TH E HAPPIEST FELLOW.
The happiest of t" e happy folks
That walk the world’s old way
Is the fellow who can whistle
On a rainy day.
Who thinks not of the sunshine
~‘ And never hoods the buy.
But whistles. whistles, whistles
On a rainy day.
The same to him is winter
As meadows of the May.
He summons up his troubles
And whistles ’em.away.
He‘s t“ankful for a sky of blue,
But when it fades away
He’s thankful still, and whistles .
On a rainy day.
-F. L. Stanton in Atlanta Constitution.
AN ' UNBIDDEN GUEST.
I felt the want of exercise one June
evening. The lake was still covered
by cakes of rotten ice; hence rowing
was quite out of the question; walk-
ing even was unpleasant, and riding,
also, was undesirable, for my horse
was a short stepper and born mud-
slingcr. Exercise I must have, but
how to get it was the question.
The local “boss” suggested my tak-
, ing the road-master’s velocipede, and
run a few miles up the line.
I had never ridden a railway veloc-
ipede, but was quite willing to make
the experiment; so soon the funnily
shaped contrivance was pulled out of
its shed, and being bolted together on
the track. One had to sit straddle-
l‘egged on a contrivance that was set
above two ordinary, but light, car
'wheels. There was a handle-bar to
pull, while one shoved forward with
one's feet, and underneath was the
machinery by which the velocipcde
could be geared up so that greater
speed might be attained. This motor
portion was kept on the tracks by a
balance-wheel that was attached by a
bar to the main body. Once seated,
and with the concern in motion, it
would be almost impossible to dis-
mount, for the swinging handle-bar
would be bound to strike no inconsid-
erable blows on one’s chest, the left
bar would be mixed among the cross
liars, and a sort of seat behind effect-
ually prevented one’s slipping off
backwards. It was a trap, no doubt
of it.
After listening to sundry warnings
and directions regarding the machine,
somebody gave me a starting push
and I was off, pulling and pushing
with feet and hands up thesteep
grade of the outward track.
I roll on with steady strokes, cov—
ering at least twelve miles an hour,
between fields at first, and later by
the lakeside, with cliffs rising sheer
overhead on the one hand, and the
surging roll of the blue water, glis-
7eni‘ng with ice cakes, on the other.
The rhythmic, regular sound lends
one to thought, and a white face that
has haunted [113 through several days
rises unbidden in my mind's eyes; the
lace of the broken-hearted woman
that I had seen, staring with tearless
eyes on the dead face of the husband
she had lost by a murderer‘s hand,
whilst he had been discharging his
.luty as a constable. Strange, it
seemed that the guilty man should ,
hive eluded 'his pursuers for so long
a time! The whole countryside had
been reused in pursuit for two weeks
grist. yet no trace of the fugitive
could be found. He must have left
the country, people said; for how
could-man elude so diligent a search?
And so they had returned to their
homes, and the wonder of ,nine days
was nearly forgotten.
I: had traversed a dozen miles of
duels, and now the bridge over Ben-
bz'idge creek is ahead, with the first
station yet beyond it.
But a mile or two from the station
is a level, straight stretch of nearly a
mile in length. Half of it is passed,
when l observe a man sitting by the
track's side, and signalling to me to
stop. “A train ahead!” is my immedi-
ate thought, and this man has been
sent to warn me of its'approach'. An
unlyikely thing in this wilderness, to
be: sure, but what else could one sup-
pose? .,
The machine had barely-stopped as
i came abreast of the man, a by no
means prepossessing specimen of hu-
manity, that even the dying light en-
abled me to see. But what had I to
fear? I was not of the kind that is
easily terrified by a villainous face
and burly frame.
"There’s a train coming down. mis-
irer,” said he; “I heard it whistling as
you-came in sight, and thought I’d
better stop you.” ': s;
As he spoke he stepped towards me,
then, quick as thought, he gave the
..-de a violent push and vaulted on
the seat behind me, hissing in my
startled ear:
“Pump her, hangfyou; pump! Pump
as if all the demons abroad were af-
101' you, or they will soon be, for I’ll
let daylight through you—like I did
that cussed fool that thought he could
“rest int—if you don’t run me to ‘the
pprtage’ this night. I‘m not going to
h.- hunted like a dog no longer; so
pump, hang you, pump!”
