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BRUCE CHAMP, Publisher.
PARIS. KENTUCKY.
.
A BOTANICAL LESSON.
Mrs. Professor addresses her class:
Now, mark well my lecture, each good lad
and lass.
ft you take this small seed and deposit it quite
Far down in the earth away from the light,
One slight green shoot will presently show
That the germ has begun to bud, you know."
I -"Why does it bud?" "Because it draws
New life from the earth, by natural laws."
SJHowjdoes.it draw new life, my dear?"
"'Well, that indeed does not clearly appear;
But watch it awhile, and you shall see
j The small shoot grow to a young rose-tree."
"'How does it grow?" "Ah ! yes, the cells
Are filled with sap that steadily swells
- Those delicato tissues, and" then behold
jThe leaf and perfect flower unfold I"
"How does the sap get into the cell?"
"So far the wise men have failed to tell."
""But oh, the wonder that gleams and glows
In the sweet white miracle of the rose,
"Whose everv leaf has a velvet side.
With the color of rubies, glorified."
"How is it colored?" "It takes its hues
From the sun-rays. Yes, each rose can choose
"The red or the gold ray, or hold them all;
Each sweet-brier that garlands the gray old
wall.
Each violet flecking the earth with blue,
Draws from one palette its own glad hue."
""But who carries her flush to the cheek ofthe
"
rose.
Her blue to the violet?'; "God only knows;
And therefore wise .people never will ask,
But now I hav.e nearly ilnishedQny.task,
-And you, my pupils, will readily see
How the small seed changes-to flower and
tree: :
And "how fully, clearly, science can show
me law or growtn is anem to grow."
n Fannie B. Bobinson, in Youths' Companion,
WOOING BY PROXY.
w A- Pretty Love Story Well Told.
She is leaning back in a deep crimson
chair, with a white dress sweeping in
long shining folds about her. She is
talking to two or three men with that
rather weary grace he has . grown
to see in her, and which is so
different from the joyous smiles of the
-Jeanne de Beaujen whom he loved, so
long ago. a He is watching her from 'the
opposite side of the salon as he stands
beside his hostess, and he tells himself
Athat it is or the last time. He is going
to lier presently, and lie knows just how
coldly she will raise the dark eyes that
once never met his without confessing
that she loved him. -He knows just
what he will say and what she will answer,
and there is no need for haste in
this last scene of his tragedy.
"A man should know when he is
beaten," he is thinking, while he smiles
vaguely In reply to Slme. de Soule's
commonplaces. 'There is more stupidity
than courage in not accepting a defeat
while there is yet time to retreat with
ome dignity. For six weeks I have
her, with a directness that has,
I dare say, been amusing to our mutual
tfriends, that after ten years' absence my
'only object in returning to Paris is her
. society. She cannot avoid meeting me
in public, but she has steadily refused
to receive me when I call upon her, or
' to permit me a word with her alone. I
have been a fool to forget that all these
years in which I regretted her she has
naturally despised me, but at least it is
not just of her to refuse me a heariDg."
The moment he has been waiting for is
-come. The little court about her disperses,
until there is but one man beside
'ner, and she glances around with a look
-of mild appeal against the continuance
of his society.
De Palissier has escaped from his
hostess in an instant, and the next he is
murmuring, with the faintest suspicion
-of a tremor in his voice, "Will Mme.
'de Miramon permit me a dance?"
"Thanks, M. de Palissier, but I am
not dancing this evening," she replies,
with exactly the glance and tone he expects.
"Will madame -give me a few
serious conversation?" and this
time the tremor is distinct, for even the
nineteenth-century horror of melodrama
cannot keep, a man's nerves quite steady
wnen he 'is' asking a question onwKich
his whole future depends.
r "One does not come to balls for
ous, conversation- i? she begins,
' i'Where may I come, then?" he interrupts,
eagerly.
'Nowhere. There is no need for
conversation between us: M.'de
Palissier," she replies, haughtily, and
rising, she takes the arm of the much-edified
gentlemanbeside her, and moves
away.
It is all he has prophesied to himself,
rand 'yet; j for a moment'the lights swim
dizzily before him, and the passionate
sweetness of that Strauss waltz the band
'dsplaying stabs ''his heart like a knife.
Tor a moment. he does not realize that
She is standing quite motionless, gazing,
-with de'spair in his eyes, after "Mme. de
Miramon's slender, white-clad figure,
and that two or three people, who have
seen and heard; are looking.at him with
ithat -amused pity which sentimental catastrophe
always inspires in the specta
tors.
