THE OLD BAG H E LOR.
-—
"\\7bat is an o'd bachelor.”
« 'His likeiu .- is ma .- "
..'._r.s a'p iro old scis-oz‘s
Nth only one bla:1-.
Or... ,n‘pened cucumber
Loug- since gone ‘0 seed;
Atree that is s! adeless.
A flowerless weed.
Agrumbler wi .11 gout.
A cynical wn g.
A timepiece without
i A mainspring: a stag.
The last. rose of summer.
Champagne flat and stain.
A faded-‘0 d chr. mo, .
A hoopless old pail.
Cold 0 ffee grown in sty.
Or 5 ozage kept friit,
A hater of children,
A surly old brute.
HEPZIBAII.
The room had been still for a long
while; only the even, monotonous
splash of the outgoing tide. and now
and again a restless, unconscious
movement of the dying woman in the
bed, disturbed the stillness of the
night. .
In the big arm chair by the bedside,
win the light of the lamp, sat a gaunt
woman, angular and haggard, with
thin, compressed lips, ,yellow skin,
light eyes and dead straw—colored hair
drawn tightly back from her fore-
head and twisted into an uncomprom-
ising knot at the nape of the neck.
She had watched for many weary
nights now beside that bed, but still
her eyes were wide and watchful,
and her attitude alert. She counted
each fluttering breath of the girlish
form beneath the. sheet. she noted
oach quiver of the unconscious eye-
lids.
The. night were on, and with the
coming of the gray dawn, a wind
arose, moaning round the little
house. and shaking the fastenings of
the sick room window.
The dying woman stirred; she
moaned; then slowly opened her
eyes. Great sad blue eyes—like a
child in trouble. She fixed them
upon the watcher in the chair with a
pathetic look of entreaty.
“Hepzibah!" The pale lips
formed the whispered word.
The gaunt woman rose hastily and
bent over her.
“Hepzibah—you have
good to me-” e
A painful pause, breathing was so
difficult.
“Am I dying now?”
The woman bending over her made
no response, but tears gathered in
her hard eyes, her thin lips quivered.‘
“No, you need not tell me. Iknow
I am. I can feel it. Hepzibah—you
have been so. good to me. There is
something that—you must (lo—for me
e—when I am gone—”
Hepzibah bent over her, waiting,
‘watchful. '
"The dying girl raised one feeble
hand, pointing toward the old bu-
reau in the corner of the room.
“There—in the third drawer on the
left—a packet—letters—will you bring
them to me?”
Hepzibah brought over to her a lit-
tle. bundle, tied round with faded
pink ribbon.
“The young woman fingered it lov-
ingly. wistfully.
"They are Jack’s letters—my Jack,
Hepzibah! \Vhen I am gone, I trust
you to burn them for me. Tom
must never :know. Poor Tom—he has
been a good husband to me; but I
loved Jack first—only he was so wild
—I did not know that he cared for
me. _And he went away in a temper
”and I married Tom. But when
Jack came back from sea last time,
I-I found out how much he cared.
it was terrible—and I loved him so!
Then he was drowned—my poor
Jack—”
A weak
whispering.
“Promise me you will burn them,
Hepzibah, for Tom's wke—"
“Bear. I promise.”
“You have been so good to me, So
patient with me. When I am gone
you will be good to poor Tom.”
A dull red flush overspread the eld-
er woman’s face. She turned her
head 'into the shadow.
"I will do what I can, Nellie,” she
responded in a smothered voice.
“Call Tom now, I feel I am going
soon—going, I feel so cold—so numb.”
Hepzibah hastily left the room. She
was back in an instant, followed by
a stout, ruddy-faced man Of about 50.
He stepped softly to the bed, and
-l.00k the dying woman’s hand in his
big grasp. . '
“Come. Nell. my lass, y“ ...ust bear
a brave heart. We’ll have you better
soon.“ There were tears in his cheery
voice. . ‘ _.