Something round and cold, I could
feet, was being pressed into the small
of my back. l’oor Pelly had been shot
tr ('iezii'il, und'the murderer escaped
With ins weapon; so it did not need
ULJJD presciollce to divine that it was
r. pistol l felt. Nor could there be
.my d‘~-:;ht that this was the life-tak-
\vi'citil himself who was seated
”stiiird lili'. .
’g'hi: .«tlurck of surprise numbed my
senses for
ficieutly to prevent my obeying the
wafers of my unwelcome passenger.
”lg
834:1 the horrors of *.h“ situation
finned upon me, am. the blood ran
in my veins. This :niscrcant
1.. ,..c have been in hiding so close to
iii-.2 scene of his crime that suspicion
01' his presence had been .disarmed.
Low he had decided it was time to
break; away, and was it likely that I,
the witness to the direction of his
k
some instants, but not‘suf- ,
I flight, would be alive when the mar
row dawned to set pursuers on his
track? Scarcely!
His life was forfeited now, and that
he knew to a certainty; what would
the sacrifice of another life be to him,
if by a second murder his wretched
neck could be saved. a stretching?
Nothing! I was to be driven at his
pistol‘s mouth to carry him through-
out the night, until the point nearest
the river had been reached, where he
could cross into another province, and,
mixing with the hordes of semi-civil-
ized river-men, elude pursuit forever.
Then, or when exhaustion overcame
my usefulness as a machine, he would
shoot me.
“Pump ner, hang you, pump!”
There was no escape for me that I
could see. In front was the swaying
bar, that was now plunging with force
sufiicient to break one’s ribs, for as a
relief to my pent-up feelings I worked
with desperate strokes. Behind was
my master, close against me, his gui14
ty weapon in hand. I could not
throw myself to the right, for the
stringers of the balance-Wheel would
hamper and catch my left leg. ' The
same bars would make it impossible
for me to get clear by falling between
the rails. What could I do?
“You’re doing pretty well, mister,”
said a voice at my back, “and I don't
mean to be too hard on you. Take it
a bit easier now, for you’ve got to
pump her fifty miles tonight, and I
don’t want to overdrive you at the
start.” '
Fifty miles! Merciful God! Al-'
ready the perspiration was rolling
from every pore, and I could feel that
my strength was being spent. Surely
there must be some way out of this
horrible mess! Had it come to this,
that I was so completely entrapped
by an ignorant, slow-witted scoundrel
-——I, who had so prided myself on my
readiness and subtlety? It seemed so.
“Pump her, hang you! No monkey
tricks now, or I’ll shoot. Mind that.”
\Ve fly gust a gloomy station, and
from an 13"ny window a faint light
glimmers through the curtain.
“Don’t you halloa now, mister, or
I’ll shoot. ”)on’t let a squeak out 0’
you if you want to be healthy.”
The pistol’s muzzle is pushed yet
nearer into my back as the tormentor
utters the warning. We roll past some
cars on the siding, and on .again on
the main track. They are early
bed-goers, these people, and there is
no help to hope for. .
“Stop her!” said my passenger,
sharply. “Stay quiet where you are
while I have a drink. You move and
I shoot. Mind that, now!”
He seemed to pull a bottle from
some part of his clothing, and I could
hear the gurgle of the liquor as it
trickled from the bottle’s neck and
down his throat. The fumes of‘the
worst and rankest “forty-rod” whisky
poisoned the air as he pushed the
bottle under my nose and said: “Take
a urmk,'you’ll want it Tom you’re
through.
I refused.
“Take it, blow you!
I’ll take any talk from you?
or I’ll fix you right here.”
“I’ll not drink. with a murderer.
Do you think
Drink,
Shoot!”
“It’s time enough to fix you when I
get through with you, and if you
won’t drink, why I’ll drink for both."
Then we went on. Weariness was
asserting itself, and I could scarce
force the doubly weighted ’pede up
the grade of the hill.
Over the brow of the hill was a
steep down-grade, into a valley where
another station was. It had grown
a little lighter now, and there seemed
to be cars on both 'track and siding.
Did my tormentor notice this? He
sat behind, so it was possible that he
did not. Here, then, was a possibil-
ity of escape. I could but die once;
was it not better, then, to meet death
of my own volition now, than when,
his slave being utterly exhausted and,
therefore useless to him, the wretch
behind me should please to take my
life. Summoning all my remaining
strength, I forced the velocipede down
the grade until it fairly flew over the
rails, and the clink and clank of the
wheels was merged into a roar as we
swept along.