Some one touches his arm presently
with her fan, and with a start he comes
to himself and recognizes Lucille de
IBeaujen, the young sister of Mme. de
Miramon, whom he remembers years
ago as a child, and with whom he has
danced several times this winter.
"And our waltz, -monsieur?" she
-asks gavly. "Do not tell me you have
forgotten it, That is evident enough,
butyou should not admit it."
"Mille pardons, mademoiselle," he
mutteres, hurriedly.
"I am very good to-night," she
.-says, putting her hand on his mechanically
extended arm. "Though the waltz
ris half over, there is still time for you to
;get me an ice."
So they make their way through the
Asalon, she - talking lightly and without
pausing for a reply, while he, vaguely
grateful to her for extracting him from
-an awkward position, wonders also that
--she should care to be so kind to a man
-whom her sister has treated with such
imarked dislike.
The refreshment room is almost empty
.and she seats herself and motions him
to a chair beside her when he has brought
her an ice.
"Do you-think, M. le Marquis, that it
vwasipnly to, eatf ices with you that I have
:f6rceimy society so resolutely upon
you?' Vsheasks,yvith a- lpokvqf earnestness'
venfrare on 'her bright coquettish
jfifcif -4 ,JitSr: " -' i.'-''"'
"I think you an angel of compassion
to an old friendof your childhood, Mile.
Lucille " e
"It was compassion, but more for
my sister than for you," she says
:ly. ,.
"jloui: sister: ne ecnoes, bitterly.
'"It has aot oomirrpH tr. mo tTiof Mmo
deMiraiiion is in need of compassion.'
and yours is too sweet to be wasted "
"Chut, monsieur," she interrupted,
"Forget that I am as fond of pretty
speeches as most young women, and
think of me only as Jeanne de
sister, who believes that much as
she loves her, you love her even
more "
For the second time this evening De
Palissier forgets possible observers, and
clasps both the girl's slender hands in
his, as he murmurs unsteadily, "God
bless you!"
"Ypu forget that we have an audience,
monsieur;" she says, withdrawing her
hands quickly, but with a smile of frank
comradeship. "I have a story to tell
you, and not much time to tell it in.
j.ears ago, wnen Jeanne leit ner convent
on becoming fiancee to M. de Miramon,
she met you at her first ball, and
you loved each other. It was very foolish,-
for you were a cadet of your house,
and only a Sous-Lieutenant, and Jeanne
had not a sou, so both the families were
furious;? but all would- have ended as
well as a fairy tale if you1(hvad been rea
sonable. Jeanne met you time after
time in secret, and promised any amount
of patience, but she would not run away
andlmarry.you in defiance of her parents;
so you tormented her with doubts, and
shamed her with suspicions until she
clreaded those secret meetings almost as
much as she longed for them. At last,
after making a more violent quarrel
than usual, you exchanged from your
regiment. at Versailles to one in Algiers,
andtleft her no refuge-from the reproaches
of our father and mother but
to marry M. de Miramon. He might
have refused to marry her after hearing
'her .confess, as she did, that she had
given her heart to you, and that only
your desertion had induced her to consent
to their marriage. But he did not:
'he had a better revenge than that. He
married ner, and. for eight jrears he tortured
her in every way that a jealous
and cruel man can torment a proud,
pure woman. He opened all her letters,
he made spies of her servants, and not a
day passed that he did not insult her
with some mention of youruame. Our
parents died within a few months of the
marriage, and I was at the convent.
There, was nothing to be done with her
misery but endure it, knowing that she
owed it all to your impatience. Can
yoju wonder that she 4s unforgiving?"
He is leaning on the small table between
them with folded arms and down-bent
eves, and he is verv pale, even
through the bronze of ten African sum-
mers.
"I loved her always " he says, almost
inaudibly; then pauses; nor does
he finish his sentence, though she waits
for him to do so.
"You love her? You could not have
wrecked her life more utterly if you
had hated her Can you wonder that
she has grown to fear the thought of
love that has been so cruel to her as
yours and her husband's? Monsieur,
my brother-in-law died two years ago.
God is so good I" continues Lucille,
fiercely. "Since then Jeanne has been
at peace, and she shrinks with absolute
terror from disturbing the calm which
has come to her after such storms. She
fears you, she avoids you, because
shall I tell you why?"
