..~_ ~—
‘ ingly, but how could be approach her
PREPARED.
Oft have I wondered at the fearless heart‘
W ith which strong men and tender women
go.
i To meet great Death; but now I seem to
know
The secret of their courage. Tis a part
Of their whole life. the end of 'all thou art.
0 Natuie. to their souls. The steady flow
0f time is ceaseless; thick ti'band doth
sow
The: void w ith stars while from earth‘s bosom
start
The lovely flowers, and there are trees and
streams,
And women’s faces and love's mystery.
And all these things are influences that give
The needed lesson. They are all foregleama
Of the one strangeness and the last. How he
Of death afraid when we have dared to livei
—John White Chadwick.
DEBOR AII’S SECRET.
GIBBS.
BY MARIONF
Deborah Beal had a secret which she
guarded as the miser guards his gold;
yet the very air of Connecticut hose
pitality draped the long piazza around
the Beal homestead, lingered in the
swaying vines of bitter-sweet, nodded
from the creamy spraysvof the wild
.~.lematis, and breathed in the fragrance
of the golden honeysuckles, while the
odor of currant jelly streamed through
the open windows, across the dusty
road, to the solitary. figure on the op-
posite doorstep, a man of perhaps forty
summers, who just then was pondering
over a passage read that morning.
' “ ‘What rights are his who dare not
strike for them?’ ” he repeated mus-
after a silence of so many years? And
then, Deborah Beal had—a secret!
He remembered how, just fifteen
years ago, he, John Hastings, had
brought a. letter from the office address-
ed in a bold masculine hand to De-
borah. He had asked the name of her
correspondent, and she had stubborn-
ly refused to offer any explanation.
The golden haired playmate of his
schooldays, but for this slight misun-
derstanding, would have reigned for
years the mistress of -Willow Farm.
Time but enhanced her comeliness, he
was fain to confess. Her 'hair, as gold-
en as ever, was beautiful, as the rays
of the sun filled the west piazza, cast-
ing a halo around the quaint rocker in
which she sat every afternoon, busy
with her needlework.
1 The Plymouth Rocks were running
about in their yard, restrained from
wrongdoing by a wire fence, while in
the. creek, down by the tangle of elders
the; ducks were sailing about, their
contentment only equalled by the two
colts peering inquiringly through the
bars further up the hill.
Yes, she had ordered the netting for .
fear they might be tempted to wander i
across the way. What did he care
about the hens? It was the secretll
Even that might remain forever a mys- !
tery if he could but summon courage
enough to walk up the path, dazzling
with brilliant coleus and scarlet'ger-
aniums, and ask Deborah to begin‘
their lives anew. ‘
“ ‘What rights are his,‘ " he slowly
repeated, 'as if summoning strength,‘
when ascream rent the air, a shrill
cry of defiance, a woman’s scream—l
Deborah’s—and she alone, unprotected! ‘
For an instant he hesitated, then
dashed across the lawn. The sight
held him Spellbound. In the path,
fronting the meadow, stood Deborah,
frantically waving a golden wig at a
large hawk. Her screams had render-
ed him powerless to bear away his in-
tended victim, who was trembling at
her mistress’ feet, cackling in rage and 1
alfrlgbt. !
A thought flashed through John 1
Hastings" mind as he strode past the
-m’aples, through-the tiny rustic "gate,
into the dusty road to thelmeadow be-
yond, where his fair neighbor now
stood, stIll uttering, hysterical criesi
and still holding the golden tresses .
aloft.
“Deborah,” he said, apparently not
looking'at the bowed head before him,
which he perceived was crowned with
short golden curls, “is this " and he
pointed ruefully at the golden locksl
fallen now in the crimson clover at
their feet, “is this the secret?" And'
with one shy upward glance Deborah
whispered, “Yes."
.“It happened while you were in‘
l
" serious.
5 iy that her eyes fell.
Malden that win-ter, mother's illness
and afterward my own," she confessed
later. “Almost brain fever, the doctor
thought, and I lost the curls you were
soproud of. It was the height of silli-
ness, but I wrote to a prominent firm,
and upon your return you never im—
agined that the golden curls you so ad-
mired were—detachable. The letter
you handed me was from the same
firm, telling me of a preparation to in-
sure these short locks, " she said laugh-
ingly, for the wig had long ago been
banished, “a rapid growth. Undoub-
tedly it proved futile, for these diminu- '
tive curls still continue. to atlourish. And
this, John, is Deborah Beal’s last sec-
ref!"
