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Timothy Ware!
K By RACHEL B. HAMILTON.
SH5HSH5E5H5H5H5E5HSH5H?
Ir. Timothy Ware stood at his gar
Sen gate and looked down the road.
nYou might have noticed him, perhaps,
as you passed along a wrinkled,
keen-eyed, elderly man. Now elderll-'
ness, I take It, Is further off from the
'sweet ripeness and flavor of old age
'than youth Itself. To be elderly pre
supposes soma thinness of blood,
some sort of Inexpressible poverty of
jnature, such as there seems to be all
about this region where T. Ware's
(house is located a range of long,
low-lying, uneasy hillocks that could
'never settle themselves to anything;
a sandy, Incapable stretch of thread
, bare grass and stunted woodland.
Kit was not an easy thing to Imagine
that Just over the south ridge lay a
smiling and fruitful country, a thrifty
settlement of Quaker farmers, who
held themselves, perhaps, a little too
touch aloof from this Inhospitable
Neighborhood.
f It was a chill October afternoon,
and the low slant rays of the setting
sun looked furtively out from a blue
Jblack ridge of cloud over the garden
and the garden's owner. There had
been a frost over-night, which had
.wiped out almost every lingering ves
tige of summer-time. A few elderly
jbeans clung shrinklngly to their poles
In the bleak background; a scanty
patch of corn rustled Its sere leaves
iforlornly In the wind, with here and
there a pumpkin ripening sparsely
between, and turning out Its yellow
(rotundity to the sun, as resolved to
put the best face on things that was
possible; while, tall and stark, a row
tof sunflowers, flapping gauntly above
the hedge, overlooked the desolation.
K As old Ware Btood there at his gate
and looked about hlra, with his faded
red cap on his head and his lank
flresslng-gown clinging about him, he
seemed verily a part of the frost
bitten scene, illustrating It feebly, like
an Ill-cut frontispiece in a badly
printed volume. Yet there was a tra
dition that he had once upon a time
been the chief figure in a great con
cern somewhere in town, and that in
some forgotten period long ago the
old weather-beaten house had flaunt
ed gayly In a new coat of paint and
bright green shutters, and was blight
with new carpets and curtains to wel
come a coming bride. But all that
Was so far away now that people had
forgotten the date, and could not re
call that they had ever been inter
ested in anything concerning old
Ware.
i Tin Ware, Esq., the boys called
him a nickname based, perhaps, on
a floating legend of miser-made
Wealth stowed somewhere away in
the loose clap-boarding of his tene
ment, or perhaps Intended briefly to
bear testimony to the value set upon
hlra in the community Tin Ware,
Esq., was not a popular man among
the lads of the village. They had" a
persistent Inclination to hoot him, to
gibe at him, and to torment his lean,
Ill-tempered dog, which followed his
master everywhere with a snarling
and objectionable faithfulness. The
boys, considering all these things,
felt themselves called upon to vindi
cate the claims of justice by robbing
eld Ware's orchard and breaking into
bis melon patch. Things in this way
- .were brought to a sort of balance. I
myself saw one day, as I passed his
fence, a huge charcoal placard, read
ing thus:
h B. Ware of The DAWO.
And many a bare-legged youngster. I
have no doubt, hid snickering in the
hedge at the sight of old Ware slowly
deciphering the scrawl in wrathful
spectacles.
' But very few besides the boys ever
troubled the old man with attentions,
either for good or ill. He seemed to
have slipped from the mind of both
men and fate an elderly, shrivelled
old figure whom Time had forgotten
10 dignify with gray hair.
He looked np and down the road
keenly with his frcsty blue eye, not
as a man who expected anything or
anybody, but simply because it was
his habit to look sharply. And yet
as this northeasterly glance swept the
road, there came along it something
far from unpleasant to look upon a
gray ngure in' a Quaker bonnet.
mere wouia nave been a smile of
welcome in almost anybody's eve as
the plump, quiet Quaker face of Re-
toecca Rhodes approached, but not a
spar Kindled in old Ware's flinty
gray orDs.
1 Rebecca's well-kept acres lay just
weyona mm, over the south ridge, and
All about her farmhouse was trim anil
tidy, clean and wholesome, as Re-
Jiecca herself. It must have been the
ove of contarast that brought her
n range 01 Timothy's dilapidated sur.
roundings; but of all living things
. In the village Rebecca alone had a
good word for him, and stopped of an
odd afternoon now and then to wish
mm-good-day over the gate.
i nave Drougnt thee a loaf of
sweet bread, neighbor." said she.