Now my tormentor saw the danger,
and, with a scream of fear, called to
me to stop. But I was desperate, and
noticed him not.
“Stop her. or
screamed.
“Shoot’” I replied, and forced the
machine along at a fearsome speed.
The station was built by the side of
a small river that flowed far below
over its sicny bed. A bridge crossed,
and the slation was at its further
end. We are on the bridge now, and
it is but a choice of deaths—to be
dashed to pieces against the cars that
block both tracks, or to fall on the
rocks a hundred feet below.
"Stop her! Stop her!" screamed my
passenger, but I only set my teeth and
work the handles harder in reply. lie
was a coward at heart, for he
screamed with fear and begged and
implored of me to stop the speed. But
I could not, and I would not. My
mind was made up to meet death
there and then.
The ’pedc roars on, devouring space
Twenty feet, fifteen, ten, five
C—r—a-s-hl
When I recovered my senses it was
to find myself tenderly cared for in a
city hospital. How I escaped instant
death nobody has ever been able to
tell, for I was found in the water at
the foot of the cliff. My unwelcome
passenger was dead, his skull crushed
in where he had; struck against :1
I’ll shoot!" he
m'r-k. 5., injuries were very serious
can-s, but a chiqaie for $1.000, the re-
v.:ird for the delivery of the mur-
derer dead or alive, helped to heal,
them. _
A black bottle is the bait noir of the
fisherinan.—Washingtcn Critic.
w EEKLY PLORWALK
A FATHER’S SACRIFICE.
How a Scotch Boy Was Educnlcd at Edin-
burgh University.
In former days, it was the ambition
of a Scotch peasant, poor as he might
be, to see one of his sons in the pulpit.
Sir Walter Scott relates a pathetic in-
stance of the intensity of this ambi-
lion.
Scott, while attending lectures at
the University of Edinburgh, made
acquaintance witi. 9 youth “he so in-'
Lcrested him that he frequently in-
vited the lad to a 5-. roll in the coun-
try. One day thi 3. met a venerable
“blue gown,” a beggar, clean and
ruddy, whose trad; zonal outside gar-
ment, whence the name of the mendi-
cant class, was worn as though it
was the toga of a Roman Senator.
Scott gave the beggar aims, but his
companion exhibited restless confu-
sion. .
“Do you know anything to the dis-
honor of the old beggar?” asked Scott,
seeing the nervousness of his fellow-
student.
“God forbid!” said the youth. “He
is my own father! He stands bleach-
ing in the wind that he may get
means to pay for my education.”
Scott kept the lad’s secret, and held
on to his companionship. For sev-
eral days the youth’s seat was vacant,
and on Scott again meeting the “blue
gown,” the old man said:
“God bless you! You have been
kind to Willie. He has often spoken
of you. Come to my roof and see
him, for he has been sick.”
Scott went to the beggar’s cottage,
and found Willie sitting on a bench
before the door, enjoying the sun-
shine. The voluntary beggar wel-
comed him, and they sat down to a
dinner of mutton and potatoes. Dur-
ing the conversation the old man ex-
claimed, with much emotion:
“Please God, I may live to see my
bairn wag his head in a pulpit yet!”
Scott told his mother about Willie
and the old “blue gown,” and through
her influence the mendicant’s son was
appointed to a tutorship in the north
of Scotland.
Had His Reasons.
. There is an Irish porter employed
in a large commission house in New
York, one of the kind that will make
a witty reply to any sort of question.
He is very fond of expressing his
views in general, and has a great ad-
miration of his arguments. If he fails
to get a listener he will talk to him-
self in lieu of something better. A
member of the firm being annoyed
one day at his constant muttering,
which he was unfortunate enough to
hear, sent for him. -
“See here, John, did it ever occur to
you that your constant talk and mut-
tering is a great annoyance to'pcople
that happen to be around? Why on
earth do you chatter to yourself, any-
how?”
“Shure, I have two reasons for doin'
that.”
“Two
they?”
“One of them is that I loike ter talk
to a sinsible man, and the other is
that I loike ter hear a sinsible man
talk."——Harper’s Round Table.
reasons! Yv'ell, what are
Government Seeds.
The government seedshop is getting
in fine shape to distribute the $130,000
worth of seeds in 1897 ordered by con-
greSs. This equals $288.89 for each
representative, senator and delegate
in congress, or enough to allow 30,000
packets of seeds to each member, in-
cluding field seeds in quart packets.