Nellie looked at him with a faint
just
been very
sob choked her broken
smile; she raised the’ big hand in
which her own was imprisoned, to
her 11s. Then, exhausted by her re-
cent offer-is, she closed her eyes, and
seemed to sleep. Presently she
stratcd violently; her eyes opened in
terror.
“The letters!
Hepzibali~"
Tom tin-m d to Hepzibah wondering-
iy. He lll=,i.gilt the delirium .had rc-
.i.urned. 3.
“What letteits does she mean?”
.sI-Iepzibah was silent; she averted
her eyes. Then—
’ “She means her,dead mother’s let-
ters,” she replied in a steady voice.
The dying woman looked her grati-
tude for the saving lie. There was a
silence again, and a solemn sense of
waiting in the room.‘ At last Nellie
made a faint movement 'with her
‘liailil. . .
“I'M tide was'nearly out. Beyond
mo ean was rising in golden splendor,
making a. glittering pathway across
thewaves, straight to the cottage win-
dow. The night wind had softened
into a warm breeze. It came wafted
in, mingling with the salt of the sea—-
You will burn them,
i.
,I
i
n-uah
....._.d;..,_.
with the scent of the flowers in the
little garden below.
Nellie‘s big, sad eyes took in all the
beauty of the morning, then they
gently clrsed.
So Nelgie Thurgobd, Tom Thur-
good‘s yogng wife died, and was bur-
ied in the little churchyard by the
sea; and the tide came in and the
tide went out, through the long sum-
mer days and nights, and peaceful
order reigned in the little cottage, for
Hepzibah was a notable housekeeper;
and Tom was grateful to her in a
dull, impersonal way. His heart was
buried in a newly made grave on the
cliff side, and nothing seemed real to
him but that.
Hepzibah watched him from under
her white eyelashes, and kept silent;
but his pipe was always ready for
him when he came indoors, and his
favorite food simmered on the hob.
Hepzibah’s hair grow brighter as
the days went on; her cheeks had
a comely blush; she began totake
thoughts of her dress. She bought a
blue gingham gown in the village, and
muslin handkerchiefs for her neck.
Her voice took a softer note. She be-
gan to sing- about her work.
But Tom would sit in the church—
yard through the long summer twi-
light, and when he came in to his sup-
per his feet dragged wearily, and his
eyes were dull with misery.
“You should not grieve so,” said
Hepzibah, softly, one night after sup-
per. She was knitting‘in the firelight;
her head was bent over her work.
Tom woke as from a dream;
looked at her with unseeing eyes.
“Ah! it’s well to say that to a man
whose heart is breaking!”
His voice grew husky,
away his head to the fire.
“But you shouldn’t grieve as one
without hope. Time must soften a
bit—you have your life before you.”
Tom laughed a short, bitter laugh,
not good to hear.
, “She was all I had—my Nellie. The
apple of my eye. What good’s life to
me now? Such pretty ways he had,
too,” he went on musingly; “such
loving tender ways—”
Hepzibah’s needles flashed in the
firelight.
“There are other women in the
world as fond as Nellie,” she said
softly, with her eyes on her knitting.
There was a long silence in the
room. The fire flickered; a cinder
fell on the hearth. Hepzibah could
hear her heart throbs; she slowly
lifted her-eyes to the man’s face.
He was not looking at her at all,
but at a china shepherdess upon the
little table against .the wall. His
eyes were troubled, he was trying to
remember. '
“My Nellie did not keep that on
there. No, it was on the mantelpiece,
here, that she had it.”
He brought the ornament over, dust-
ing it with his handkerchief.
“We must keep the things as she
left them, Hepzibah,” he said. But
Hepzibah had slipped out of the door
into the summer darkness.
, She rested her arms on the little
gate, and stood looking far out to sea.
Her face shone white and ghostly in
the dimncss. She shiver-ed in the
warm air.
“You dead woman—you Nellie,” she
whispered tenscly, “why will you not
give him up to me? You have your
Jack, you do not want him—and 1—
oh, my lod!”
A great tearless sob choked her; the
shimmering waves mocked her; her
face hardened.
