g
.. u,» _ ,
THE DANGER OF BEAUTY.
I never read the papers without feeling so
content
Tllétf. both my eyes are twisted and ‘my nose
is Siiu‘htiy bent:
I‘m glad my mouth is out of line and that my
tooth are few.
And if i bud. a- "wealth of hair," I don’t know
what. I’d do.
A "tiny foot" or "lily band" would fill me
with dismay. .
And iii had a slender waist I’d sicken in a.
(lit-Y:
For I In: re noticed from the first. as strange
if. may seem,
The girl who gets the worst of it is “lovely as
u. droum‘.“
The 1).". glv-l's never tell about a. woman being
: x '
JR:- ::.;-.:z;ll-d by a. trolley car, or married to a
mu“.
FM- :‘urnvl. at point of pistol, her last fifty
vents in lose.
21:1: 121;.'.l:t:~:' eyes are “Elmpid” and her boots
are number twos.
3!) i (an live in sweet content, without the
slightest fear
The: troubie or calamity will ever hover
near-m '
_.<ln:‘: when I see. my misfit food, it‘s some re-
lic." to know
That l‘ll outlive the beauties by a hundred
years or so'
—— Vallace Dunbar Vincent.
QUEER ENCOUNTER.
BY LOYD .VVILLIAMS.
A heavy shower of rain had left me
stranded in the ancient and sleepy city
of Elchestcr. The country roads, bad
enough at the best of times, were so
sloppy as to put bicycling out of the
question. I knew nobody in the town,
and as there is only one place of. inter-
est—the cathedral—I went there.
In doing this I believed I was spend-
ing an idle hour. As a matter of fact,
I was unconsciously fulfilling the ob—
ject for which I was probably brought
into the world.
The building appeared to be empty,
and I amused myself reading the tab-
iets ilrat recorded the lives of worthy
people who existed generations ago. I
found that the cathedral sheltered the
bones of many people named Clutton.
This was interesting, for my own name
happens to be Clutton, and, though I
have never troubled myself about fam-
lly “trees,” I knew that we came from
the \Vest of England. In other words,
the knights and dames who lay in
Elchester Cathedral were in all proba-
bility my ancestors. I wished that
they had had the foresight to leave me
some of their property.
Wandering through the cloisters, I
came across a living picture of much
greater interest and beauty than the
images of stone and iron lying around
me.
.It was a young lady who was sketch-
ing a corner of the building, and mak-
ing a- frantic attempt to do justice to
the wonderful arches and quaint win-
' dows. '
In order to get a. peep at her face, I !
made a pretence of examining a moun—
Inent close at hand. It was erected to
' the memory of “Sir Francis Clutton,
1153-1201.” His legs were crossed at
the'knees, which signified he had ’
fought in three Crusades; and'had it
not been that some barbarous visitor
had broken off the gentleman’s nose,l
he would have made a most imposing
figure.
I took the liberty of standing for?
a moment by her side, to see heri
work. “If you will excuse my saying ‘
so,” I ventured, “you have drawn that '
arch wrong. It is out of perspective.”
“I know it is,” she answered, with a
little moue. “But I can’t get it rig-ht. I
Are you an artist?” !
“Not exactly,” I said. “But I know I
something of architectural drawing.”
“I wish you would show me how;
to get the wretched thing in so that E
it doesn’t seem to be standing on'onc I
leg!"
“With pleasure."
I took her place on the campstool,
and on another piece of paper made a
rough drawing of the corner which
had puzzled her.
“Vi-"hat a number of people of the
name of Clutton are buried here!” 1‘
said, by way of opening the conversa-
tion.
“Oh, yes; they used to be a. great
family in days gone by," she said.
“Henry VIII, took them away, when
he was reforming the Church. The
Cluttons didn't change their religion
fast enough. Edgar Clutton was the
last of them. But he deserved to be
punished," she added. “He did a very
shabby thing.” ,
“What was that?” I inquired.
“He was bethrothed to his cousin,
Dorothy Clarence, and jllted her."
“And what became of Mistress Dor-
othy Clarence?”
“She went into a convent. They
say she died of a. broken heart, and
soon afterwards Sir Edgar was ex
ecuted for high treason."
“Rather a severe punishment?” 1
suggested. ' '
“Not at all,” she said warmly. “He
was a mean wretch to behave as he
did! Since those days a. Clutton has
never owned an acre of land in Devon-
ahire. And they will never get back
to their position of landowners un
less—"
She stopped.