“Yes;" he answered gravely, “Debor-
ah Beal’s last secret, for to-morrow
is her wedding day." .
“Cut-cut-cut-a-dat!” came clear and
shrill from the wire netting.
“It's Clover," Deborah said.
that hawk did frighten me!”
But John Hastings looked immeas-
urably happy.
“How
Unintentional Injury.
“Young man," said the Senator to
the reporter, “you have done me ir-
repaiable harm.”
“What have I done?” asked the be-
wildered reporter.
“I got in largely on a temperance
platform, as you may recollect. "
“Yes, sir."
“And you speak of me in this morn-
ings paper as drinking my coffee with
gusto.’ It will take me more than a'
lifetime to get it out of the heads of my
constituents that gusto in: 1: some rand-*1
ofaicoholic beremge."—Cincinuat i En."
l the tables.
or R 111-111. '1
A GUST OF WIND.
in BY Jacky nosiusou.
“If you have one scrap of sympathy
for miserable mortals, dear Eva, pleasc
bestow _it upon me, as I am the most
unhappy creature in existence. The
explanation is contained in five words:
Jack and I have quarrelled. It happen-
ed last- night at Madame Vale’s party._
"I flirted a little, just to make him jeal-
ous. He censured me for my behavior;
and I laughed in his face, denying his
right to'interfere- We are not en-
gaged, you know, but I like Jack bet-
ter than any one else, and I am sure—-
at least, I think he likes me, but he
has not told me so, and I can’t very
well propose to him. Now he will nev-
er come near me again, and I am mis-
erable. I wish——-"
“Daisy! Daisy!” cried an impatient
voice in the distance.
Daisy sprang up to answer the sum-
mons. It was a warm day in spring
and she had moved her desk near the
open window. During her absence the
wind took unwarranted liberties with
the papers thereon. First, it blew
them together in a promiscuous heap,
then scattered them, and finally lifted
one sheet up and bore it out of the
window.
Daisy re-entered the room in time to
see the paper float beyond her reach.
“Oh, there goes my letter!" she cried
in dismay, and fairly flew out of the
room and down the stairs.
In another minute she was in the
garden, and had rushed almost into
the arms of a man who was coming
up the path. Upon raising her eye-s,
she Meld Jack Alexander holding a
sheet of paper in his hand.
“Jack—Mr. Alexander—give that to
me. It is my letter.’
.. Jack’s eyes twinkled.
“Your letter?” he said, holding it be-
yond her reach. “Well, the wind waft—
ed it to me, so I suppose I am at lib-
erty to read it."
“Oh, no, no! You must not! It is
to Eve, and not a word of it is true."
Mr. Alexander elevated his eyebrows.
“Indeed! I am surprised that you
should commit yourselfto falsehoods
on paper. Is that "your usual style?"
“Jack, please, give it to me.”
But he held the letter aloft. As he
was a. giant in stature and Daisy the
reverse, there Seemed to be no way of
her getting it.
“See here,” he said presently. “I
will give you this—ah—letter, on one
condition.”
“I agree to it," she said, clutching at
the straw.
“Well, you must say you are sorry
for thew-manner in which you treated
me last night, and promise not to flirt
any. more.”
Her face flushed scarlet.
“I will donothin-g of the sort!" she
responded. “You are the one who
should. apologize. Your conduct was
atrocidusf’
“You have a strange way of turning
I did nothing which re-
quires an apology. Why, I scarcely
looked at any woman save yourself.
But to return to this letter. I tell you
truly, Daisy. if you do not agree to
my conditions I will read' every word
of it. '
“J-,ack if you do, I' ll never speak to
you again!"
“Well, promise what I ask.”
“I will not."
"Then here goes!” bringing the pa-
per down to his face.
“Oh! 'oh—!- I—I promise!”
“Very good," said Jack.
_ “Now give me the let-ter."
“Not so fast. Imust see first if you
mean what you say. Kindly answer
each question as I ask 1t. A19 you
sorry for your behavior last night?”
, “No—that is, y-e-s.
“Will you ever flirt any .more?”
"‘I did not flirt. I only amused my-
self a little."
"Well, you agree to cease all such
pastime in the future?"
She looked rebellious. Jack glanced
toward the paper.
“Yes—but—I will promise nothing
more.’
‘An assertion will do quite as well.
Slay ‘Jack, I have loved you fo1 a long
el____!’