“Why should I not tell him! I shall
do you no harm. How can one hurt
the dead! You are asleep in the
churchyard; and I love him—I tell
you I love him!”
The man was sitting smoking mood-
ily, gazing into the glowing fire, when
Hepzibah glided in and stood behind
his chair.
“‘Tom, I can’t bear that you should
grieve so. She wasn’t worthy of a
he
he turned
' love like yours.”
“Hepzibah !”
“I have thought you ought to know
——-” she falter-ed, “because I can’t bear
to see you spoilin’ your life for love of
her—her who did not love you at all,
but Jack.” -
“Woman! what do you mean?
What lies are you telling me?”
“It’s true. Don’t you remember her
calling out about the ‘letters’ the night
she died? She 'gave me a packet—
Jack’s letters to her.”
“My God! Give them to me!"
“You must not mind so much, Tom.”
a “The letters!”
Hepzibah laid the packet on the ta-
ble, and crept away up the staircase
to her room.
The still hours passed ‘by. Night
waned, but Hepzibah, wild-eyed and
numb, crouched by the bed, straining
her ears for any sound from below.
An hour before dawn came the
sound of a chair scraping on the'flag—
ged floor; then drawers were opened
and shut; his footsteps echoed to and
fro. Then silence and the scratching-
of a pen.
It grew unbearable. Dishevelled,
wan, fearful,” she crept down the
stairs and peered in.
Tom Thurgood ,sat at the table,
writing by the dim candle light. He
had on his rough pilot’s coat; a bun-
dle tied in a red handkerchief rested
beside him. ,
Hepzibah’s broken cry aroused him.
He rose and came toward her. ‘
“I'm going away, back to sea again,”
he said gravely.
the cottage and the bits of furniture.
There’s no home for me now—the
place would kill me. .Get back to bed
woman. 'Goodby, there, go!” .
He turned back to his writing and
the room was quiet again. Presently
he threyee-nsn his pen and passed his
inky fingers through his hair.
“The wind moans terrible tonight,"
he said. '
It was Hepzibah above, crying for
her lost Paradise.——Cbapman’s Maga-
zine.
“You’re welcome to'
I. ‘
A PERILOUS GAME.
When, in 1843 I was a junior clerk
in the house of Richepin, in Paris, my
finances allowed me to indulge in no
amusements but chess; and, as a con-
stant habitue of the Cafe de la Re.
gence, I had attained a certain degree
of force. In order to conceal the
poverty of my appointments, I main-
tained the most rigid secrecy at the
Regence as to who or what I was.
and was universally supposed to be
living on my means. One evening
while myself and other clerks were
making up the monthly mail for Con-
stantinople, the office door flew open
and our chief, Richepin, stood before
us, his face pale and troubled.
“Gentlemen," said he, France is no
ileuger‘France! The Whirlwind has
smitten her! I may be announcing to
you the ruin of the house of Bichepin
and Brothers! Napoleon Bonaparte
has left Elba, has landed in France;
the army join him, and his eagles are
flying to Paris with lightning speed.
Louis XVIII. will be off for Flanders
in a few days. The folly of the Bour-
bons again breaks the peace of Eu-
rope, and France is about to plunge
anew into a thirty years’ war! The
Emperor must have money instantly—4
Louis is even now packing up the
crown jewels, and all his private treas-
ure of gold and diamonds to boot. The
Emperor will tender me his note of
hand!
In our vaults lie five millions of
golden Napoleons, and doubtless,
Talleyrand and Fouche will try to
make their peace with Bonaparte, by
advising that this sum should be
seized as a forced loan.”
“But,” asked a clerk, “~ can we not
hide the gold?"
“Where can we hide it that its
known? I must give up this vast
sum, or, perhaps, be tried by court-
martial and shot for petty treason. If
my brother in London were only here
to give his counsel.”
“The Emperor cannot be here yet;
why not send to your brother?” asked
the clerk. ,
“The barriers are closed, and guard
ed by the‘artillcry with loaded guns.