“Unless what?" I asked.
“Well, there is a. ridiculous old 1e.
ge-nd, which has been handed down;
but I don’t suppose it will ever come.
true. It runs——
“ ‘My lord shall
again
When a Clutton squire wed at Clark
once dame.’ " ‘
“So the theory is that when a Clut‘
ton marries 11 Clarence, and so repair:
the wickedness of Sir Edgar, then
prosperity will return?” 4
“Yes; but I am afraid that will never
happen now," she sold, with a. llttlc
sigh. "Nobody knows what has be
come of the Cluttons; and the Clar-
cnm are nearly extinct."
come to his own
"1 fits-Bars to me,” I said, “that you
superstitious about the country
‘11 afraid I am,” she said, laugh-
‘ef‘iillse so many have come true
' 1 one never will.”
t?”
. . y no
;V‘~‘-:-.usc,” she said, “I happen tc
. East of the Clarences. I was
3 Dorothy, after the lady whc
. a broken heart."
you a Miss Clarence?” I asked,
I: the coincidence.
“xx-t I am afraid I can’t help those
.;=:nate Cluttons," she went on,
age I don’t know one.”
this, I am afraid, I winked at; the
._,:.en—nosod monument of Sir Fran-
)—
_.o:-'.=ides_.” she continued, “even if I
:31, I couldn’t give them back their
because I haven’t any mon-
"sporty
Qty. '
By this time my rough drawing was
finished, and she was kind enough to
say it was very clever.
"ll/lay I keep it?” she asked. “I
should. like to paste it in my scrap-
H
I
'J
‘ . 'xr‘1'
been"
“By all means. Would you like me
'to sign my name?”
“Yes, please, and put the date.”
I did as she told me, signing my-
self “Richard Clutton,”
When she saw what I had written
she went pale with astonishment.
“Are you really descended from
those old monuments?” she said.
“Not from the monuments,” I ans-
wered. “But I believe I am descend-
ed from that unfeeling brute who
)roke Miss Dorothy Clarence’s heart.”
Then she turned scarlet at some
thought which struck her, and looked
uncomfortable; but I could not resist
the opportunity of teasing her.
“There is no doubt that you will
have to marry me," I said, “and so
restore the Cluttons to their former
glory.” - '
“I don’t see that,” she said. “I—I
don’t believe in those old leg-ends.”
“I thought you said you did.”
“Yes. I believe in some of them,
but not this one.
going to marry anyone. I have de-
cided to be an old maid. I like old
maids."
“So do I. But I like'young maids
better. I am afraid, Miss Clarence,
you can’t escape. It’s a. question of
destiny. You and I will have to fall
”1 love W‘th one another, so we must of. drills on account of inclement weath-
i or.
make the best of it.”
By this time she had quite recovered
her equanimity, and was prepared to
treat the matter as a joke.
“It seems rather hard lines that I
should be obliged to fall in love with
you,” she said, with a. mischievous
gleam in her eyes. “I am afraid you
are not my ideal.”
“Perhaps not,” I admitted. “But
then, Dorothy, people never marry
their ideals."
“I beg your pardon?” she said, rais-
ing her eyebrows with dignified sur-
prise.
“People don’t marry their ideals,” I
repeated. '
“People don’t usually address strang-
i ers by their. Christian name,” she re-
plied severely.
“Certainly' not. But perhaps you
forget that we are not strangers; we lfor wind and muscle, but it was hard '
1and galling.
are cousins. ‘ You can't seriously ex-
Besides, I am not .
harm. DISCIPLINE.
NC“!
TREATMENT TO \Nt‘
zOLDE: WERE SUBJECTEC’.
"~‘t--vj—-
"CL:
f')
the Bull Ring” Abolished Af‘
ter Causing the Death or (hie Man—An-
“,l'l'nliing
other Suffered Tortu'rcs from Being
Etna-led to His Neck in Sand.
