BY RUME T,
WHEN MOTHER IS AWAY
WEYBURN,
The house is such a dreary place when mother is away;
There isn’t fun in anything, no matter what you
The dolls just sit as stupid, and act so still, ang
play
queers
They always say such funny things when mother's by to heat,
The little china tea set looks so
There's no fun playing party
It isn’t like the lovely thing
lonesome waiting there;
and eating only air!
you most believe you see
Upon the plates and saucers, when mother comes to tea.
There's no use doing up your hair and dressing ap in style,
You know it's just pretending, and you're Betty a
the while;
You never hear a whisper from the chairs against the wall:
“Dear we, what splendid lady now is coming here to call!”
The pictures in the picture-booke are never half so fine,
The stories won't come out and
talk for any pains of mine;
An hour goes so slowly, it's almost like a day—
The house is such a lonesome place when mother is away.
Good Housekeeping,
——————
he Maturity
of the Violet
CELL 006660060040000b0b000
HE mainsail swung down
with a rattle as the white-
painted yacht came up in
the wind. With jib and
foresail fluttering gently
she lay at anchor in a tiny bay. It was
~ © ome of those coves upon the southwest
i coast where the trees stand bodly out
toward the waves, marking with a
fringe of green the landward limit of
the beach. Mostyn Gainford clam-
bered up the narrow companion stairs.
The man who was lounging by the till
er regarded his doubtfully.
; “Clean ducks—and such pretty brown
boots,” Le mused. “Think it over,
Mostyn, Go down again. Change in-
to something more prosaic.”
Gainsford was gazing shorewards
r toward where a roof gleamed through
the trees. His countenance contracted
slightly.
“Because one is about fo marry,” he
said, “is that a reason to shudder at cn
incident of the past? May I not re-
. member a period that was—yes, the
most innocent and poetic of my life
time”
“Such candor in an engaged man is
as admirable as it is rare,” returned
the other. “But lel me reassure you
your words are already forgotten.
“It was such a simple affair, Lut-
trell,” went on Gainsford unheeding.
“She was one of those country girls
one reads about but never sees. Peach-
blossom cheek, milk-white hand—and a
_ disposition! Perfectly pastoral! I saw
what lay beneath—the girl had soul
f read to her, I talked, I gave her
glimpses of the outside world—of its
better parts. I set myself to cultivate
a mind latent with untold possibilities.
It was a fascinating pastime, I admit.
it was as thé training of a pretty
child. And you would have it there
is harm in a pardonable curiosity to see
the result of those endeavors of mine
bree years ago?”
Tuttrell shrugged his shoulders.
“In these matters the question is not
right or wrong. The point hinges
sn the more important lady’s mood
ghould she chance to hear of it. Still,
it’s no business of mine.”
Gainsford’s eyes sought the roof
again,
~“\ “It was an idyll,” he said. “Would
gou know the extent of our caresses?
Bhe pressed my hand, and only at the
* parting. It was in token of gratitude,
i believe, whereas I owed her more.
To me it was a glimpse of purity that
{ treasured.”
Luttrell bad lit a cigar. He watched
the flung match as it struck upon the
smooth water.
“I trust you will not find it a wild-
goose chase,” he said. “And yet, per-
haps that would be the best, Too
tame a bird, you know, might spell
complications.”
“It is useless talking to you,” retorted
Gainsford. “If she is there still you
ghall come to see her with me, and
then, perhaps, you will understand.”
{ The dinghy, an oarsman within it,
| was waiting at the quarter. Gainsford
stepped ‘into it. A moment later the
man was pulling him shoreward with
quick strokes.
“Do not wait,” he told the man as
&he boat's nose slid, grinding upon the
ch. “I shall be here some time.
gd by on board until you hear my
pt!
to th e walked slowly along the path
#Miss Wd from the beach the old famil-
geverely Jyith the surroundings was upon
this OP¥nce more. He had not thought
you iye remembered the spot so well.
eveniliscent of the May blossom came
~ MisSgly to him. Itseemed to him that
ome sweetness of the perfume had
cavged three long years. Surely it was
“only yesterday that he had trodden
the verdure-lined path.