Secretary Morton has closed contracts
“for the freshest and best obtainable
varieties adapted to general cultiva-
tion,” as the new provision of law
specifies, but application for seed must
be made to members of congress. In
buying this seed, bids were invited
from all firms, and to insure seed
adapted to the various sections. the
contracts were awarded to a responsi-
ble firm in each section—eastern,
south Atlantic, middle western, north-
western and southwestern states;
contracts for the Pacific states are yet
to be awarded. So far the law could
not well have been complied with
more faithfully.
Level the Roadsides.
Roads are difficult to keep free from
weeds. This is partly due to the fact
that most of them have-been graded,
leaving deep ditches and irregular ex-
cavations between the wagon track
and the fence, making it impossible to
go over the ground with the mower.
The weeds are consequently left un-
cut. This can be remedied now by the
use of.a plOw, barrow and road grader.
Plow. down the steep bank of the
ditChes, and level them with the bar-
row and grader. The 'slopes will be
sufliciently reduced to admit of cutting
the weeds with a machine. Plow shut
all useless ditches or holes made by
hauling away the earth for grading at
a distance. Seed to grass, and the high-
ways can be cheaply kept in good
order.
Far Sighted.
“What in thunder are you speakin’
to the school children for?” asked the
voter.
“Just keep quiet,” replied the ~can-
didate, “they’ll all be old enough to
vote before- I’m elected.”—At_lantu
Constitution. ‘
The Taint of Propricty. :
' Teacher—What are proper frac-
tions? '
The Youthful Pessimist—All of
'em are, ,I reckon.
They’s dis’greable
’uough tor be! . -
LAFAYETTE’S WAR PAY.
Receipt Found for the 8200.000 Aharded
... Him by Congress for His Scrvzces.
An interesting old document was
found in the Treasury Department at
Washington. It was the originsl war-
ra‘nt, dated 1825, directing the Treas-
urer of the United States to pay Gen-
eral LaFayette the sum of $200,000
“in consideration of his services and
sacrifices” in the Revolutionary War.
The document is old faded and badly
torn, but briefed and docketed in regu-
lar form. 0n the back it bears the in-
dorsement:
uary 11, 1825,” and the fine, feminine
like signature “LaFayette.” The docu-
ment is drawn as follows:
“To Thomas Tudor Tucker, Treas-
urer of the United States, greeting:
Pay to General LaFayette, or order,
$200,000, being the amount allowed
him in consideration of his services
and sacrifices in the War of the Item-
lution, pursuant to an act of Congress
concerning him, approved 28th of De-
cember, 1824, agreeable to a certificate
of the Comptroller of the Treasury,
dated January 8, 1825, recorded by the
Register, copy whereof is filed in my
office. For so doing this shall be your
warrant. Given under my hand and
the seal of the Treasury, this eighth
day of January, in the year of our
Lord one thousand eight hundred and
twenty-five, and ofIndependence the
forty-ninth.”
THE JESTERS’ CHORUS.“
She—Did you know that Maud has
a dark room on purpose for proposals?
He—Well, rather. I developed a
negative there myself last night.—
Comic Home Journal.
—————.
Student-Last year I had six new
suits made for me.
Friend—I didn’t suppose that there
were so many tailors in town.~—Flie—
gende Blatter.
“It always depresses me greatly to
meet a bicycle scorchcr.”
“Why so?”
“I hate to see a man’s legs work so
much better than his brain.”—Cbi-
cago Record. .
Edith—You seem very chilly
Harry lately. '
Margaret—I am. He asked me for
a kiss. Why didn’t the simpleton take
one and then apologize like a gentle-
man?—Detr0it Free Press.
(20
Stern Patient—You must understand”
sir, that I want my daughter to have
as good a home after marriage as she
had before, sir.
.Tack Blufiington—Well, you’re not
going to sell out, are you?—~Buffalo
News.
“They say that domestic grapes are
so cheap that it doesn’t pay to gather
them.” .
“I’m sorry to hear it.”
“Are you a dealer?”
“No, I’m a surgeon.”-——Cleveland
Plain-Dealer.
Wilbey—You smoke a heap of ciga-
rettes, don’t you,? ,
Maybey—Yes, I smoke a lot of them.
Wilbey—How many boxes do you
smoke a day?
Maybey—Excuse me, 1 don’t smoke
the boxes.—Roxbury Gazette.
“Oh, yes,” said the pretty Chicago-
ese with a puzzled smile. “She’s a.
nice girl, but I never know how to
talk to these New England people."