“Oh, you conceited creature!
not true!" '
The. man's face all at once became
He looked at the girl so fixed-
It is
“Is that really the case, Daisy ?” he
said. ,
MET PAGE 1 Galley 5
Again the color fiamed
cheeks.
“You have no right to ask me such
a question."
“Why not?"
“Because—Jack, end this
and give me my letter.”
into her
nonsense
me?"
(IN0.H
Jack’s expression never changed, but
he shook the paper .threateningiy.
“Oh, how tiresome you are! Well,
then—yes!”
“My darling!” he rapturously cried,
catching her in his arms and kissing
her. “Why would you not give me this
answer long ago?"
Daisy looked up mischievously.
“How could I, when you never asked
me to?” she said.
“Never asked you? By Jove, I be-
lieve I never did! But it’s all right
now. You are my promised wife, and
hereis your letter.”
He handed her the paper.
blank sheet.
It was a
An Even Thing.
“That coal, ” said Mr. Tenspot to Mr.
Black, who had called for the amount
of the bill, was short in weight. "
When it is in striking contrast to
the wait I have had for my money,"
replied the cell denim—New York ,
win-111.. ~.;_ ~ . . .
é‘q’s-I‘Y-‘ .0...
Q Miss St. Quentin‘said smilingly.
looks so fresh and nice.
“I ever saw her before.”
“In a moment. Daisy, will you marry '
1’13.
A LITTLE EPISODE.
There was a big crush: at Mrs-Si
clair’s “at home,” and people were
making slew progress through ti;
rooms, looking cynical or bored or i:-
terested, as the case .n. '" ._11t be
For vivid, frank enjc: ment, there
were few face‘to ccrzj‘j le'HWlCl] or“.
girlish one—a little flu
thought them charming, a d rchettcd
that she did not live in I..01 «l n ,
“Father hates it so,” she said. ,
“Your father had a 10:3"
said a gentleman at be: 5.513. "But"
—and he smiled very‘ pleasanttgn—“wc
shall very soon have you 2211311,;
I hope, for more than a flying vii-zit.”
The girl blushed andr TN shv, 1.11111
then uttered an exclamation
“Who is that?” she asked eager iy
“Look at her, there! That woman
with the beautiful face and darkhair."
“That is Miss St. Quentin. She
writes, you know. Writes w,ell too;
her new book is an immense success,
being neither cheap nor nasty’.
"Oh, I’ve read it,” Hilda Carson
said, the pink flush deepening in her
cheeks. “And I liked it ever so much.
“I think she is a woman nobody
could help loving, if they knew her "
she continued.
1.1 s.
was amusing, and he rather enjoyed
it for a change, but before he could
speak again two or three pe0ple joined
them, and he olost sight of. Hilda for a
little.
A good many people admired Miss
St. Quentin, but very few even dimly
guessed that, while writing the stories
of others, her own life hid one away
in an inner and very sacred chamber.
They said she was “not a ‘bit im-
pressionable,” and, for all her beauty,
very unlikely to break her own heart
or any one else’s.
There were just two or three people
—of whom Mr. Sinclair was one—who
doubted this dictum, andwondered if
the delicate coldness of her manner
did not hide at least as much of her
’ nature as it revealed.
But even thosewho had so much dis-
cernment did not know—nobody knew
—of that sum-mer, eight years ago,
when she and Jack Tremain had met
in the old Suffolk mansion. Nobody
knew of the long, long mornings in the
orchard, talking over everything and
anything, or sometimes sitting in the
silence that is only possible between
friends.
Six months ago Major Tremain had
come home, but society had seen very
little of him so far, though it was
eager to lionize him and raved over the
deed that gained him that coveted V. C.
Miss St. Quentin had not seen him at
all, though she knew he was, for the
moment, in town,
faces _in park and street, and party, in
the hope she was half ashamed of—
that of seeing his. ‘
She was always a centre of attraction
and had not been many minutes in
Mrs. Sinclair’s rooms before she was
surrounded with a. little crowd. She
resigned herself to the inevitable, and
was trying to forget her one insistent
desire when her hostess came up with
a bronzed, dignified men at her side.
' “Miss St. Quentin, may I introduce
Major Tremain to you?” she said, and
then there was a little exclamation of
mutual recognition, and ten minutes}
ordinary chat, and—that was all. ‘
A man’s voice broke, in upon . her
thoughts. Hows: the some who had
been talking to Hilde. Carson in the
evening, and! Miss St. Quentinenter-
tained a very kindly feeling for him.