His pulses tingled a little as he set
eyes upon a large, flat stone set low
gown by the wayside. They had sat
ppon it so many times, he and she. A
wyoluptuous reverie was upon him. So
pleasant was it that, submitting, he
encouraged its thrall. He let himself
gink down upon the broad slab.
It was here that he had first met
her. It was here that he had sung the
‘cadence of Wadsworth and Tennyson
into hep ears. He had nrarked the
parted lips and the light that came and
went in her eyes. It had been a pleas-
ant fountain at which lhe had drunk.
‘And the waters had bequeathed no
bitter taste. She had benefited; he
had little doubt of that.
He rose slowly and paced onward.
He could see the cottage now, with its
green shelter of oak and elm. He
Jooked more ( osely. There was some-
thing strange about the building.
ere was an addition, the new white-
of which stood out rather glaring-
ly from the worn tint of the rest. He
had drawn near to the main road that
an at right angles between the path
and the cottage beyond when he heard
the starting pants of an automobile.
A brilliant red car went speeding up
the road. Its throbbing jarred upon
him; the wafted «d of petrol an-
nihilated with noisome brutality the
scent of the hay.
A minute later he had crossed the
road and was walking up a narrow
garden path. He stared about him in
growing unrest. In the place where
had revelled a tangle of undergrowth
and shrub was now a cleared space,
gravel-covered. Two tables were there
and a medley of chairs, while nearer
to the house stood a long bench.
He seated himself upon the latter to
await—whatever should occur. A very
small infant came toddling toward him
from round a corner of the building.
The child held a piece of jam-covered
bread in his hand. As he pressed his
small frame confidingly against Gains-
ford the jam left a red stain upon the
white duck trousers. Gainsford, in his
preoccupation, allowed the misfortune
to pass almost unheeded.
He looked up quickly at the sound
of an exclamation. She herself, the
one who bad lived in his mind's eye,
stood in the flesh before him. He
stared for a while in dumb amaze-
ment. The tracings of her features,
of her form, all this escaped him. He
noticed but one thing—she wore a
waitress’ cap and apron.
There was a glad light in her eyes as
Gainsford’s hand went out toward her.
Yet she was not the same. There
had been a great change. As is the
way in such matters, he could not at
first see where it lay. But this much
was evident, that where he had left a
tremulous snowdrop a firm-stalked
sunflower now stood.
“Well! I never did!” she cried.
Gainsford experienced ,a sudden
shiver. Her mode of expression had
been more diffident in the old days,
but her eyes were as pretty as ever.
They were dancing with pleasure now.
“To think of it!” she exclaimed.
“Why, it seems just like old times see-
ing you here!”
Her hand was playing with the lace
of her cap. Gainsford, gazing at her
afresh, disagreed—inwardly, but en-
tirely—with her words. His thoughts
went back to the shy, willow-figured
oir] with the large eyes and tremulous
voice that he had known.
“The place has changed,” he began.
He felt that his voice came from him
with a horribly dead sound. “But the
path was the same. I passed the stone
—the stone where we—-"
She broke into a little laugh.
“Ah, that stone sees more folks than
it used to.”
He was gazing hard at her. He
wondered whether it was a fleeting
blush that he saw upon her cheek.
“Lots of people come here now,” she
went on in answer to his mute inquiry;
“it pays.” She eyed him with a sudden
speculative look. “Would you like
some tea?’ she asked.
He attempted a faint return to gal-
lantry. :
“Your tea was always excellent,” he
said.
“It's better now,” she answered; “it's
a shilling a head.”
“Qh!” exclaimed Gainsford.
The verdure and the wall of the
house seemed to rock for a second be-
fore him.
“A shilling—a head,” he repeated
dully.
“Cream included,” she rejoined.
She drew a little nearer.
“It was the reading and poetry that
first put it into my head,” she confided
to him. “After you'd gone I'd get to
thinking about the things you had read,
and the ideas that came to me were
something surprising. There was the
one-about the girl that was like a violet
by a mossy stone that worried me
more than all the rest put together.