I applied myself for a passport and
was refused. None may pass but one
courier for each Ambassador. The
messenger of the English Embassy
this moment leaves with despatches
for the Court of St. James. He is a
German, named Schmidt. I have
spoken with him and have offered
him £500 to bear a letter to my brother
and the man refuses. The moment he
communicates his news in London,
the British funds fall 10 per cent., as
they will do here tomorrow morning,
and in both cities we hold consols to
an immense amount!
L had not spoken, but eagerly
watched and devoured every word,
every look, of the several speakers.
“If being in London three hours be-
fore the courier may advantage the
house,” cried I, “ here do I undertake
the task. Give me some token of evi-
dence to hand your brother, sir, gold
for my expenses on the road, and trust
to me!”
“What mean you?
said Richepin.
“I have my plan,” returned I. “Ch,
do but trust me. I am acquainted with
this courier—with Schmidt.” ‘
Here I must explain the nature of
the relations that existed between me
and Schmidt. We were both fre-
quenters of the Cafe de la Begence.
Schmidt was the slowest chess-player
I have ever seen. We had mostly
singled out each other as antagonists
because pretty evenly matched.
Schmidt loved me, as I knew, because
it was not every man who would play
with him. He no more suspected me
of being a banker’s clerk than of be-
ing King of the Sandwiéh Islands.
The English Embassy at this time
occupied a hotel adjoining the Cafe
de la Regence,’ at the door of which
latter temple of fame I planted myself
in a careless-looking attitude. At the
porte-cochere of the British envoy’s ho-‘
tel stood a light travelling-carriage. I
was in the nick of time. Schmidt was
ready; five horses were being capari-
soned for the journey. I went up to
the carriage and addressed my friend:
“How’s this, Schmidt? No chess to-
night? I’ve been looking for you in
the Regence!”
“Chess! . have you heard the news?
I’m OK this moment for London with
despatches.”
“I don’t envy you your journey!”
said I. “What a bore, shut up in that
machine all night; to be sure, you
can read all the way, and—yes, you
can study our new gambit!”
“What a pity you can’t go with me!”
responded Schmidt, in the pride of
five horses and a carriage all to him-
self; “wc’d play chess all the way!”
My heart leaped to my mouth.
Are you mad?”
ing. .
“ ome along, then, my dear fellow!”
replied Schmidt;
earnest. I’ve a famous night-lamp,
and am in no humour to sleep.”
“Do you really mean what you say,
Schmidt?”
“Indeed, I do.”
“Then I’ll. tell you what.” said I,
“I’m your man, and famous fun we’ll
have.”
I darted into the cafe, snatched up
the first-class board and men that
came to hand, and stood in a moment
again by the side ‘of my friend.
Luckily, my adversary was the slow-
est of all slow players. This gave me
time to ruminate over a scheme that
was maturing in my brain. By this
time we had reached that little vil-
lage, I forget the name of the dog-”hole,
seven miles on the Paris side of
Boulogne. I easily prevailed on
Schmidt to alight at the little inn.
. which was also the post-house, for a
quarter of an hour to snatch ‘a hot
dinner-so, chess-board in hand
......~. -v—u~—~—.——.-. .. . ._. ..... . ._
place of concealment will not be'
“Don’t invite me twice!” said I laugh-(j
“make the jest 3
barely a single tww
i
Schmidt went into a dark, back room"
to study his coming move while din-
ner was dishing. I rushed» outside
and demanded—what think you? An
blacksmith! I was, gazing on our, car-
riage when the man stood before me.
No one was within hearing. '
“What a curious thing is a carriage
like this, friend!” said I musingly.
“Now, what would follow were that
large screw there taken out? Answer
me promptly.”
“What would follow? Why, the
coach would go on very well for a few
hundred yards, and then would ever-
turn with a crash, and smash all to
shivers.” .
“Hum!” said I. “And what if only
that tiny screw were drawn ?”
“The body of the vehicle would
equally l‘all upon the hind axle, but
without material consequences, caus-
ing, however, some considerable de~
lay.”
“Are you the blacksmith always in
attendance here? I mean, if this car-
riage overturned descending yonder
hill, would it fall to your lot to right
it?”