She made room for him beside her,
‘and they began to talk.
Presently Hilda passed by, looking so
sunny and animated that Miss St.
Quentinpaused in her talk to look at
her.
“What a dear little girl!" she said.
“Who is she, Mr. Cresswell? I saw you
talking to her just now."
“Little Miss Carson,” he said, follow-
ing the little white figure with his
eyes. “She is General Carson’s only
daughter, and a very nice girl. A great
.admirer of yours, by the way, Miss .St.
Quentin.” ‘
“You.must..introduce us, by-and-by,”
“She
I don’t think
"No; but I suppose she will be more
in town after her marriage." .
' “Oh, is she engaged?”
“Why, yes. Didn’t you know? She
is engaged to Tremain—Major Tre-
main. It seems he went to stay With
the Carsons, and that it was a case of
love at first sight. All the other fel-
lows-in his regiment thought him a
regular hardened old bachelor,- so it
has been a good bit talked about.”
Miss St.
fanned herself slowly.
' “You know Tremain, I suppose?"
Mr. Cresswell continued, not looking
at his companion, as he spoke, but
watching Hilda Carson as she stood
talking to some one, with her sunny
smile. '
“Slightly,” she said. “I used to know
him years ago. He is—or was—very
pleasant.”
“Oh, yes; he’s generally popular.
“WhY/f turning suddenly round. “I'm
afraid y’ou re not very well. Can I get
you anything?"
ralgia, " she said quietly. “I am afraid
I must go. ' I am subject to it, and it
is verybad to-night.”
“I'm awfully sorry!”
, He was full of sympathy and eager
proffers of assitance, and when he put
her into her carriage shook hands
with reiterated regrets.
“fl hope the pain will be gone in the
morning," he said.
But the. pain did not you ill thd
morning. _—Tl1e Sketch.
,,,,,,,,,,,
mil With shin- '
filof it,” '
He laughed. Her fresh enthusiasm
and scanned the'
Quentin leanedback and'
“Nothing, thank you. It is only new 2
ing blue eyes, and soit'c..r1y' brow}.
hair clustering about it. :
The girl wanted to 11::ow'"::h'o every- ,
one was and all abmt 1'::em; s;:e-
AORWALK GAZET
NEW YORK FASHIONS
- A dainty frock for a. little girl is of
pale blue woolen crepon. This is made
baby fashion and attached to a yoke
of cream guipure over pale blue satin.
The girdle and rosette are of blue taf-
feta, while the Shirred sleeves are of
the crepon. ,__ __.. ,,_,_d, .1.
a 1...“. k._.‘. .,
Care should be taken with the girl
just blossoming into maiden-hood.
about fourteen or fifteen, to make the
best of her awkwardness. and at this
age she requires very careful dressing.
If she be fairly slim, and a brunette
let her wear a dress of blue or red
serge, with simple braid trimming or,
for that matter, no trimming at all.
The blue serge frock is also very sty-
lish trimmed with white cloth. The
simplest hat for a. young girl is the
flat model, trimmed with flowers and
ribbon.
Tuck; Very Popular.
Tucks are in quite as great favor as
they have been for several season:
past; therefore no woman need hesi-
state about tucking her waists and
gowns for the summer if she fancies
this easy and effective style of trim~
ming. There are very many women
who employ a portion of the quiet
home hours of the Lenten season in
making up the simple dresses they
will need during the vacation season to
come, leaving the few handsome gowns
they intend to have for the tailor's or
dressmaker’s designing later on. Tucks
are used. at present, but they will in-
crease and multiply all over the sum-
mer gown, being laid up and down,
horizontally, in arching lines, in ser-
pentine curves on sleeves of thin fa-
bric, and in broad, medium, and finest
lingerie widths on yokes, guimpes, pan.
els, and blouses. White _organdy
skirts will show alternate rows of tuck-
ing and ficuncing from belt to hem.
Other models will be tucked around
the hips ‘5’. and blouse vests and
skirts will be arranged in; rows of al-
ternate tiny frills, lines of tucking. and
bands of insertion in French embroid~
QTY. -
[The Flounce 'Iluoh Worn.