1 thought—well, of all the lives. It
was a kind of warning.”
Gainsford felt it incumbent upon him
to fill the gap.
“I see,” he murmured untruthfully.
“My goodness! What a fright I got
in,” she continued. “It was the think-
ing that I might get that way myself
that nearly drove me clean out of the
place. Then Jim came along. He'd
had some experience as a walter in
London. It was after we'd got mar-
ried that we started the light refresh-
ment business. And what with the
motor cars and the bicycles, and good
tea, and :ood service—well, it pays
nicely.”
The infant was attacking Gainsford
once more, A second jammy smear
Lis
took its place by the side of the first
upon his white trousers, Gainsford
eyed the child in growing dislike.
“Oh, Mostyn, you bad boy!” cried hie
mother in reproach, —
Gainsford looked up quickly.
‘Mostyn?’ he repeated.
It was undoubtedly a blush thar
adorned her cheek this time,
“We called him that,” she murmured,
“because—-"
“Because of what?"
“You sce, if it badn’'t been for your
kindness I might have been gawking
on in just the same old way. Jim and
1 have never forgotten that. So when
he came we called him Mostyn, Some
times after we've had a good day's
business Jim'll take him on his knee
and call him a little living token of
gratitude. But it's only right that
you should see Jim. Jim!” she called.
A second later a white-aproned man
stood before Gainsford. Gainsford un-
derwent an inward struggle. Then he
held out his hand. The act was a con-
cession to the unity of man and wife,
The latter hastened away to perform
the duties of her office.
The child was still gyrating slowly
about the pair, The, man bent toward
it.
“Mossy!” he said, “run away after
your mother.”
Gainsford shivered,
the last straw.
“Its a fine afternoon, sir,” said Jim.
“The atmosphere of this place is not
what it was,” returned Gainsford.
“It's wonderful healthy,” protested
Jim.
Just then his wife returned with the
tea tray. The desire of flight possessed
yainsford. Heedless of the probabili-
ties, he pleaded indisposition.
“Of course,” he concluded, “I'll pay
for the tea.”
Jim’s eyes wavered diffidently be-
tween the tea tray and the visitor.
“There's no getting away from the
fact that it was prepared speshul,” he
admitted. “But seein’ as it's you, sir,
supposing we say sixpence instead of a
shilling ¥” |
His wife's fine eyes glowed In ap-
probation.
Gainsford drew half a crown from
his pocket. He swallowed once or
twice ere he spoke.
“Give the change to—to—Mossy,” he
said.
The final word was his sacrifice to
the ashes of what once had been a
glorious spiritual edifice.
“No, you need not come back with
me,” Gainsford assured Luttrell, upon
his return to the small craft; “the fact
is that the one I expected to find was
not there.”
“Ah, it's just as well,” returned Lut.
trell. “These little dippings into thé
past are either dangerous or bitterly
disappointing. I heard from a man
who had been there that there is an
excellent tea place in the neighborhaod.
Shall we go?’
“Not for worlds!” said Gainsford.
“You see I happen to have been in
there once already this afternoon.”—
The Tatler.
Mossy! It was
Horses No Longer “Pulled.”
“Pulling” in all its forms has been
checked to a great extent, both here
and in England, by watching the per-
formances of the horses and the jock-
eys, and ruling accordingly. There
have undoubtedly been numerous in-
stances where a jockey. has beea ace
cused of “selling a race,” when he
really did his best, according to his
lights, to bring his horse in first. These
very cases of injustice, however, have
served to emphasize the determination
of honest racing men to stamp out the
practice, and have had a wholesome
effect upon the jockeys. Tod Sloan, in
some respects the greatest jockey this
country has produced, always claimed
that his expulsion from the English
track was a gross injustice. Be that
as it may, foul riding has been much
less common over there since he was
forced off the track. Our own stew-
ards have begun to realize within the
last five or six years that drastic meas-
ures must be taken to stop jockeying,
and as a result several “good boys”
were disciplined last season for faults
in riding that would have been over-
looked in former years.
Burning Dead Grass.