The soldier who worked himself into
the guardhouse prior to 1879 did not
get every night in, nor any night in,
from the day he began his term until
;ts end. He walked his post, two
hours on and four hours off, from the
i.£3iunirg to the termination of his
gantcxce. But he did not carry a. gun
.z’hils on post. He shouldered an un-
barked log, from six to eight fact in
length and weighing from 70 to 100
pounds,.aud the man in his rear car-
ried the rifle. The business of the sol—
dier with the rifle was to see that the
soldier with the log kept on the move,
up and down in front of the guard
house, from the time he went, on post
until relieved, at the end of two hours,
by another guardhouse prisoner, to
'whose shoulder the log would be trans-
ferred. It was also the sentry’s duty
to see that the “log-bumper” did not
drop his burden. The prisoner could
shift it from one shoulder to the oth~
er, or, carry it under his arm, or hori-
zontally in front of him, or any other
way he chose; but he had to carry it,
and he had to keep moving, on pain of
being indented with the point of a bay-
onet.
. The soldier who nowadays lands in
'the guardhouse for drunkenness, in-
;subordination, neglect of duty, or any
: other violation of regulations is put to
Ework at some job around the post
‘from fatigue call in the morning
until recall from fatigue late in
ithe afternoon. The work is nev-
:or hard. It is mostly of the pot—
tering around sort—policing around
the quarters, sweeping brick walks,
washing windows, trimming hedges,
mowing grass, or something of that
sort. The only discomfort connected
with the work is that it is alwa 5 per—
formed under the watchful eye of a
sentry with a loaded gun.
One of the punishments meted out to
the cavalryman who got. into the
guardhouse under the old regime was
“trotting the bull ring.” The bull ring
is the circular track upon which the
horses are exercised when there is not
much doing around the post in the way
Every cavalry post has its bull
ring. Upon the smooth surface of the
bull ring the fractions cavalryman of
ia couple of decades ago was required
to chase the intangible air at regular
intervals, named in the sentence, every
clay of his confinement. His bull ring
work was no go—as—you-please walking
match, either. {e could go at any
pace swifter than a. walk; but he was
guot allowed' to walk. Heel-and-toe
lbusiness was barred. If for a single
instant, he relapsed into a. common,
"everyday walk he would hear the sen-
try’s command, like the crack of a
acircus ringmaster’s whip, “Shake her
up, there, Pete; what do you think
this is, a practice march? G’lang!”
' and if the bull-ring pounder knew his
‘gait he would leave off walking right
away. The bull-ring work was good
A soldier undergoing a.
poet me to address my own cousin as ,bull-ring sentence dropped dead from
l‘heart disease at a. post in the South-
l‘lliss Clarence?”
“Many thanks for your help with the
sketch. It is time for me to go.”
She packed up her drawing materi-
als; but I noticed she did not ofier to
return my sketch, in spite Of her in-
dignation—she packed it away in her
portfolio. However, that may have
been an accident. ,.
But I was not going to let her es-
cape so easily.
“You will let me see you home, at
any rate?" I said. "
“I think not,” she answered; “I live
a long way ofi.”
“So much the better; we can discuss
family legends and other things."
“Besides, I am well known. If I am
seen walking through the streets of
Elchester with a stranger everybody
will want to know who you are.”
“You will, of course, explain that
my name is Clutton,” I remarked, “and
they will grasp the situation at once."
'S-he bit her lips with vexation.
“Come," I said, “don't let us worry.
about destiny or anything else. I will
walk with you as far as your house.
You must in mercy permit that, for I
don’t know a soul in the town. Then
if you find an additional cousin such a
nuisance, we will say good-bye for
ever and a day. Will that do?"
“Yes,” she said, rather doubtfully.
On our way through the form she
pointed out the house where at one
time a. branch of the family used to
live. It is now converted into a hair-
dressing establisbment—a somewhat
inglorious falling-off.
That evening Mr. Clarence called at
the hotel where I was staying, and beg-
ged to make the acquaintance of a
member of the family. I submitted
gracefully, and we discussed the fam-
ily tree and the family history until
two o’clock in the morning.
I think few men have had a more
difficult courtship than mine, for Miss
Dorothy fought against the guidance-l
of destiny with all her might. But 1
succeeded.
Curiously enough, the rest of the
legend came true, for a distant rela-
tion left ‘her a moderate fortune. The
terms of her will ran: “1 leave the
sum to my kinswoman Dorothy Clut-
ton, that the ancient prophecy may be
fulfilled, and I beg that she will employ
it as far as practicable in repurchasing
the Clutton property.” J
And all this arose from a. chance en-
counter in an Oldouhedral an a we!
afternoon!
-u-‘v- ~“ ’ '
4."
«an-mu
.
-west one day about seventeen years
i ago, and then the bull-ring punishment
was abandoned.
