are required. Capelines and capotes
have the monopoly of ribbon strings
in satin, faille or velvet. Wide ribbon
strings are exceptional, and velvet is
chosen; one inch width is sufficient.
Greek aud other fancy nets are come-
times substituted for tulle, being of a
less perishable nature; they are often
favored for economic motives, but the
fragile material is more becoming.
Smart Summer Slippers.
That fall fashions move in a circle
is attested by the fact that we are des
tined to wear as the smart slipper of
the season a shape and material seen
oft before. The slipper is either black
patent leather or dull finished French
kid, with a red heel and lining of red
silk. There is nothing surprisingly
new about all this save the three pretty
points that run upon the instep anil
the oval buckle of imitation diamonds
and rubies that are fastened at the
base of these points. So chaste but
chic a style of foot covering naturally
cannot be worn without new hoisery,
and the stockings are undeniably very
pretty. A perfectly plain black stock
ing is now quite unfashionoble. Ankles
must display pin stripes' of interwoven
silk in three colors and close set or
openwork woven over a color, or
checks that are most elaborate, or a
powdering of minute colored flowers.
Silks For Summer.
China or India silks are to be more
fashionable this year than they have
been for a very long time. They are
certainly much cooler than the taffe
tas, or, for that matter, than almost
any othur material in the market.
They are exquisite in coloring, and,
besides, have a great variety of de
signs entirely different from those
used on the taffetas, except the black
figured ones that have much the same
designs, lacking, however, the stiff
ness and body of the taffetas. Many
of the figured China silks are compar
atively inexpensive, and almost all
wear well. They must be made up
either with a silk lining or with a very
good cotton lining, while tha taffeta
silks have the ailvautage of not need
ing a lining. —Harper's Bazar.
To Ainkr » Fashionable Toque.
A few yards of tulle, more yards of
flue wire and a bunch of flowers form
a good recipe for a fashionable toque.
Simple enough in the abstract, yet no I
one but the most artistic milliner can j
bring anything like success out of this
combination.
A Cape With Scalloped Eilgc.
This charming Parisian model is of
dove-gray broadcloth, embroidered all
over with black and white mixed braid. ;
Corded folds of black satin finish the J
edges, a full pleating of black mous- i
seline de soie over a gathered frill of
white taffeta silk falling softly under
neath. A lining of white taffeta
daiutly finishes the inside, and at tho
neck is worn a full bow of mousseliue.
The cape is fitted smoothly at the top
by single darts taken up at the !
shoulders, the backs meeting in a
centre seam. The sectional collar is j
prettily scalloped on its upper edge :
and flares becomingly, rounding away :
from the front.
Stylish capes this season are made
of guipure lace and perforated cloth
over silk or satin of contrasting colors.
Capes of poplin, satin, velvet, armure,
Venetian and broadcloth may match or
contrast widely with tho skirt. Great
elaboration of detail is permissible in
the ornamentation of these dressy top
garments, insertion, lace, braid or
WOMAN'S CAPE.
passementerie, ruchings and pleatings
of ribbon and mousseline often being
seen all on one oape.
To make this cape for a woman of
medium size will require one and
three-quarter yards of material twenty
four inches wide.
AN EXPANSIONIST.
Expansion '.9 all right, my boy;
1 know.for I have tried.
Just listen what It's done for ma
And see If I havo lied.
Wnen I first started to expand
I measured thirty Inch;
But I got a job directly—
Counting votes—it was a cinch.
When I expanded six Inch more
I got elected then
Assistant tax-assessor
By majority of ten.
Six more inches made mo burgessj
Six more made me county clerk;
Six more made me judge of probate-.
After that 'twas easy work.
Six more inches mHdc me counsel
For the Si|uawtowu-valley road;
Six more landed me iu Congress—
If they didn't I'll be blowed.
Sixty Inch and still expanding,
But retired, as you see;
And you couldn't oven tempt me
With a thousand-dollar fee.
So don't let alarmists scare you.
And don't lay awake at night
Worrying about expansion,
For expansion is all right.
—Judge.
HUMOROUS.