The circular tonnes—probably be-
cause it is an entire change from fa-
‘mlllar styles. of seasons past—has be-
come quite popular on gowns designed
both for house and street wear. It is
the exception on tailor dresses. how-
ever, and even on other costumes there
is a very noticeable defect in the ad-
justment of the fiounce. No matter
.how perfectly it is cut and applied to
. the upper half of the skirt, after being
worn a few times.it sags in places, par-
ticularly if the goods composing the
gown are lightly woven, like serge.
wool armure, or etemine. Graceful as
it looks on some of the elegant unworn
French gowns, it is not a style that is
likely to last, for the dressmakers pre-
fer to make other styles, and when they
are personally requested to follow the
fiounce model, the patron ordering the
circular effect almost invariably re.
grets. it. -
A Pretty Coll-rotten
A smart and pretty collarette is al-
ways a great boon to girls who have
only a limited sum to expend on dress,
as by its aid 3 plain bodice may be
smrtened up for evening or dinner
wear. A dainty model is of cream silk
muslin. but it is equally suitable for
thin silk in any light shade; it is tuck.
ed perpendicularly to within 2% inches
of the edge of front and back, and the
entire length of shoulders; the un-
tucked edge forms a. frill edged with a
tiny ruche of chiffon about one inch
wide. Straps of jewelled guipure are
placed down the centre and each side
the front; the collar-band is arranged
in folds, and the stand-up collar is edg-
ed witha chiffon ruche; the epaulettes
are” slightly full, and are also edged
with a ruche.
Striped Gingham Shirt WIiI‘.
Silk shirts made of taffeta are much
worn at this season and are made in
the same way as the cotton ones, only
in some cases a. litttle more elaborate
The heavier materials in wash goods
will be in demand inn-g before the or-
gandies and fine lawns make their ap~
pearance. ' Therefore waists of gale-
tea, madras and pique are often worn
under jackets long before the real
warm weather arrives.
A stylish shirt waist of striped ging-
ham which is made quite plain, has a
white linen box pleat down the center,
and white linen collar and cuffs are al-
so worn. The most. popular Bkll‘L to
wear with these waists are of black
serge or taffeta, though during the
summon the pique and linen skirts will
be very much worn.
—__-£———.
There is no worship where there in
no joy. .
suitable for shopping or
T'E‘
--v-e
A lent Traveling Suit.
It is well to possess one garment
traveling.
made of rough woolen goods or serge.
A sensible model is made of rough
brown tweed. The five‘ gore skirt
measures about four yards at the hem,
and is finished with three rows of nar-
row black braid.
The blouse jacket is arranged with
aback mid front. the front fastening
over double breasted. the edge being
s-ailoped and machine stitched and fas-
.ening with three large buttons. The
neck is finished with a shaped collar.
which is of the material lined with silk
and interlined canvas.
Coat sleeve made over a fitted lining
is also finished with machine stitching
:11 the wrist. This blouse coat is in-
tended to be worn over a shirt waist.
ln Rose Pink and White.
Rodices different from the skirt are
most convenient for dinners. concerts
~ud theatre parties, especially for
.9: people. Some of the dressiest
mists shown are of crepe de chine,
with shirred sleeves and a guimpe
neck of white silk or velvet. Other
waists have a bolero of velvet, and the
majority of them have grOups of fine
tucks, composing the entire decoration.
A handsome model is of rose pink
crepe de chine, trimmed with embroid-
ery and cream lace and having a plas-_
tron and revers of white silk. The
tight fitting sleeves have a. small puff
at the top. Revers of crepe de chine
are edged with narrow black velvet.
velvet also trimming the blouse and
wrists of the sleeves.
The dainty hat of fine rose pic“?
straw has a soft crown of white 5111.;
and is ornamented on the left side with
black plumes and flowers.
Bride- Now Wear Jewels.
It is noticeable at many of the smart
weddings of theseeson that the bride
‘- no longer denies herself the wearing of
zany jewels.
It used to be a sort of
{unwritten but carefully adhered- to law
that a maiden on her wedding day. :-
should have no ornaments save those
of her blooming youth and the typical
flowers of her state. This. however,
has been gradually changed, and
brides appear more and more often
with superb gems. It was literally
a yard of pearls that a bride wore on
her neck not long ago when she became
a wife. A bit of sentiment about this
comparatively new jewel-wearing of
brides is that only the ornaments that
are given by the immediate family or
the groom shall be thus honored.
A Seven LIV.
The Argentine Republic has imposed
a tax upon celibatee of either sex.
These are the first two clauses of the
new laW: “0n and aim January 1st.
12597, every male from the age of twen-
ty to eighty shall pay a tax until he
marries, and sha)l pay it once in ev‘
ery month. " Clause 2. "Young celi-
bates of either sex who shall, without
legitimate motive, reject the addresses
of him or her (ladies may propose in
Argentine) who may aspire to her or
his hand, and who continue contuma-
ciously unmarried, shall pay the sum
of 600 piastres for the benefit of the
young person, man or woman, who has
been so refused.”