It was reserved for the commanding
officer of an Arizona post, a. one-com—
pany outfit, to inflict so barbarous
punishment upon an offending soldier
that the whole scale of punishments in '
the United States Army was revised
.and made hard and fast. This com-
manding officer was a captain, and the
affair happened in 1879. He had in his
.company a soldier who was a. very
! hard case, and put in most of his time
in the guardhouse. He completed a.
guardhouse term in the autumn of
1879, and immediately repaired to the
near-by town of whiskey shacks and
made himself exceedingly drunk. He
returned to the post with the announc-
ed intention of raising it to the leyel
of the desert and firing a. volley over
its ashes. The Captain had him las-
soed as he was entering the post. The
Captain then constituted himself
a summary court-martial and passed
upon the case. He ordered that a hole
sufficiently large to receive the upright
body of a man be dug in‘ the
sand of the parade ground. When
the hole was dug the Captain
ordered that the hard case 801-
dier be stood in it up to his neck and
that the sand be then repacked about
him as tightly as possible, covering his
arms and shoulders, and leaving only
his head protruding above the ground.
I The Captain’s orders, were obeyed,
l but it afterward came out that the Cap-
tain's life hung by a thread, so bitter
was the animosity inspired among the
men on account of this cruel action.
The offending soldier, still more than
half drunk, was packed in the sand-
hole, his head alone catching the rays
a sentry was placed over him. The
sun was nothing compared to the des—
ert ants. The desert ants sent out
their couriers to the highways and by-
ways and dunes and hollows, and it
was no time at all before some thous-
ands of them, big, red, Spiderlike and
ferocious, were running over the 301-
dier’s head. They crawled into his
ears and his nose and, his mouth, and
they caused him such unspeakable ag-
any that he shouted in his frenzy. The
sentry—who happened to be the poor
devil’s bunkie—first disobeyed guard
regulations to the extent of stooping to
brush the ants from'bls comrade-s face.
Next he d-lsobeyed orders to the extent
ll 0-4
of the blazing semi-tropical sun, and .
L4
i
1
f deliberately walking over to the
.cusc of the Captain. He took his ride
along with him.
“What do you mean by leaving your
post?" demanded the Captain, appear-
i‘Ig at the door of his quarters.
“Because I don’t stand for this kind
of a game for you or any other man
from here to hell and back,” replied
the sentry. .The whole company,
seeming to spring from the ground,
was right behind him; “And if you
don't order that man turned loose in
two Seconds, I’ll turn him loose my-
self.” .
The Captain turned to one of his
sergeants. ‘
“‘Arrest that sentry, and take his gun
and belt from him,” he said.
“I’ll shoot any man dead that lays a
hand on me,” said the sentry quietly;
but it was not necessary for him to
say it, for the sergeant stood stock still
with his hands behind his back, and
every man’s face was black. All were
with the sentry;
Thesentry strode across the parade
ground and found his prisoner insen-
sible. .The ants had already made his
face look like a beefsteak. With his
fixed bayonet the sentry dug the un—
conscious man from the sand, and car-
ried him in his arms to the post hos—
pital and dropped him at the feet of
the post surgeon. Then he walked to
the commanding officer’s quarters,
handed the commanding officer his gun
and belt, walked out of the post, and
has never been seen or heard of in the
United States Army from that day to
this.
When the War Department got wind
of this matter the Captz'n was court
martiallcd, suspended for a year and
scorched by the Secretary of War. That
was the extent of his punishment. But
:hcre was some tall revising of punish-
ment regulations, and a penalty was
fixed‘for every possible infraction of
discipline on the part of an enlisted
man. The infliction of cruel and unu-
sual. punishments was forbidden with
a. degree of strictness which it‘ was
thought would preclude the possibility
)f anything ever happening in the ser-
vice like this ant-hill affirm—New
York Sun.
Nothing of the Sort.
“Say, Horace,” said one of them,
"do you know this trampin’ around
the streets with an advertistin’ banner
is a regular dog's life?”
“No it ain’t, either.”
“You don’t mean to say you like
t?”
“No, Gerald, I don’t like it, but what
I say is that it ain’t no dog‘s life.”
“It ain’t?”
“No, sir, it ain’t. I led a dog’s life
we winter, and I know what it is."
"What’s it like, anyway?”
“Well, a dog’s life is where a nice
(ind lady brings you a plate of victuals
:hree times a day, and the rest of the
:ime all you do is lay up alongside of a
warm stove and dream. That’s what
3. dog has to do, Gerald. That’s a.
iog’s life for you, and it comes mighty
near suitin’ me. Don’t never holler
about a dog’s life.”—Chicago Record.