It seems strange that a fellow isn't
"iu the swim" when society throws
him overboard.
"Give me some striking example ol
the coalescion of minute individual
particles." "A sandbag, sir."
"Our bank is sure to fall," said tha
cashier, pocketing all the available
assets, "as it is rapidly losing its bal
ance."
"Love makes the world go round."
"No; love ouly keeps people from no
ticing whether the world goes round
or not."
I.ives there a bey with soul so dead,
Who never to himself has said,
As on his bed shone morning's light,
"1 wishtthe school burnt djwn last night."
Visiting Uncle—There is no beast
that has a roar as terrifying as has the
lion. Small Niece—Didyouever hear
papa when dinner wasn't ready oa
time.
"Then I told him what I thought of
him." "In good, plain language, I
presume?" "Well, yes. In fact,
some of my expressions were positive
ly military."
Mrs. Van Twiller (who mistakes Dr.
Jovial for a physician)—And where do
you practice doctor? The Rev. Dr.
Jovial—Ah, ma lam, I do notpr ctice;
I only preach.
A pilot on one of the Mississippi
river boats, on being asked if he knew
where all the shoals and rocks in the
river were, replied: "Faith, I don't,
but I know where they ain't."
When smiling summer comes again
And jouuml daisies grow.
We'll have to cut the waving grass
Where once wo shoveled snow;
We'll have to hear the same sad wail,
When men are brought together:
There's no vacation for the man
Who kicks about the weather.
"My boy says his ambition is to
grow up to be a man just like his
father." "I wouldn't let that worry
me. When I was your boy's age I
had a burning desire to bi a pirate."
Mr. Crimsonbeak —Do you beliove
ju the saying, "It never rains but it
pours?" Mrs. Crimsonbeak—lndeed,
I do! A man always loses his temper
and his collar button at the same
time.
"And you are busy, are you?" in
terrogated the customer as lie paid his
check to the restaurant proprietor.
"Busy! Why, I'm so rushed I don't
get a chance togo out to get a bite to
eat!" was the unguarded reply.
Sniffius—C'adderby is wearing a look
of importance lately. Has he been
made a member of the firm he works
fpr? Koll'ner—No; but he~ been given
a position which carries with it the
privilege of bossiug the office boy.
World** <*reatfHt Kudder.
One of the largest rudders that has
ever been cast in the world has been
finished by the Pennsylvania Steel
.Casting company of Chestor for the
American line steamer Rhynlaud,
now on Crumps' dry dock undergoing
repairs. The rudder, which was cast
iu a solid piece, weighed over 43,000
pounds, and the sternpost, which was
made at the same time, weighed 9000
ponuds. Heretofore rudders have
been made in two pieces and after
ward riveted into a solid piece, but
the Chester company cast without
difficulty the rudder in one solid muss,
which experts claim makes more
effective thi3 necessary part of the
vessel.
The art of casting tha rudder is a
trade secret which not even the Brit
ish or German steel makers have yefc
been able to discover. Rudders for
foreign-built vessels are now being
shipped from Chester to Europe.
John Haug, the surveyor at this
port for Lloyds' Register of Shipping,
stated that no European workers of
steel could have made a rudder the
size of the Rhynland's in oue solid
piece. He also stated that a larger
rudder could have bseu made if it had
been necessary, and the work was an
achievement iu steel-making which
the foreigners have yet to learn from
the Americans. Philadelphia Rec
ord.
And the Bird < am * Hack.
Jones' hobby was carrier pigeons.
He aired it an 1 then on every occa
sion. This was oue of the occasions.
Smith had hobbies, but they were
not pigeoua. So when Jones offered
to bet a supper that his finest bird
would come back, no matter where he
was released. Smith took the bet, like
wise the bird, and departed.
Arriving at Philadelphia, he clipped
the birds wings and set him free.
A week passed. The night of the
dinner came. Jones was late. His
face was sxd and gloomy as he en
tered the club diniug room. Smith
was correspondingly radiaut.
"Bird back?" asked Smith, full of
latent glee.
"Yes," said Jones, slowly, "but his
feet are awfully sore."
Smith paid for the diuuer. - New
York World.