She can see his lips quiver even under
the heavy mustache, but he neither
speaks nor raises his eyes .
"She loves you," murmurs Lucille,
just aloud.
lie lifts his eyes now and looks at her
dumbly for an instant; then, rising, abruptly
walks away. ' .
He comes .back presently.
"My child," he says, very gently, "do
not try to make me believe that, unless
you are very sure; for if I once believe
it again, I I "
"I 'am as sure as that I live that
Jeanne has never ceased to love jtou,
and that you can force her to confess it
if you will make love to me."
"I? You? You are laughing at me!"
with a rush of color into his dark face.
"Do you think so ill of Jeanne's sis-
ter?" .she asked, softly.
"Pardon. I am. scarcely myself , and
I can not imagine how "
"Jeanne will not receive you because
she knows her own heart and is afraid
of it. She fears that you will destroy
t.Vip. hard-won neace she values so hiffhlv.
But you are wealthy, distinguished, the
head of your name a very different
person from what you were ten years ago,
and she can find no reason for refusing
you as my suitor if I consent, and as my
chaperon she must be present at all our
meetings. You begin .to understand?
Make her see that your love is not all
jealousy; make her remember make
her regret."
"But, forgive me, when one has loved
ft woman for ten years," with a faint
amile, "there is no room in one's heart
for even a pretense at loving another. 5:
"If there were, monsieur. I should
never have proposed my plot," she replies,
with dignity. "It is because I
have watched you all these weeks and
know that your love is worthy of my
sister that I trust you. But it is not
with one's heart that one pretends. En-fin,
it is with you to consent or decline."
"Decline!" he echoes, with a passion
none the less intense for its quietness,
"Does a dying man decline his last
chance of life, however desperate it may
be?"
The next week is full of bitter surprises
to the proud and patient woman,
whose pathetic cling to her new-found
leace Lucille so well understands.
Though it is long since she has permitted
herself to rember anything of the
lover of her youth except his jealousy,
she has believed in his faithfulness as
utterly as she dreamed it, and when she
receives De Palissier's note asking the
consent of his old friend to his love for
her., sister, the pain she feels bewilders
and dismays her. With a smile whose
cynicism is as much for herself as for
him, she gives the note to Lucille expecting
an instant rejection of the man
whose motives in pursuing them they
had both so misunderstood. But with a
laugh: "Then my sympathy has
een all without cause," the girl cries.
"By all means let him comemy Jeanne.
It cannot wound you whohav'eJong ago
ceased to regret him, and he is the best
parti in Paris, and tres bel Jtomme
for
his age?" '?
It isfquite true there can b no objection
to the wealthy and distinguished
'Marquis 'de Palissier if Lucille is willing
but the pain at her heart whic
aKp. is ton jishamp.d evp.n fo p.nirfpss to
fherself. So a .note is written fixing an
hour for his' first visit, and Mme. de
Miramon prepares herself ro meet the
man whom she last saw alone in all'the
passionate anguish of a lover's quarrel.
Is this wild flutter in her throat a sign
of the peace she has resolved topossess?
Thank God! she can at least jpromise.
herself that whatever she may suffer,;
neither he nor Lucille shall guess it.
There is the sound of wheels inthe
courtyard, and she Tises with a hasty
glance at her reflection in the mirror.
"His old friend!" she murmurs, scornfully.
'I d are say I look an old woman '
beside Lucille."
Then she turns with a look-of graceful
welcome, for the door is thrown
open, and a servant announces:
"M. le Marquise de Palissier."
"Nothing eouldgive me greater pleasure
than to receive as my sister's suitor
the old friend of whom the world tells
me such noble things." She utters her
little speech as naturally as though she
had not rehearsed it a dozen times, and
holds out her pretty hand to him.
To her surprise he does not take it.
How should she guess that he dares not
trust himself to touch calmly the hand
he would have risked his life to kiss any
time these ten years?
"You are too good, madame," he replies,
very low; and she reflects that he
is, of course, a little embarrassed. "I
am afraid you had much to forgive in
those days so long ago, but time, I trust,
has changed hie.
"It would be sad, indeed, if time did
not give us wisdom and coldness in exchange
for all it takes from us," she
says, with a quick thrill of pain that he
should speak of ten years as if it were
an eternity.
"Not coldness," he exclaims, coming
nearer, and looking at her with eyes that
make her feel a girl again. "If you
could see my heart, you "
"May I enter, my sister?" asked the
gay voice of Lucille, as she appears from
behind the portiere at so fortunate a
moment for the success of her plot that
it is to be feared that she had been
eavesdropping.