“Why IE"
“on, they seem to take marriage so
seriously.”-——Detroit News.
Mother—If you marry Howard, it
must be on the elopement plan. I cum
not be bothered with a wedding.
Daughter~How perfectly lovely!
There won’t be any wedding presents
to make life a burden. We will elope
tomorrow.—Detroit Free Press.
Weary Walker—Say, wot makes you
breathe so kihd 0’ jerky?
Born Tired—Ain’t you on to that?
Weary Walkerv—Naw, I ain’t. Wot
is it? '
Born Tired—It’s ’cause I’m so hu—
mane, that’s what it is. I don’t want
to work both my lungs at once.—
Cleveland Plain-Dealer.
Mr. Grimsby (who is as gammory
as he is near sighted)——Dear, dear.
what a sweet little baby. ,, How much
it looks like its charming momma.
It’s your little sister, I suppose, my
dear? '
Little Jane-No, it ain’t! It belongs
to our colored laundress—Clevclam'
Plain-Dealer. '
“I notice your wife didn't go to the
lakes this summer."
“No, I couldn’t afford it.” '
“That is what I toldmy wife, but
you may remember that she went
just the same.”
“I didn’t tell my wife. I got a‘hc-
tel typewriter to address a. letter to
me in a nice feminine hand, and then
dropped it out of my pocket at home.
-—Cincinnati Enquirer. - ‘
SAYS NOTHING, BUT SAWS WOOD.
“John, what do you think of the eler
tion?” .
“Colla-cufiee. two cant; siiirtce, ton,
cent.”
. .'- arr; .
___._(
“Received payment Jan- _
"G‘A z‘E T'ro
s,
The Out Door Parlor.
On every house in the South you will
see a piazza, and above it, as an outlet
to the second story, another wlii :h, is
usually called a. gallery. This is a ne— ,
cessity of Southern life,where one must
have all the air that is stirring in the
summer weather,which lasts two thirds.
of the year.
In the North where the house?- are
built for people of means, the piazza or
veranda is a prominent feature, and the
use of it is a daily factor in the life of
the inhabitants of the dwelling. There
the family gather in the balmy evenings
of early summer and the torrid nights
of August, and the gay hammock is
well filled with beauty by no means un-
adorned.
The man who builds his house as a
roof to cover his head, or buys one that
someone else has built and waits for
larger income before adding this§luXury
to his abode, in thus limiting his expen-
diture, unwisely limits the possibility
of “greatest good to the greatest num-
ber.” Poor and rich people who live in
big cities must be content without the
piazza, but the least pretentious house
in suburb or country may have at a
small cost this delightful luxury,which
may be made, Wi th little eifort, a nu—
cleus of a charming home life.—Ladies’
World.
Dont’s For the Summer Girl.
Don’t giggle.
Don’t listen to scandal.
Don’t defy public opinion.
Don’t play on the hotel piano.
Don’t {sleep all day and dance all
night.
Don’t walk on the beach after 12 at
night.
Don’t form lifelong friendships in
three days.
;‘ Don’t have “heart talks” with every
man you know.
Don’t have your dancing gowns made
too decollete.
W Don’t show too often a scorn for the
chaperon theory.
Don’t read “Harry’s” letters aloud to
your girl friends.
Don’t go roWing with the young man
that tips the boat.
Don’t gtell your admirers all the se-
crets of your girl friends.
Don’t become engaged to more than
two men at the same time.
Don’t put on your bathing suit unless'
you’re going into the water.
Don’t join sailing parties unless you
can stand a. little rough weather.
Don’t try to protect your complexion.
Give the sun and fresh air an inning.
Don’t sing .unless Nature Has given
you a voice which will not cause others
pain.
Don’t forget that every man you meet
has some “dear, sweet girl" in the back
ground.
Don’t trust the gentleman who has
married unhappily and wishes to tell
you all about it.
Don’t forget that half an hour of ex-
ercise in the open air is worth more
than all the nerve tonics in the mar-
ket.
Don’t forget that the summer hotel
veranda is the happy hunting ground of.
the most merciless gossips on earth.
Don’t waste too much sympathy on
“poor George, working aWay in the hot
city.” George in getting along very
nicely. .
Don’t make your willing slaves fasten
your shoestrings more than seven times
in the course of one day. The novelty
wears off—N. Y. World.
A Peanut Party.