"I'd an uncommon good baking this
.ween, and i tnought thee might not
take It amiss to try a loaf. She held
rorcn. in her plump, white hand
snow-wnite napkin, opening its folds
temptingly as she did so.
i m warning naught," was the
gruff reply. "Week-old bread's good
enough for me, and I make no doubt
It might be far better for some other
folk than the dainty trash they're set
upon women-folk leastways."
me wood came into Rebecca's
calm face, but there was no vexation
In her answer. "Thee'd never set
side an old friend like that, neigh
bor," she said. "Nay, nay; I recom
mend thee try the loaf. It's spoken
well of, is my sweet bread, the coun
try round. Thee will not shorten thy
days much by Just one trial, and if
thee likes it not, I'll never trouble
thee again."
Even the imperturbable face of old
Ware shows a slight smile at this
mingling of acerbity and sweetness,
but he made no demonstration.
"I am on my way to see old Bet
sey," says Rebecca, quietly extending
her hand and placing the loaf on the
gate-post. "She's one of the town's
poor or rather one of the Lord's
poor, I think, for she doesn't belong
to this township. Poor old Betsey! "
One might have imagined that old
Ware gave a sort of start just now,
as if an invisible electric shock had
struck him. He was not used to
hearing sympathetic talk of any kind.
It tried his nerves, probably.
"One of the wretched vagrants that
are pauperizing the community, wan
dering hither and you," growled Tim
othy. "Aye, aye, neighbor," says Rebecca,
softly and wistfully; "a hard time
they have It, poor things! And this
many a year has she been a wanderer
and a vagabond on the face of the
earth, has poor old Betsey." She
takes the white-covered loaf absently
with her large, shapely hand, looks
up and down the road with thought
ful gray eye, 6ighs softly, and goes
her way, leaving loaf and napkin cap
ping the gate-post. And there you
might have seen it at night-fall, if
you had chanced that way; for hadn't
Timothy told the woman he didn't
want it? and was he the man to de
mean himself after that? And your
speculating on the singular stubborn
ness of the human heart would not
have been lessened had you caught
sight of him, by the flickering candle
In his upper window, sitting there
motionless with an eye on the gate
below. Perhaps he expected Rebecca
back after her gift. I do not know.
"She's one of the town poor, is old
Betsey," said Rebecca, meekly, and
had said It meekly year after year,
striving to allure tho vagrant old
woman into feeling at home on the
charity list of the good towns-folk,
and to rest her nchlng old bones in
the town poor-house. But old Eet
sey was not to be trapped.
If one must be poor and ragged, at
least let one have plenty of fresh-air
leisure, says old Betsey. To be a
pauper and a drudge both is a little
too much. And to be preached to
and prayed over and hedged in right
MORE WE HELP OTHERS
IBE LIGHTER OUR
and left, and to scrub work-house
floors and scour work-house knives,
all for a bit of bread bah! that is all
unbearable, says old Betsey, shrug
ging her bony shoulders under her
ragged shawl, and Betting out warily
on her ever-lasting tramp. She is
an .incorrigible vagrant, utterly Irre
claimable. Perhaps Rebecca thinks
a half-fledged thought like this when
she finds her prey baa escaped her
and is fairly on the road again.
On the road again, untamable,
ragged, hungry and free. She walks
at a rapid, uneven pace, her thin
shawl fluttering In the wind, her un
tidy slippers flapping at her heels. It
grows dusk as she steals along; the
road is dreary with cloud and shadow,
and with a mocking moon that gleams
out now and then, dodging viciously
after this gray old ghost of a woman
flitting below. There is a white ob
ject there ahead of her something
tall and queer, with a round white
head. The vagrant swerves a minute
out of her way, surveying it furtively.
Then she puts forth her claw-like
hand and clutches greedily Rebecca's
sweet, dainty loaf.
Aha! what a good providence is
here! Ah! can it be that Fate should
come, for once in a way, with sweet
ness and luxury in her hand for an
old pauper, and night and darkness to
devour it in! Bewildered with pleas
ure, old Betsey hugs the dainty un
der her faded shawl.
There is a crash then, as If the
heavens were falling; a shout that
curdles her thievish blood; a rough
hand is laid upon her with vise-like
grasp. Law and justice seem to have
come down .bodily upon the marauder;
but it is only old Ware, who has been
watching from his window. His
hand 1b raised to strike the thief-
the thief with vagrant and vagabond
written all over her; in her vulpine
eyes, her long blue nose, her skinny,
claw-like hand. The woman shrinks
back, cowering, against the gate-post,
with a wheezy cough; the old shawl
falls away from her face. Out comes
tha moon and sails along with a sin
ister ray pointing right down on the
shivering, crouching figure and on the
countenance that for one instant up
turns toward the assailant.