De Palissier turns at once and presses
her hand to his lips.
"Mademoiselle," he says, tenderly, "I
am at your feet."
Then begins a charming little comedy
of love-making, in which Lucille plays
her role with pretty coquetry and he
with infinite zeal.
And the chaperon bends over her lace
work and hears the caressing tones she
thought she had forgotten,and sees the
tender glances she imagined she had
ceased to regret, all given to her young
sister in her unregarded presence. How
is she to keep the peace she so prayed
for if her future is to be haunted by this
ghost from the past? She is very patient
and used to suftering, but at length
she can endure no longer, and, not daring
to leave the room, she moves away
to a distant writing-table where she is at
least beyond hearing.
There is an instant pause between the
conspirators, und while De Palissier's
eyes wistfully follow Mme. de Miramon,
Lucille seizes her opportunity with a
promptness that would have done credit
to a Richelieu or a Talleyrand, or any
other prince of schemers.
"Courage, monsieur!" she murmurs.
"She has been cold to me ever since
your note came. You would make a
charming jeune premier at the Fran-
cais, only wnen you do say anything
very tender, do you remember to look
at me instead of Jeanne." And she
breaks into a laugh so utterly amused
that he presently laughs, too, and the
sound of their mirth causes an odd blot I
in the poor chaperon's writing.
A month has dragged by wretchedly
enough, both to the conspirators and
their victim, and, like all things earthly,
has come to an end at last. Even
energy could not keep De
to his role, if he did not believe
that in surrendering it he must give up
the bitter-sweet of Jeanne's daily
presence, which even in its serene indifference
had become the one charm of
life to him. Mme. de Miramon and
her sister are spending a week at her
villa near Paris, and De Palissier, who
is to accompany them on a riding party,
has arrived a little late, and finds both
sisters already in the court-yard, with
some horses and grooms, when he enters.
Lucille comes to him at once as
he dismounts, with a look of alarm instead
of her usual coquetry.
"Do not let Jeanne ride Etoile," she
said, anxiously. "She has thrown
Guillaume this morning."
Mme. de Miramon is standing beside
an old groom, who is holding the horse
in question, and she does not look at
her sister or De Palissier as they ap
proach.
"Let me ride Etoile, and take my
horse to-day, madame," De Palissier
savs, eagerly. "I should like to master
a horse who has thrown so excellent a
groom as Guillaume."
"So should I," she says, with a hard
little laugh, and she steps on the block.
"Jeanne!" cries Lucille.
"I entreat you for your sister's sake.
She will be terribly alarmed," De
sa3rs, hurriedly.
"Then you must console her. The
greater her alarm, the greater your delightful
task, monsieur," and she .looks
at him with a defiant pain in her eyes
like a stag's at -bay." "I shall ride
Etoile."
"Then I say that you shall not," he
answers, putting his arm across he saddle,
and meeting. her eyes with a sudden
blaze in his.
For an instant they gaze at each other
in utter forgetfulness of any othsr presence
than their own. Then she springs
from the block and comes close to him.
"I hate you!" she gasps, and, turning,
gathers up her habit in one hand runs
into the house, swiftly followed by De
Palissier. In the salon she faces" him
with a gesture of passionate pride
"Leave me!" she says. "1 forbid
., 4- ,.l, 4- , 11
He is very pale, but the light of
triumph is in his eyes, and, like most of
men, being triumphant, he is cruel.
"Why do you hate me?" he asked,
imperiously.
"i beg your pardon, she stammers.
dropping the eyes which she knows are
betraying her. ' 'I should Tin.vA said "
"Yon should have said, Ilove y0I1w! .
he murmurs, coming close to her amd
Jioldingout his arms. "Does it nurj
you tht 1 should JcmoWjic v ac, iYT"
who haveJloved you all thesejears?"
"But.Eucille," shot
away from him butJTwitKeyefcthatine''
and lips'" thatquiver "with bewildered
joy.
"Never mind Lucille," cries that
vonnff 'ladv verv' cKeerfullv' rxzrrzz liUUl ?rt?2w uuo
doorway. "It ,has been all a plot for
your happiness, my Jeanne, wnidh
would never havesucceeded if -you "had
known,your sister tas well as she knew,
vou? To think .that I would be content
with the wreck of any man s nearci ,
tr
'fiaoncf When my day comes,
"Like Alexander, 1 win reign,
Andl-will reign alone.-" -
Translated from tlie French for the
Chicqqo Tribune.