Dead grass is burning where it rests
on the ground in many suburban
places, not, as some people imagine,
because of carelessness or of the pres-
ence of the much blamed spark from a
locomotive, but because it has been
purposely set afire. Its ashes form ex-
cellent fertilizer for he vegetable or
flower garden that is to succeed it.
This value of small bits of ground
on which vegetables or flowers may be
planted is more appreciated year by
year. Some of this appreciation may.
be referred to the increased cost of
living, with its consequent necessity,
for minor economies; some of it is
probably due to the increase of the
knowledge of gardening and of the de
lights accompanying the growing of
plants, and perhaps a portion is due to
the example set by the Vacant Lots’
Association, evidence of whose good
work may be seen in every quarter of
the city.—Philadelphia Record.
The Servants Help Her.
“Collecting china!” exclaimed the ir-
reverent husband of a young West
Philadelphia woman the other day,
who has had many careless servants
during her brief matrimenial career.
“Few collectors are in it with my wife.
When we started housekeeping two
years ago we had not over two hun-
dred pieces; now we have at least
four hundred.”
Transforns Vegetables.
Not satisfied with the usual grafting
adopted by floriculturists, a French-
man, M. Molliard, of Paris, has started
in to transiorm vegetables, Already
he has succeeded in turning a radish
into a potato—according to a Tecery
consular report, /
SOME TRICKS
Scrutiny Accorded
Racers—An Incident of Racing
Days in Old Kentucky.
HOSE persons who have
had the privilege of seeing
that pet drama of the
Bowery, “The Race for
Life,” will remember the
struggle of the villain through three
glorious, hair-raising acts to “dope”
the horse upon which all the hopes of
the hero for fame and fortune centred.
That far more subtle methods of
“throwing a race” are now employed
than were conceived of in the days
when Stevens wrote his palpitating
play was shown by the affidavit of the
veterinary, in San Francisco, setting
forth that he was ordered to give Lou
Dillon belladonna for “thumps” be-
tween the heats of a race. No better
ray of lowering a horse's speed with-
out actually incapacitating him could
be devised. The only mistake the own-
er of the racer made was in his se-
lection of a veterinary. He should
have picked one who would have stuck
to the “thumps” diagnosis through
thick and thin. As it was, the “vet”
weakened under fire and admitted that
he protested against administering a
drug, as Lou Dillon showed only the
usual manifestations following a hard
race. There are training stables where
honest doctors are highly regarded. As
a rule, however, the most popular vet-
erinaries with the professional racing
men are those who are willing to tem-
per skill with “discretion” and for-
get all about it afterwards.
AN INCIDENT OF OLD KENTUCKY
RACING.
In the annals of horse racing in Ken-
tucky there is a well-beloved anecdote
of a “gentlemen's meeting” between
the horses of two of the most famous
breeders of the blue-grass State. Years
ago, as to-day, it was the trainer and
not the owner, in only too many in-
stances, who decided whether a horse
was to win or lose a race. In the pres-
ent case the two old colonels each be-
lieved in the powers of their respec-
tive runners as they believed in reli-
gion. Their trainers, though, had ar-
ranged to ‘‘do business,” and while the
pwners were betting everything they
had on their nags, their trainers were
negotiating to “throw” the race by
“doping” one of the horses. A few
minutes before the mounts were to
leave the paddock on the day of the
race, some one told the owner of the
porse that was to be doctored what was
up. He hurried to find his trainer,
Strolling up to the darkey in a casual
manner, he said:
“By the way, Sam, you've been with
me a great many years, haven't you?”
“Yass suh, suh, dat’s so,” the train-
er replied.
“Ever known me to break my word?”
“No, sul. Deed ah nevah did, Col-
onel.”
“Well, Sam, if my horse loses this
race, as I have reason to think he may,
you are going to die very suddenly.”
The Colonel walked away, leaving
Sam with the sweat pouring down his
face, too scared to think clearly.
“What's de matter wid you?’ the
jockey asked as he came to mount;
“you look as if you done hin hoodooed.”