“It would!” and the Frenchman’s
eye sparkled with intelligence.
“Here are ten napoleons. Give me
out that little screw, I have a fancy
for it.” And the screw was in my
hand. “I hope no accident will hap-
pen,” I continued; “but, should the
carriage overturn, have it brought
back here to repair. And take a couple
of hours to finish the job in, that you
may be sure the work is done proper-
ly, you know- And remember that a
man who earns ten napoleons so
lightly has two ears, but only one
tongue.”
I pocketed the precious screw, and
rushed in to dinner while the horses
were putting to. We left the inn at
full gallop. A very small quantity of
a pace like ours proved a dose. The
postillions pulled up.
“We are overset!” I cried.
“God forbid!” said Schmidt. “VVhat’s
to be done?” '
I had already sprung out.
“There seems to be little the matter,
Schmidt. Back the carriage to the inn,
and all will be right in a twinkling.”
My friend the blacksmith assured
us he would repair all damage di-
rectly; and, while he began to ham-
mer away, we philosophers coolly re-
sumed our chess in the inner-parlour.
The position of the game was now
highly critical both for Richepin and
Napoleon, and also for me and
Schmidt. I felt my antagonist must
occupy twenty heavenly minutes over
his coming move. I left the room
and darted to the stable. A groom was
busy at his work.
“Have you a saddle-horse ready for
the road? I am sent on in advance.
Tell the landlord my friend within
settles all. Give me the bridle.”
I mounted and galloped off like the
wind for Boulogne. In a few minutes
more I had alighted at the water-
side. I selected a stout, trim-looking
boat and leaped on board, leaving my
horse to his meditations.
“For Dover!” cried I to the master
of the boat. “My pay is five guineas
a man; I must have eight men on
board in case it comes on to blow. Be
smart, fellows, and away!”
The men were as active as eels, a
sailor severed the rope, heavy 'brown
sails were flung to the wind, and we
were swee ing across the waters.
By half— st nine I had left Dover,
and was tearing ”along the London
road behind our fleet horses. My
carriage pulled up before the gates of
Richepin’s villa before five oclock in
the morning. In five minutes more I
found myself by the conjugal bed of
Richepin.‘
By the time. he was fully wake'ned
up, I handed in my credentials. I
rapidly explained circumstances of the
case, and minutely detailed the situa-
tion of our Paris house.
“Return to France,” said he, “to
my brother with all speed. Spare no
exertion to be at Paris some little
time before Napoleon enters. The
Napoleon dynasty will not last long.
The army will declare in his favour, but
the nation, torn by the war, will not
stand by him. The problem to be
solved is this: To keep the gold out
of his hands, and yet to remain friends
with him. And thus would I have my
brother proceed. W’e have undue bills
to the amount of millions and millions
flying about Paris. Every holder of
a note of hand will be glad to allow
10 per cent. discount for gold. Any
premium will be given for gold to
hoard during the crisis. Seek out the
holders of our paper, call it all in, and
pay if off in gold. Call in all. Lock
‘ your paper in your desk, and the ship
will ride out the storm. The bills will
be useless to Napoleon; gold alone
will meet his views. ‘
I reached Dover and Calais without
an accident, and reeled into our Paris
counting-house, more dead than alive,
soon after noon on the 8th day of
March. I need not say how delighted
s our French Richepin at the coun-
se . I brought. All hands went imme-
diately to work to carry out the
scheme. All our gold was paid away;
:anc piece re-
mained in our treasure vaults. \Ve
stood upon our bills and waited the
event.
Bonaparte had landed in France on
March 1st; on the 21st of March the
Emperor had a grand levee at the
Palace of the Tuileries, to- which our
ehief went, though with a trembling
heart. Bonaparte looked at him from
head to foot, with anything but a
pleasant expression of countenance,
and turned On his heel with this sig-
nificant phrase: “I see there are two
Napoleons in Europe.” _
My friend, Schmidt, never can have
forgotten the last game of chess we
played‘ together. We have never seen
each otherxsince I left him stralyoig '
how to parry the impending check-
mate; should we ever meet, .l than
be happy to finish the game.