"My God!" cries Timothy. And
that is all. His hand falls at his side,
he turns and walks back to the house,
leaving the wretch to her plunder.
The wretch is a mere animal, after
all a hunted animal, it is true, with
all the greed and cunning of such.
She makes her way somewhere with
the prize It doesn't much matter
where. But there comes up a storm
at midnight, a blinding, blood
chilllsg storm that might make the
veriest tramp thankful for shelter.
Old Ware, sitting motionless in his
upper chamber, hears the rafters
shake overhead. He listens; perhaps
he is afraid the house will come down
over his head. The wind raves and
shrieks about window and doorway.
He gets up by-and-by, and lifting the
dripping sash, looks out into the
road. He sees nothing; no boys will
rob his melon patch to-night, and no
beggar come whining to his gate.
Afar off, where the road circles to tha
south land, old Betsey has crawled
Into the s'helter of a way-side barn.
No, there is nothing to be seen any
where about. Timothy shuts the
window with a shudder and crawls
to bed.
A week after this Rebecca, sweet
and tlntless .as a snow-drop, stops at
the gate once more.
"Old Betsey,' my poor old vagrant,
left us last night, neighbor," she says.
"The blankets and pillows they sent
were a very great charity, but she
needeth our charity no more."
"No more?" repeated old Ware,
vacantly.
"She died last night," answers Re
becca, and her Hp trembles a little.
There is no reply. Rebecca does
not break the long, long pause. She
Is used to the old man's moods. Final
ly she sets her face to the road again;
It is getting late.
"Rebecca," says the old man, ab
ruptly, placing his bony hand upon
hers "Rebecca, you you needn't
put her in Potter's Field. She
mightn't rest easy, you know."
"I have no such superstitions,
friend," said Rebecca, smiling sweet
ly. "It can make very little differ
ence to her now where she rests, poor,
nanfcless wanderer."
"She had a name once," said Tim
othy, standing erect, with a strange
flush on his face. "A blight and
beautiful woman once was my wife,
Elizabeth Ware."
A long and weary winter had
passed; a summer has brightened and
faded; the autumn twilight is settling
softly on bloom and barrenness, as
old Warastands at his gate once more,
looking down the road. In hl3 hand
is something wrapped in white, which
he sets upon the gate-post as a gray
clad, graceful figure comes walking
up the road.
"Rebecca," he says, "I return your
napkin."
"Nay," gays Rebecca, recognizing
her own Initials "nay, friend, I have
an abundance "
"Open it," Interrupts the old man,
abruptly. The gentle Quakeress is
used to humoring his moods, and as
she unties the linen, a diamond ring
rolls glittering out upon Its edge.
There Is a box of shining trinkets
within and a small gold watch.
"They were ,all hers once, in the
old times," says old Ware, huskily,
"before she left me. You may keep
BEAR THEIR BURDENS
OWN WIlt BE-
'em for her sake, an' ye will." He
pauses; there Is no answering move
ment from Rebecca. "Or," he adds,
with irritation and sudden energy,
"I'll Just heave 'em overboard when
I quit here for good and all. Yes,
I'll quit here for good and all. I
never had no home nor no friends-
she spoiled all that and I may as
well finish it out that a-way."
Rebecca clears her throat. "It has
long been borne In upon me, friend
Timothy," she says, in a high, con
strained velce, as one who delivers a
difficult message "it has long been
borne in upon my mind that thee Is
living too much alone. Thera is none
to look after thee, or fix thee up a bit
comfortable for the winter; and I
have had a clear leading from the
Lord which I have Buffered hitherto
to be hidden lu my heart It is that I
snouia oner tnee a noma witn me,
neighbor Timothy, it so be it seems
good in thy sight."
"A home?" said Timothy, looking
up querylngly at his weather-beaten
old mansion. "As how, Rebecca?"
As how, Rebecca? There was a
group of 6mall boys hidden just be
low the hedge, In the opening where
the great apple tree dropped its fruit
age on cither side of the rails. Tom
and Jim and Dick were there, bare
legged, and sly as weasels. Of course
the apples belonged to them on that
side of the fence; but then night was
the safest time for getting them.