Sam, too worried to try concealment,
blurted out the truth. “Jim Green an’
[ lowed to pull off a little easy money
on de race. I doped Fancy jess a min-
ute ago an’ I ain’t no more'n got the
syringe in mah pocket, when long
comes de Colonel, an’ says ef Fancy
don’ win, Ah'm a gone nigger. Good
Lawd,” the trainer cried hysterically,
“only spare me dis time. ‘Deed dat
man’ll foller me to de end o’ de worl’.”
“You onnery cuss,” the jockey yelled,
leaping out of the saddle. “Yoah a
nice one, you is. Let a poah man lay
put his good money on a phony race.
Ah got all mah wages for de nex’ six
monse laid out on dis yere hoss. Hole
on dat bit a minute.”
The jockey was gone a short time,
and returned just as the bell calling
the horses tc the post sounded. As
the racers left the paddock Fancy
bounded from one side of the track to
the other, almost unseating her jockey,
ane of the best riders in the South.
Her owner smiled into his deep linen
collar. Evidently his threat to the
trainer had been in time. Sam hunted
up the trainer of the other horse to
varn him so that they might cover
their bets.
“Did yeh dope her?’ the other train-
er asked.
“Yass, ah doped her,” Sam replied,
“put somehow it don’t seem to work.
HOW A LIFE WAS SAVED.
The two men hurried to the ring to
hedge, just as the flag fell for the
start. It is not possible here to give
the space to the description of that
race which it really deserves. Fancy
“made all the running,” to use a cant
phrase of the sporting reporter, and
It was clear to every one on the fleld
before the half mile was reached that
the jockey had entirely lost control
of his mount. She won by a length and
n half and her owner received an ova-
tion as well as a lot of money from his
wagers. One of the happiest men on
the fleld was Sam, the trainer.
“God bless you, honey; how did yuh
do it?” he asked the jockey as he lifted
him off the saddle. “Ah neva'd a-
dreamed the old mare was doped.”
“She neva’ dreamed it her ownself,”
the jockey said with a chuckle. “Jess
besor’ we lef, de paddock ah slipped a
cAestnut burr unner the saddle an’ an-
ther unner de girth. She didn’t have
"
DODGES BY WHICH RACES ARE “THROWN."
i
No Longer Easy to ‘Doctor’
—the Lou Dillon Case an Example of the Strict
OF THE TURF
"a Horse Without Detection
the Performances of
The ways of drugging a horse so
that he will fall off in speed are le
gion, and as old as the institution of
horse-racing. In England the home of
the sport in its modern forms, the dis-
honesty of the trainers and profession-
al owners became so notorious early in
the last century that drastic measures
were necessary to rehabilitate the in-
stitution with the public. “Doping”
in those days was so common that bets
were laid not on the past performances
of the horses, but on information
gleaned from all sorts of sources as to
what entry was to be allowed to “take
the money.” Even then cheating was
so rampant that no one could be sure
that they were in on the final arrange-
ment, It was this condition of affairs
that led to the present elaborate sys-
tem under which the stewards of the
English Jockey Club watch the past
performances of racing horses in con.
nection with their conduct in later
events. When a horse shows a marked
falling off in form, which cannot be
explained, the owner, trainer, and
jockey are disciplined promptly and
with great severity. As a result, horse
racing in England is cleaner than any-
where in the world, and, while cheat-
ing is undoubtedly occasionally prac-
tised over there, it no longer exists as
a recognized part of turf life.
Fifty years or so ago, there were
three methods of “killing” a horse, as
it was tben called, commonly prac-
tised. These were, “balling,” ‘“drench-
ing” and “pulling.” The use of many
of the subtler drugs such as belladon-
ng, cocaine, and codine, which accom-
plish as much as the others, but are
less easy of detection, was not under-
stood in those times, and preparations
of hemp, opium, and morphine were
depefided upon to stupefy a horse. The
drugs were mixed in a ball of bran
about the size of a large walnut, and
which was placed way back in the
racer's throat, so that he was com-
pelled to swallow it. English grooms,
full of the tradition bf the past, say
that so expert were some of these old-
time trainers in “balling” a horse that,
during a friendly visit of inspection
to the stable of a rival they would
dose a mount against which one of
their own animals was to compete,
without any one’s having a suspicion
of what was going on.