I
. .- w r: n k L Yf- I\ Q R w A Ln ‘- GA ZE T TE' I
Systomby Which the Employees Are 0"
ganized, Lodged and Fed.
The great departmentstores in P2;
ris, such as the Bon Marché. the Lot.
vre, and the Printemps, carry the o:
ganization of their employes to a poin‘
not dreamed of here, and have in op
eration extensive and costly plans to
stimulating the interest and energ:
of the help in the business to th.
highest degree. The new cmploye r:
ceives at the start a salary of 40a:
francs, or about $80 a year, besides
being lodged and fed, and in addition
a commission of from two to five per
cent upon his sales, so that the low-
est salesman rarely makes less than
$160 a. year. A head of department.
or buyer, as he is known here, may
easily make from $2,500 to $3,000 a
year, and some of them exceed $5,000.
While these figures are low compared
with the $10,000 and $20,000 salaries
paid in New York, they seem high
when measured by the scale of sala:
ries that prevail in France. Thus the
'best paid among the higher employes
receive larger salaries than Presidents
of sections in the Council of State and
generals of division. The average pay
of an experienced salesman is about
4,000 francs, or $800 a year.
The total number of employes in the
Bon Marché and the Louvre is about
3,000 each, among whom are only
about 400 women. In the Bon Marché
and the Louvre lodging in the build-
ings provided by the establishment is
optional for employes of both sexes
less than 21 years old; in the Prin-
temps it is obligatory. The Louvre
has on the Avenue Rapp a. great
building accommodating 250 male em-
ployes, and not far from it another
Where 100 young girls are lodged. The
Bon Marché furnishes similar accom-
modations. All these establishments
are conducted under pecu.iarly strin-
gent rules. The girls have a parlor
where entertainments are organized
on Sundays and certain evenings of
the week, but from which the other
sex ‘3 excluded utterly. Not even a
father or a brother may be received
there. '
The great stores have a medical ser-
vice tor their: employes, which in-
eludesI an klfli‘mary and outings in
the country or at the seashore. In ad-
dition, when a man or woman com-
pleted seven years of service in the
Louvre, open: of 1,000 francs is cred-
ited to am hi the pension fund, and
afterward 200 francs a year up to his
fiftieth year of service. The savings
fund of the Bon Marché now amounts
to 2,000,000 francs, and 200,000 francs
are added annually, and in addition
there is a pension fund founded by
Mme. Boucicault, who built up this
immense business, which now
amounts to 6,000,000 francs.
Home Influence.
Our home influence is not a pass-~
ing but an abiding one, and all-pow-
erful for good or evil, for peace or
strife, for happiness or misery. Each
separate Christian home has been
likened to a central sun, around
Which revolves a happy and united
band of‘warm, loving hearts, acting,
thinking, rejoicing and sorrowing to-
gether. Which member of the family
group can say, I have no influence?
What sorrow or what happiness lies
in the power of each! “A lighted
lamp,” writes. M’Cheyne, “is a yery
small thing, and it burns calmly and
without noise, yet it giveth light to
all who are within the house. And
so there is a quiet influence which,
like the flame of a scented lamp, fills
many a home with light and frag-
rance. Such an influence has been
beautifully compared to ‘a carpet,
soft and deep, which, while it- diffuses
a look of ample comfort, deaden‘s
many a creaking sound. It is the cur-
tain which from many a beloved form
wards off at once the summer’s glow
and the winter’s wind. It is the pal
low on which sickness lays its head
and forgets half its misery.’ This in-
fluence falls as the refreshing dew,
the invigorating sunbeam, the ferti-
lizlng shower, shining on all with the
mild lustre of moonlight, and harmon-
izing in one soft tint many of the dis.
cordant hues of a family picture.”
HINTS FOR THE HOUSEHOLD.
Every housewife should impress up-
on the minds of 'her family that the
best Sauce for any meat is cheerful-
ness. Laughter aids digestiin, and
people should never grumble while eat-
ing.