An X—Bay Cracker.
The very latest thing to be seen at
late afternoon teas among the fashion-
ables is an innocent looking cracker,
almost transparent and indicating
nothing unusual on its surface. But
held to the light a human skeleton is
revealed in all its airy bideousness.
These grewsome dainties are more
popular than one would suppose. They
are known as the X-Ray cracker, but
that is not the name under which they
are sold. '
t’uImI-try.
The palmlstry fad seems to be on
the increase, although it has had a.
longer run than most of the fashiona-
ble fads. The reason is easily seen.
All the world and his wife likes to hear
himself discussed and dissected. And
then, too, it is such a delightful oppor-
tunity for the ladies to show a. pretty
band. The newspapers give from time
to time diagrams of hands of famous
people, with certain traits revealed. To
those who know the inleidual and the
real character these revealed traits are
sometimes unintentionally very funny.
—Woman's World.
Pope and Lord Halifax.
Lord Halifax set himself up as a man
of great critical taste in literature and
art; and when Pope had completed his
translation of the Iliad, he invited him
to his mansion to read it. Addison,
Congreve, and Garth were present.
His lordship, looking solemn and pre-
ternaturally wise, every now and then
interrupted the reading, and always
with the same politely-uttered words.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Pope,” he
The New Walk.
Society has adopted a new walk for
men and women. They stand erect, in-
clined slightly forward, their arms
and hands hanging limply at their
sides, while their correctly shod feet
strike the pavement with a motion
between a bound and a nap. They are
walking on the balls of their feet, and
the fashionable new gait for both sex-
es has not a little to commend it.——Wo-
man’s World.
An [uferentlni Reason.
“Mamma,” said little Miss Northside,
who was talking about her summer ex-
periences.
“Well, dear?"
“I asked Farmer Buckwheat if the
milk he gave us was sterilized, and be
said no. Do you suppose, mamma,
that he had no sterilized cows ?”—
Pittsburg Chronicle Telegraph.
In His Element.
“Poo-r Timmie! Foive years in Sing
Sing. I do feel sherry for him."
"Bedad, an’ yure sbympathy’s from:
away. He's surrounded by binds."—
: Harlem Life.
JERSEY’SGOOD ROADS
REASONS WHICH LEAD FARMERS TO
ADOPT THEM.
The Highways Are Such That. Doubln
Loads Can be Hauled, thus Saving One-
Half the Expense of Btarheting the Pro-
duce—A Creed for the Rand Builder.
New Jersey is famous throughout the
country for its good roads. It is almost
equaliy famous for the enthusiasm of
its farmers over them. They have
found that they pay. State aid to
building such reads, State organization,
and a perpetual preaching of the gas-
pel of good roads have brought it all
about. The Commissioner of Public
Roads believes in agitation. He keeps
at it all the time. Here are a few of
the arguments he uses, taken from his
fourth annual report, which has just
been issued: .
It costs 9% cents per bushel to ship
wheat from Chicago to New York, a
distance of 900 miles; it costs 3 cents a
bushel to haul wheat on a. level road
a. distance of five miles, and on a sandy
road it would cost at least 9 cents per
mile to haul it. The saving on a bush-
_el Of wheat with good roads for a dis—
tance of five miles would be about
equivalent to that of 600 miles of
transportation by steamer or canalboat,
or of 375 miles of railroad. One mile
of good roads would make a saving
equal to 75 miles of railroad transpor—
tation. Thus every mile of good roads
places the producer 75 miles by rail
nearer to the markets. It is estimated
that the cost of hauling 500,000,000 tons
of farm produce to market is $2 per ton,
or just about $1,000,000,000; it is also.
estimated that about 60 per cent. ‘of
this last amount, or $600,000,000, would
be saved each year if farmers were
able to do this hauling over good
roads.
we have demonstrated by building
numerous stone highways under the
State aid law that we can have good
roads without overloading with taxes
this class of smallest income. The
farmers’ returns are comparatively
small compared with those in other
pursuits; therefore, at first they hesita-
ted to subscribe for the building of
these improved highways, but they are
rapidly learning that by the use of
these they can very much add to their
net returns by the lessened cost in
serving the cities with their prod-
ucts.