Rich Dunces and Poor Scholars.
There is one thing worse than
.
. " .
,-. -, y 1-J T
ranee: it is to despise Knowieuge. .ignorance
may be a misfortune, but the
man who reviles-the knowledge he does
not possess shows an ignoble nature.
An article is going the rounds of the L
newspapers, entitled "Results of Education,"
the object of which is to show
how much better it is to be a rich ignoramus
than a poor scholar. The author
selects cases to prove his point. A rich
Cattle King, who had a year's schooling,
and who still thinks William
and William the Fourth were
one and the same person, is worth two
millions of dollars, and has three clerks
in his employment who were college
graduates.
Another man, whose doting parents
scrimped and slaved to send him to college,
and who graduated with honors, is
now forty years of age, and makes
school-books for a rich publisher for
fifteen dollars a week.
Imaerine a loner strins: of such exam
ples, given to show that He who would
thrive in this world must abandon his
school, throw aside his books and go
into the street to struggle for pennies!
Every statement in this article may be
true, and yet the article itself be a falsehood,
for nothing lies with such force as
truth. That is, truth perverted and
misused, can be made to convey an impression
completely erroneous.
Now there actually was a college
graduate employed by a publisher of
school-books at a salary something like
that named above. That is trufch. But
not the whole truth for the reason why
the man worked in an inferior position
was not because he graduated from college,
but because his habits were bad.
He was an occasional drunkard. In
his subordinate position he was safer
and better off than he had ever been
when working for himself.
Colleges do not teach young men how
to buy cheap and to sell dear. Education
is tliat which makes success worth
having. It cannot impart the quality of
mastership, which makes one man go
forward and take the lead, and the want
of which makes it far better for most
men to follow.
In New York there are many of these
wealthy, ignorant men, whom unfortunately
our youth are advised to imitate.
As a class, they are well known to be
both ridiculous, restless and coarse in
speech and habits. They do not know
what to do with themselves or with
their money, unless it be to go grinding
on, adding to their preposterous
Some of them try to conquer
ennui and to place themselves above
the position to which their lack of education
assigns them, by building beautiful
palaces, or by making art collections,
of which they really appreciate nothing
but the cost. Others parade their littleness
in the harbors of the world, protected
by a flag to which their lives have
added no lustre.
One of the absurdest, nay, one of the
most threatening and terrible
cles which our imperfect civilization
affords, is an ignorant, common, vulgar
man, with millions of dollars at nis
command millions which spoil him,
corrupt his relations, and blast his children!
Youths1 Companion.
A Postponed Funeral.
An old timer of Rochester, N. Y.,
giving recollections of cholera times to
The j kmocrat and Chronicle, of that
city, relates the following: "There was
an old house down on the canal by
Trowbridge street, near the present site
of Moss' lumber-yard, which was a pretty
tough rookery, It was inhabited by
the very lowest Irish, and a large number
of deaths occurred there. Among
the inmates was one Mary Lynn, one of
the most notorious characters of the
day. One day Mary was found laid out,
and everybody supposed that she was
dead. A coffin was procured, and the
remains put in and the lid screwed down,
and the funeral procession, composed oi
a number of hack-loads of friends,
started for the pinnacle, where a grave
had been duly prepared. I drove one
of the hacks." It was a pretty lively funeral.
Most of the party were measur
ably happy. There was an old shanty
just by the cemetery, where liquors
were sold, and as the coffin was being
taken from the hearse, my passengers
improved the opportunity to get another
drink. Just as the coffin had been removed
from the hearse, somebody
I stumbled, and the coffin fell to the
ground, bursting open."
"That was unpleasant, certainly."
"It was, indeed; but imagine the sensation
when Mary rose in thcoffin and
commenced swinging her arms, and in
a moment came out, landing upon her
feet. Her first ejaculation was: 'What
are you doing?' She was a rough, pow
erful woman, and a great fighter in her
day, and she made things howl there
for a. few moments."
"You must have had rather peculiar
sensations for a moment."
"Yes, I did. At first I hardly knew
what to think. For a moment I was
dumbfounded, but I soon recovered myself
and comprehended the situation.
Mary had been on a tear, and had become
beastly drunk. Finding her down
among the dying cholera-stricken, her
friends thought, of course, that she, too,
had passed in her chips, and that thera
was nothing left but to bury her. Yes,
we postponed the funeral, and Mary
Lynn continued to be notorious in the
police annals for a number of years."