A peanut party is great fun for chil-
dren. Several quarts of peanuts should
be hidden about the house and the small
guests given little baskets or kinder-
garten paper boxes in which to place
all those they find. When the signal is
given for collecting again in the‘draw'
ing room from which they started,
those who have the most nuts receive
prizes, and there may be others for the
discovery of , special peanuts marked
by ornamentations. The supper table
should have salted peanuts and peanut
sandwiches on its menu, and should be
decorated profusely with tiny owls
stuck everywhere—on each napkin, on
piles of sandwiches, the cakes, and dot-
ting the cloth at intervals. These are
made by running black pins through
white beads and sticking them through
:one end- of a peanut to make eyes.
Other pins should be thrust through
small hens’ feathers and then through
the nut, when they 1(1le very like little
. wings, and give an extremely birdish
appearance, while the whole effect is
really quite funny. _The table will seem
as if it were taking to itself wings and
preparing to fly away.
Superfluoul Duties.
A woman’s instinct of cleanliness is
so strong that she will actually squan-
der time in unnecessary work, just as
a squirrel in a cage will store up nuts
by force of his instinct of accumulation. v"
If some housekeepers had double the
‘time at their disposal that they have
now, yet they would manage to occupy
it with superfluous duties. But this is
going farther than any semblance of a
reason ban attempt to excuse. There is
:10 sense in' working like this. .
_ A Man’s Heart.
Kate Douglass Wiggin, in one of her
recent magazine stories, put the follow-
ing in the mouth of a. pro: .zy woman:
-‘I’ve lived 36 years, and I nave never
seen a man’s unhappiness last more than
six months, and I have never seen a
woman make a. wound in a man’s heart
that another woman couldn’t heal.”
Tumblers that have been used for
milk should never be put in to hot water
until they have first been rinsed in‘ cold
water. The heat drives the milk in and
gives a cloudy appearance. to the glass
which cannot be removed. '
s‘
u
fi_,__
, ____._.._. . - _..._.._.-—~_.
SENSIBLE SCHOOL FASHIONS. ”‘3
Suggestions as to Cut and. Fabric for the
school Student.
There is nothing very striking or
' original in children’s fashions, but
that is due to the fact that there is
so little that is new in the grown-x12
gowns.
The noticeable difference in cut is in
the sleeves,” which follow the tendency,
of all sleevesto be smaller. 'And, in
skirts there are the same straight
breadths for the silk gowns'and acir-“
cular cut for the wool dresses. iThe!
guimpe' dress for girls under 11 years
of age is one of the staple fashions
which do not vary much from one
.-p~ w.‘ a....-
season to another, but the guimpe
waist is often made of velvet, silk
and plain wool instead of cambric for
the needed warmth in winter. Nar-
row braid or velvet ribbon sewn on in
rows around or crosswise of the yoke
and cuffs makes the plain wool very
pretty with a. plaid gown, and White
silk guimpes are always nice for
dress. Guimpe dresses are made with
the circular skirts as well as the
straight breadths, and these are lined
with fine cambric to make them hang
well, while the full baby waist is the
usual style.
Serviceable school dresses of figured
wool are made with a round waist
fulled in the back, plain u'nder the
arms, very full to pouch in front be-
low a plain yoke, and set on to the
skirt with a small cord. A little fin-
ish of bright velvet arranged in nar-
row bretelles over the shoulder, a
band across the yoke, and a few small
gilt buttons are all the trimming re-
quired, except the velvet cuffs and
collar band. Sleeves of these dresses
are close. with a short double puff
falling like a ruffle from the top.
Camel’s hair, serges, and all the
pretty plaid wools are used for these
gowns, and red is especially fashion-
able this season, trimmed with red or:
black velvet. Three narrow folds on
the skirt and a finish for the waist
with perhaps a little cream lace, if the
gown is for afternoon wear, make a
pretty dress.
a The Envious Poet.
“It would be nice to be a gas meter,”
sighed the poet when his Wife handed
him the grocer’s account and the bill
for rent that had just been presented.
“Which doesn’t seem to have any
particular bearing on the payment of
. those bills,” remarked the wife as she
fame1 to tell the collectors as sweet‘
1y as _v:is.:i is u.) call on the day after
to-morrow . '“'
“But it does, you know,” said he, not
minding the interruption. - “Novfmif I
was a gas meter instead of a. poet, I
should be steadily at work and get
paid for all 1h».- ‘feet’ I turn nut. The
| meter, you see, has the be
is
Norwalk Chronicler