There was no withstanding the logic
of old Ware's dog by any argument
of Justice and fair play. The twilight
had quite faded now, a pale moon
shown in the heavens, and there at
the gate stood Rebecca, with her
hand in Timothy's.
"Whist, fellows! whist! ye needn't
to run," cries Tom. "She's goin' to
have him for her ole man. Bully for
her! She'll never set the dawg onto
a feller."
And with full pockets and beating
hearts the youngsters file off past old
Ware's very gate. Tom gives a loud
whistle when the feat is achieved,
and stands a moment looking back
with an eye of approval. "I knew it
all along back," says Tom, oracularly
"course I did; didn't I see old Tin
ware looking down that 'ere road
time an' agin arter her? Why, she
could sweeten a crab-apple, she
could!"
And I think that she did, for the
boys of the village had a grand din
ner one day, at which Mr. Ware and
his Quaker bride walked down among
them, smiling right and left, and Tom
and Dick nodded knowingly to each
other and said, "I (old you so."
Good Literature.
STREET MERCHANTS OF CALLAO.
Most of the Buying and Selling of
Tills Town is Done Outdoors.
To Callno belongs the distinction
of presenting the most interesting
phases of street life and the most
varied types of street characters of
any city in the Western Hemisphere,
if not in the world.
The way the clouds of the Pacific
have of banking In against the Peru
vian Andes without precipitating any
of their moisture gives a climate
which for coolness accompanied by
dryness is quite without parallel in
similar latitudes. The conditions of
out of door life are as near the ideal
as in any place in the world, says a
correspondent of the Los Angeles
Times, and as a result of this proba
bly nine-tenths of Callao's buying and
selling is done on the streets. The
city has no large shops whatever, and
even the arcades so common in most
Spanish-American cities are rare; on
the other hand, more or less Itinerant
street venders and hucksters are le
gion and practically monopolize the
retail trade of the whole town.
Few carts are used in trade, most
of the venders carrying their wares
on their heads or on horse or mule
back, prominent among the latter
class being the panadero or baker.
He bakes his bread in a big stone
outdoor oven during the early hours
of the morning and delivers it during
the day. His outfit consists of two
big skin covered baskets thrown on
each side of a horse, between which
he perches himself usually with
both feet on one side as though
mounted on a side saddle and
hands out his bread to his customers
as they respond to his lusty hall at
their doors. '
1 Sacks of stale bread for chicken
feed are occasionally carried, being
tied to thongs on the outside of the
big bags. The bread loaves consist of
long slender sticks of glazed gluten,
with crust so hard as almost to
scratch glass when fresh, and which,
stale, will resist a 'inlfe bnde like a
piece of hippo hide. ' Loaves of five
or bIx feet long are baked for certain
feast days; in fact it Is said that their
length on these occasions is only lim
ited by the width of the extremely
narrow streeta through which they
must be delivered.
The grocer.boy delivers In two big
bags made of untanned cowhide, with
the hair out, and his mount is usually
a mule. When his bags are full, on
the out trip, he rides on the neck of
the mule, but going back, empty, he
either rides with one foot In each bag
or else climbs in one bag, Invites a
friend to climb Into the other to make
a balanced load, and thus has com
pany for the home trip.
One of the funniest things I saw in
Peru wns a standup give and take
slugging match between two young
sters one in either bag of a delivery
outfit who had evidently come to a
serious misunderstanding over some
thing and were having it out .then
and there, while the old mule, un
moved by the diversion which fur
nished unlimited amusement for ev
ery one along three or four full
blocks .of Callao's principal street,
neither batted an eye nor deviated an
lota from the Bober measure of his
even, plodding tread.
The lechero, or milkman, has a
light frame of untanned cowhide fit
ted to his horse, and in this rests his
cans. At the bottom of each can is a
little brass faucet for drawing oft the
milk. As the cream and richer milk
rises to the top of the cans it is a
common trick of the lecheros to leave
the last four or five inches in the bot-
torn for their own use, or that of
some favorite customer. Of course
food carried thus on horseback comes
in for a good deal of jolting, and a
good housekeeper is able to tell how
long her purchases have been on the
way by the amount of chafing her
loaf has received and the quantity of
butter that floats on her milk.
Perhaps the strangest of all the
mounted merchants of Callao is the
pollero, or poultryman. His stock is
carried in two huge cages, one on
either side of his horse, and in com
partments in these one may be pretty
sure of finding doves, ducks and
chickens, and sometimes even geese
and turkeys. They buy fowls as well
as sell them, and are always ready to
enter Into any kind of an exchange.