“Drenching”’ consisted in giving a
horse all the water he would drink, just
before the start of a race. Besides
being very dangerous to the health of
the racer, it was also an uncertain way
of accomplishing the desired result,
as some horses can take almost a bar-
rel of water and be none the worse
for it while the race is on. They are
usually taken later, though, with a
most violent colic, from the effects of
which they never entirely recover.
THE ART OF “PULLING” A RACE.
“Pulling” a race was and is to-day
the commonest way of betraying the
betting public. Its success depends
wholly upon the skill and judgment of
the jockey, and when the simplicity
of the thing is considered, it is a won-
dér that the stewards have so few in-
stances of it to contend with. For
“pulling” a horse means merely hold-
ing him in, so that, while he gives
every appearance of running hig best,
he will not pass under the wire ahead
of the entry it is really desired to have
win. While simple in theory, in prac-
tice the trick is really not as easy as
it looks. No one who has not tried
would believe how hard it is to hold
in a horse which to all intents an
purposes is running away, without
giving any evidence of it. A jockey in
the final heat of a race is supposed to
let a mount run for all there is in
him. So difficult is this to simulate
that some jockeys have abandoned the
practice of “pulling” in favor of “run-
ning a horse out” early in the race.
This is exactly the reverse of “pull-
ing,” though it accomplishes the same
thing in the end. The horse, having
been forced to his utmost speed, dur-
ing the first quarter or half, and then
checked, never rises to a final burst
when called upon in going to the wire,
Steeplechasing is a branch of racing
where dishonesty has a clea Held,
free from any chance of detection. §o
unreliable are these races over here
that persons who know anything abéut
the so-called sport never think of wi-
ger money on it. Jockeys as a general
thing, it is sad to relate, are honest
only because it does not pay them to
be anything else. When there is an
opportunity afforded them to make ex-
tra money dishonestly, without fear
of detection, they pretty generally wel-
come the chance as a dispensation of
providence. In a steeplechase there is
absolutely no way of “keeping tabs” on
the riders. Who is to say that a
horse was checked and thrown in go-
ing over a hurdle or brought up short
in taking a water jump? Then, too,
there is always the opportunity as a
last resort for the jockey to lose his
seat. This is quite a common subter-
fuge, and the jockeys become 80 ex-
pert at it that they will take a fall with
their horse going at top speed without
receiving the slightest injury.—New
York Post.
His Experience,
“In my long career of argifying poli
tics I hey learned this one thing,” sai
VYucle Henry Butterworth, “never q
argy with a man that invents his own
no time t' think about dope.”
statistics,’—Kansas City Times.
The Choloe of Paint,
Fifty years ago a well-gainted house
was a rare sight; to-day an unpainted
house Is rarer. If people knew the
value of paint a house in need of paint
woald be “scarcer than hen's teeth.”
There was some excuse for our fore-
fathers, Many of them lived in houses
hardly worth preserving: they knew
nothing about paint, except that it was
pretty; and to get a house painted was
a serious and costly job. The differ-
ence between thelr case and ours Is
that when they wanted paint it had to
be made for them; whereas when we
need paint we can go to the nearest
good store and buy it, in any color or
quality ready for use. We know, or
ought to know by this time, that to
let a house stand unpainted is most
costly, while a good coat of paint, ap-
plied in season, is the best of Invests
ments. If we put off the brief visit of
the painter we shall in due time have
the carpenter coming to pay us a long
visit at ouy expense. Lumber is con-
stantly getting scarcer, dearer and
poorer, while prepared paints are get
ting plentier, better and less expensive.
It is a short-sighted plan to let the vals
uable lumber of our houses go to pieces
for the want of paint,
For the man that needs paint there
are two forms from which to choose;
one is the old form, still favored by cer-
tain unprogressive painters who have
not yet caught up with the times—lead
and oil; the other is the ready-for-use
paint found in every up-to-date store.