In giving medicine in liquid form to
an infant place the point 'of the spoon
containing the medicine against the
roof of the mouth. Administering it in
this way, it will be impossible for the
child to choke or eject the medicine.
In the fall cleaning of closets and
storerooms the best thing to wash the
walls and shelves with is'a strong, hot
solution of alum water. A brush should
be used for the‘ purpose, as that will
reach every crack and‘crevice. Hot
alum water is a good eradicator for all
sorts of pests," and Will also kill the
eggs, while hot Water and soap-seem
‘ to aid" in hatching them. ,
.VVhenifi'y‘ing'“ cthu'ettes, after rollingf
them in “ beat-en egg'anc crumbs, lay
them‘i‘n‘awlire basket and plunge 1;
basket deep' into boiling hot fat. Then
a crust is formed at»,once over Jtheiqgt-
side, which, prevents the grease {film
penetrating'._'When‘ the croquettes" are
browned transferthem .to brown pa-
per to absorb any grease that may ad-
here» to them.‘ If not quite ready to
serve, let them! remain upon the paper
at the mouth of the oven to keep’ them
lot. '
.‘.
IN THE WHIRL OF FASHION.
Suggestions for Three Pretty Gowns Stilt-
able for the Season.
By‘Special Arrangement with the N. Y. Sun.)
The general outline of dress is toned
down to a moderate degree of fullness
as to skirts and sleeves, which is a de-
cided improvement, unless we look
upon the new sleeve, so nearly tight, as
the inayguration of an ugly, uncom4
fort-able fashion. It is ‘not here yet,
however, for there is at least enough
fullness at the top to suggest the abnor-
mal structure so recently, discarded;
and, as old fashions are rarely ever re-
vived without some modern improve-
went, there is hope for the tight sleeve,
which seems so imminent. '
i I
....... .._.
o
The elaborate costume in the picture
is of fine green canvass. The plain
skirt is made over a bright rose-colored
silk, giving it a pleasing tone. The
bodice is of white chirifon, over which
is draped pink and green silk. The
gathered sleeves have small puffs; the
folded belt and the collar are of silk.
The peculiar fan drapery at the shoul-
der is of green satin. __
The fur-trimmed gown is of fine blue
cloth. The skirt is edged with two little
frills, one of white ottoman, and the
other of blue cloth. These are headed
with a narrow band of beaver fur. The
blouse bodice is made of the blue cloth,
which is pleated into the waist at the
back, where the material is cut away
to show a pointed piece of the white
ottoman. There is a pleated vest of
the same material in front, on either
side of which the blue cloth is cut out
into tabs and edged with a narrow band
of fur. Below the waist on either side
fall two pieces of the cloth over the
hips; these also have a narrow edge of
the fur. The sleeves are finished about
the hands with cut-out tabs like those
upon the front of the bodice, and filled
out with chiffon ruches edged with lace
to match the neck.
The simple costume with the skirt
'kilted all around is of fine smooth cloth
in one of the rich soft shades of brown.
The jacket bodice has a small basque
at the back, but is pointed in front. It
opens over a vest of tucked chiffon, very
soft and dainty looking, and fastened
with a shaped band of the material at
the waist. The band collar is of white
and fastened to the vest. The jacket
is trimmed ,with velvet and silk braid
of a shade of brown a trifle darker: It
is lined with flame-colored silk which
shows a very little at the opening over
the vest.
Wood Fibre.
A new process for manufacturing
paving blocks, building materials and
other objects from wood fibre is re-
ported to have been patented in Swit-
zerland and other countries. The fibre
is first rendered antiseptic by treat
ment with vitriol, corrosive sublimate,
etc., and is then mixed with a sui.‘ .ble
agglomerant having mortar as a base.
The plastic material so obtained is
pressed into moulds. The objects made
are light, porous and tough, bad con-
ductors of sound and heat, and can
be sawed, nailed, drilled and other
- - . - _ {wise treated like. wood.
Norwalk Chronicler