The polleros have the name, as a
class, of being rather rascally fellows,
with an uncontrollable propensity for
annexing any stray , property that
may be left lying around, and "Cut
dndn. ninna. cl nollero" ("look out,
! .ti!l4t.An tha nAiiHfvmnn'M fa tho
usual admonition his coming evokes.
True Journalist Defined.
"Journalism, Politics and the Uni
versity" was the subject of a lecture
by George Harvey, of New York, in
the Bromley lecture course at Yale
University. Mr. Harvey confined his
remarks to a consideration of the
nroDer relationship of journalism to
politics and of the university of Jour
nallsm.
"The master Journalist," he said,
"must have stability of purpose and
coolness of judgment; he must have
perspective as well as perception; he
must have conscience, character, con'
vlction; his aim must be to uplift hu
manity, not to profit by Its degreda
tlon. The master Journalist must
cherish ' no personal - animosities;
though relentless in pursuit of wrong
doers, he must be just and forbear
ing when vlndlctiveness could only
inflict pain upon the Innocent and
serve no useful purpose."
Mr. Harvey declared political am
bition to be the bane of Journalism.
"True journalism," he said, 'and the
politics that seek personal advance
ment are not and cannot be made
co-operative. The Journalist must be
independent not only of politics but
of bis community." .
New York City. In this day ot
over waists and of similar effects
the gulmpe makes an all Important
feature of the wardrobe. Here is
one, that while it gives an exceeding-
ly dressy effect, calls for the smallest
possible quantity of all-over lace or
other material of a similar sort and
which allows a choice of plain or
frilled sleeves, in elbow or full
length. In the illustration it is made
of lawn with the yoke of all over
lace and the sleeves of lace edging
to match, but tucking or lace edging
Joined one strip to another, or, in
deed, any pretty material that may
be liked can be used for the yoke
with the sleeves of frills as illustrated
or of the material lace edged, or made
plain with cuffs. For the foundation,
lawn and silk both are correct.
The gulmpe is made with front and
backs. It is faced to form a yoke,
which can be made on either round
or square outline, and is finished at
the lower edge with a basque portion
which does away with fulness over
the hips. When frilled Bleeves are
used the frills are arranged over
puff foundations and are finished
with bands at their lower edges. The
long sleeves, however, are made over
fitted linings, which are faced to
form the cuffs.
The quantity of material used for
the medium size Is three yards twenty-one
or twenty-four, two and one
half yards thirty-two or one and one
half yards forty-four Inches wide
with five-eight yard all-over lace, four
and three-quarter yards ,of lace five
Inches wide for sleeve.
Elaborate Braiding.
Elaborate braiding Is seen on many
of the newest models, both in cloth
and velvet, the narrow soutache being
the most popular -
Plain Blouse or Gulmpo.
The plain gulmpe is a favorite on
for heavy lace, embroidery and ma
terials of the sort and this season Is
being made both with long and with
short sleeves. This model is per
fectly adapted to such material,
while it can also be utilized for the
blouse of silk and wool materials, In
addition to all ot which it serves the.
very practical purpose of making a
satisfactory foundation for tucked
lingerie materials and the like.
When used in this way the plain ma
terial can be elaborated to suit in
dividual taste before cutting, and the
plain pattern can be laid- on so pro
viding the necessary guide as to
shape. In this Instance, however,
embroidered filet net is used as a,
gulmpe with long sleeves and the
lining is omitted. The long sleeves
are much liked Just now for net and
other thin materials and are very
pretty beneath the short ones of
heavier material, but the full three
quarter sleeves gathered into bands
can be substituted whenever pre
ferred and both are equally correct.
The blouse consists of the fitted
lining, which can be used or omitted
as liked and is made with front and
backs. It can be adjusted by means
of a tape at the waist line as illus
trated or gathered and attached to
the lining when that Is used.
The quantity of material required
for the medium size is three and
seven-eighth yards eighteen, three
and five-eighth yards twenty-two or
twenty-four, two and one-half yards ,
thirty-two or one and seven-eigh"
yards .lorty-four inches wide.
New Neckwear Style.
A distinctive feature of some of the
new neckwear is the combination ot
white and colored linen, which is
seen in collars designed tor wear
with plain white waists, or with
striped or checked blouses where the-
colors will harmonize.
Pnml F?fTnrt in FAvnr.
A feature ot all the new Bklrts h
the nancl effect in the front aild
back. Vl