You can haul 595 pounds more on
good. hard, sandy roads with a. four-
inch tire with the same amount of pow-
er exerted than you can with a one-
and-a-half inch tire. You can haul 4-71
pounds more on level gravel roads with
a four-inch tire with the same amount
of power exerted than you can with a
one-and-one-half inch tire.
The object of all legislation should be
the greatest good to the greatest num-
ber; therefore legislation should be lib-
eral toward good roads, as they are
more generally useful than any form
of public improvement.
Good roads in the end will notcost
as much money outlay as poor ones.
No tax is as great as one of bad roads
A bad road is a heavy tax on so
who use it, and the worse the roa ” e
heavier the tax.
Improved roads bring better prices
for farms and farm products. Double
loads ohe-apen transportation.
Can market over good roads when
commodities are scarce; can always
ship despite the weather.
Rural homes are more sought after
along good roads.
Cannot sell lands advantageously
along poor roads. Good roads make
brisker demand for farms.
Bad roads cause a decay of agricul-
ture; they impose the greatest of all
burdens on the farmer.
Bad roads cause people to gather into
cities
Wagon highways are the greatest ar-
teries of commerce.
The splendid condition of the roads
of Switzerland and France is due to
perpetual attention.
Experience over a series of years.
demonstrates a. stone road is cheaper
than a gravel, although the first cost of
gravel is much less.
The trained road builder is just as
necessary as the trained doctor, manu-
facturer, or educator.
Result of improved roads: Tremen-
dous increase in value of farm proper»
ty; facilitates business; greater happi
ness for farmer, wife, sons and dang-h
ters; shortens distance to he traveled
He who shortens his distance to mar-
ket gains a great advantage.
Poor roads wear out the horses very
rapidly, thus detracting very largely
from the profits of the farm. .
Civilization is to be judged by th
condition of the roads. .
His Last Hope.
“Well, old man, did your son pass
the Civil Service examination?”
“No, sub, dey turned him down.”
“What was the trouble?”
“Short on ’rithmetic, sub.”
“Anything else?”
“An geography.”
“Yes?”
“An‘ spellin’.”
“Nothing more?”
“Nu‘thin’ more, sub, ’cepin’ gram-
mar an’ hist’ry, an' a. few other
things.”
“Well, what will he do now?”
“Well, suh, he's des ’bout decided
ter teach school.”—Atla.nta Constitu-
lion.
Salted. .
Juneau Jake—How-about that mine
of salt some of the boys found up the
gulch the other day?
Sitka Sam-Turned out to be noth-
in’ but a gold mine.
sooundrels bad salted lt.—-Ghicagc
Tribune. _ .
The thievin‘ ,
MANY NOVELTIES m oases 60003
Latest Cloth Street Costumes Are Mud.
\Vith Long Coats.
(Ely special arrangement with the X. Y. Sun}
Transparent fabrics are conspicuoul
among the materials displayed for sum
mer wear. Grenadines, with dots'ou
loops similar in design to the bone]:
or wool materials, which have been St
fashionable, are among the novelties
in company with a wonderful variety
in flowered patterns, open lacelikn
stripes, and bayadere woven tucks or.
some bright color on a black ground
Grenadines with a check as well as thc
plain mesh, will be worn, besides al-
sorts of canvas weaves in wool and sill
and wool mixtures.
W'atered silk, with large satin polka
dots and waved or ' pointed cross
stripes, is shown among the new'goods
a wonderful sheen being its chief at-
traction. Shaded silks are among the
novelties, and the old-fashioned crystal
silk, with a gloss like satin, has coma
back again.
Cue article of dress very much in
demand just now is the fancy waist
for the theatre and semi-dress occa-
sions, and it must be light in color 01‘0]
black net glittering with spangles. The
cOmbination of two or three materials
in ‘one bodice is preferred, and lace in-
sertion alternated with tucked bands or "
puffs of chiffon make a very pretty
waist over a satin lining with velvet in
some bright color for the collar and
belt. In black there are net insertions
closely jetted which are used in alter-
nation with lace for the entire bodice,
either running up and down or around, .
as you like.
The very latest s‘treet costumes -i
cloth are made with a long coat or
redingote effect, completed with a belt
and variously trimmed with wide odd,
shaped rovers of velvet spreading out.
into a collar over the shoulders. Thu
front is blOused a very little, and t 1
Shirts are usually trimmed down i.
seams on one or both‘sides to give in
long look so much desired.
Norwalk Chronicler