‘ Satin Much Used.
'Satin, as having greater lustre than
silk, is chosen for the under dress of
the organdie and gauze dresses now be-
ing made for the summer. It is
claimed, too, that satin will be the
most suitable material for the sheath
skirt. Taffeta is too light in weight
and too bouifante. The satin marveil-
leuse once so fashionable makes the
most durable of all skirts, whether for
an outer or an under dress.
Lavender Perfume for Smelling Salts.
Six drams of oil of lavender aug., five
drops of oil of cloves nun, ten drops of
oil of rose geranium, ten drops of utter
of roses, one dram and a half of es-
sence of ambergris, two drams of es-
sence of bergamotte, one dram and a
half of essence of musk. Mix and
shake well before dropping on the salts.
————-—-—
Heard at a Party.
"I suppose you acquired a good deal
of useful information while you “'81:.
on a farm last summer.”
“Yes. I noticed that while bis-cs
hens leyed white eggs. it never hap-
pens that white I! lay black eggs.“
-New York won:
EASTER NOVELTIES-
Some of the Designs Which Were 800.!!!
Shop Windows.
In these days of skilled confection-
ers the Easter eggs, natural and arti-
ficial, have become, some of them, ver-
itable works of art, while all exhibit
the skill and ingenuity of their manu-
facturers in the grotesqueness, beauty _
or costliness of their designs. Nor will
the outside of the Easter egg alone.
however quaint or beautiful it may be.
absorb the attention, of the recipient;
l
i
(A puns? , i
but eager fingers will at once seek to
solve the mystery—what woman or
child is there who does not delight in
mystery of the kind of the breed of the
chicken the egg will hatch. And the
chickens! Well, you may expect to
find anything from a. bed room set to
an Easter bonnet in your egg this year;1
for watches, rings. broodhes, ‘clocks,
studs, pins, gloves, sweetmeats, hand-
kerchiefs, books, photos, and live birds
are the names of but a few of the
many delightful surprises which will
await the egg openers.
Eggs in which presents are to be
placed are made of papier-mache shells,
and are usually covered with hand«
painted satin. Of course where the
giver is an artist, the value of the gift
will, be enhanced greatly if the paint-
ing is done by the same band that
sends the gift. Travelers sometimes
bring in ostrich eggs to be painted and
. _ _.-- ..-1.....-....__...___-_ ._._ -
A {GLOW/v)
filled; and, at least, one egg of the ex—
tinct great auk has passed through the
hands of the confectioner. This egg
would be a. gift fit for a king, empty
or filled, for the rarity of the great
auk’s eggs makes them of very great
value. But _‘ the record-breaker, in
point of size and probably in costliness,
was an egg made in London and sent to
‘a South African millionaire’s bride.
The shell of this giant egg was com-
posed enttrely of chocolate, and was
nine feet long and eighteen feet in cir-
cumference at the widest part. It re-
§k0v£R (Lei/54AM?”
quired seven men to carry it. A ton
of superfine confectionery, an expen-
sive and extensive wedding trousseau
and numerous wedding gifts were all
packed within the egg. The bill for
the eweetmeats alone was $2,500,111"!
the whole was insured for many thou-
sands of dollars. before being shipped
for Africa.
But the quaintest and funniest of all
are the Easter egg likenesses. These
are made from hen’s eggs. The con-
tents are first blown out and the shells
weighted or balanced with fine shot, in
such a way that they will always stand
on and. An artist now takes the eggo
and judges from their shapes what
m- 91/105 TONE.
“character” to give each one. The
with brush and paint, he proceeds t
transform the eggs into ludicrous car
catures of, it may be, Mr. Gladston
Grover Cleveland, Cecil Rhodes, m.
Kinleyb or other notable characters
Now the funny thing is the behind.
of these egg-men. Knock Grov
Cleveland down; and, with his usu.
obstinacy, up he bobs ready for a.
other hit. Push Gladstone over; 11..
the Grand Old Fellow jumps up .~
quickly and‘ frowns so fiercelY- tn
one is quite sure he must have seen
Turk. Even McKinley cannot .
downed; and the dude swagger: abo
furiously, and the clown rod: and to.
bloc around in a way to make the lien
, glad and the _lipe laugh.
Norwalk Chronicler