The first must be mixed with oil,
driers, turpentine and colors before it
is ready for use; the cther need only
be stirred up in the can and it is
ready to go on. To buy lead and oil,
colors, ete., and mix them into a paint
by hand is, in this twentieth century,
about the same as refusing to ride in a
trolley car because one’s grandfather
had to walk or ride on horseback
when he wanted to go anywhere,
Prepared paints have been on the mar-
ket less than fifty years, but they have
proved on the whole so inexpensive, 80
convenient and so good that the con~
sumption to-day is something over six-
ty million gallons a year and still grow=
ing. Unless they bad been in the main
satisfactory, it stands to reason there
would have been no such steady
growth in their use.
Mixed paints are necessarily cheaper
than paint of the hand-mixed kind, be-
cause they are made in a large way by,
machinery from materials bought in
large quantities by the manufacturer.
They are necessarily better than paints
mixed by hand, because they are more
finely ground and more thoroughly,
mixed and because there is less chance
of the raw materials in them being
adulterated. No painter, however care-
ful he may be, can ever be sure that
the materials he buys are not adulter-
ated, but the large paint manufacturer
does know in every case, because
everything he buys goes through the
chemist’s hands before he accepts it.
Of course there are poor paints Om:
the market (which are generally cheap
paints). Sa there is poor flour, poor
cloth, poor soap; but because of that
do we go back to the hand-mill, the
hand-loom and the soap-kettle of the
backwoods? No, we use our common
sense in choosing goods. We find out
the reputation of the different brands
of flour, cloth and soap: we take ac-
count of the standing of the dealer that
handles them, we ask our neighbors.
So with paint; if the manufacturer has
a good reputation, if the dealer is re-
sponsible, if our neighbors have had
satisfaction with it, that ought to be
pretty good evidence that the paint is
all right.
“Many men of many minds”—
Many paints of many kinds;
but while prepared paints may differ
eonsiderably in composition, the better
grades of them all agree pretty closely
in results. “All roads lead to Rome,”
and the paint manufacturers, starting
by different paths, have all the same
object—to make the best paint possible
to sell for the least money and so cap-
ture and keep the trade.
There is scarcely any other article of
general use on the market to-day that
can be bought with anything like the
assurance of getting your money’s
worth as the established brands of pre-
pared paint. The paint you buy to-day,
may not be like a certain patent medi-
cine, “the same as you have always
bought,” but if not, it will be because
the manufacturer has found a way of
giving you a better article for your
money, and so making sure of your
next order, P. G
As Good as the Mothers of Old.
New York and its people are not
half as bad as they are painted. The
doings of the people in olden times
make the weaknesses of the ‘smart
set” of to-day look as mild as the do-
ings of a well-ordered Sunday school
convention. All this and more Mrs.
Frank Cronise told the Minerva club
at its meeting at the Waldorf-Astoria.
She also said that Rev. Dr. Park-
hurst and Rev. Madison C. Peters are
the Jeremiahs of our time. And
there are the Jeremiahs in every age.
At this the audience burst into ap-
plause, for the club has had troubles
of its vwn, and has no use for Jere-
miahs of any kind.
“You see a few women drink and
gamble, and therefore we forget the
millions who do neither, and the hun-
dreds of millions of men who do
both,” remarked Mrs. Cronise, ad-
drssing figuratively Rev. Dr. Peters,
whom she called ‘tHe apostle at
large to the women of Gotham.” “I
contend,” she went on, “that we are
quite as good wives and mothers as
the women of past generations. We
differ in degree and not in kind. The
standard of living has changed, and
we have changed to meet it.”
Mrs. Cronise ventured the asser-
tion that the clubs of our country and
city contain as fine housekeepers as
ever managed a household, whose
cooking would make the best profes-
sional chefs turn green with envy.
Millions of Cantaloupes.
Twelve million six hundred thou-
sand is the estimate of the number
of the famous Rocky Ford canta-
loupes shipped from the Rocky Ford
district in Colorado last season. Sev-
en hundred cars were sent out, as
against 592 carioads the previous
year.
Parents too Strict.
Fearing that he would be punished
for spending 7 pence on sweets instead
of buying fruit for his mother a
schoolboy at Adorf, Sagony, threw
himself in front of a train and was
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