-
Oscar Wilde says that short tfaii
cannot go with knee breeches. No, it
usually goes with striped trousers.
Buffalo Courier.
7
Fashion 5ote&
Two spron overskirts jO oner lonriand1
'vmsrn nri oauht ud on the left side
,the overfull, sjfrnaedaninuoklj
looDed over thlffiiSlrelieem ufptfthe
mt imHjjnsTf toip Igris. $ f ;
Cunning lile low-nicked, . at
tt M .?T. TKT
Klppved dressesBior"T;hildren are msde
fnk blue, and strawberry sateen,
.surahchamberyorjinen, embmdercji,
,
or plain, over piaiLcu. rrioio
mslin or? gujmpjes with sleeves-.
New autumn cheviots, tweeds serges,
'SSaDaslcef cTotfis1 are mosilyTn plaids,'
.in vea or irregular jpterns, and in
quiet neutral tones off awn color, nun's
?grnyysph3jgolden -
enlivened by stripes or dashes of scarlet
and gold.
Among the most popular of watering-place
dresses appear a variety of cretonnes
and foulards with veiy light
ground and designs, in the conventional
floral style designated as the
Cream-color is the one exception
to this temporary rule. In woollens
it is used as a foundation forpavsan
bouquets, or for thVmore severe designs
of flowers and fruit, such as fare seen
upon bits of Louis XIH. tapestry.
The number oi mantles oi tnin
materials upon a transparent
ground has notably increased of late.
These materials are chiefly brocaded
silk gauze, with raised designs in silk,
velvet, or of finest silk grenadine in
raised patterns of satin. The mantles
are in the shape of pelerines, large
fichus, or elegant pelisses. They are
lined with gold, mauve, or scarlet surah,
and the effect is exceedingly rich and
stylish.
One of the prettiest and newest berthas
for the summer is of tinted India silk
mull, upon he border of which are
natural-size flowers and foliage
cut from a piece of velvet brocade.
One in the Stuart shape is made of pale
violet-tinted mull, upon which are
large pansies of purple and gold
velvet. Another, in delicate pink is
bordered with dark rose-colored buds
covered with velvet moss, and surrounded
with dark-green velvet leaves.
For lawn-tennis suits, especially in
vogue during September, 'round waists,
or snug-fitting basques, with zouave
jacket outside, will be very popular.
With the round waist will be worn the
charming little gypsy fichus of painted
or stamped muslin in two " colors of
crimson and and cream, almond and
pale blue, or willow-green ground
painted or stamped with blush roses.
The fichu laps at the belt in front, and
is crossed or knotted in the back. It is
edged with lace, or with plaited frills of
the muslin.
Dress skirts are growing decidedly
fuller and wider, and this decided tendency
to bouffant styles has, as history
plainly reveals, ,been almost, invariably
the forerunner of crinoline, and crinoline
we are to have unless scores of manufacturers,
who have summoned their
hitherto idle forces and beffun the work
anew of making hoop-skirts, have
listened to a delusive rumor of their
coming popularity. It is surprising as
well as amusing to note the remarks of
importers and modistes upon this
their opinions being as varied as
the present weather.
English manufacturers have secured
a novelty in black goods, the fabric being
a fine wool made to closely resemble
the best of crape. It is firm, exceedingly
durable and glossy, but without
the elasticity of crape. It is called
crape imperial, and is likely to find a
large and lasting sale, as it has all the
effect of crape proper, without the disadvantage
of that material being quite
impervious to dampness, and guaranteed
to wear as long as cashmere or
any other woollen fabric. It is appropriate
either for trimming or an entire
costume.
The variety of the season's dress materials
is endless, and so, for the matter
of that, is the variety of colors, only
regarding colors there is a limit, for
although there are more bewildering
hues and tones in the shop windows
than one could give a name to, only a
portion of these are worn by people who
pretend to dress well. Grays at home
and abroad are very fashionable grays
in all shades, French, slate, electric,
Quaker, and soft and beautiful nun's
gray all are worn. These colors appear
in dresses of tulle, garnished with
garlands of scarlet roses or poppies,
and in silk, satin, and foulard, softened
with trimmings of lace, either white or
black.
The tailor-made dresses are to be more
than ever the fashion the coming sea-
son. Ladies possessing good figures
know that their perfect fit shows the
form to the -finest advantage, and those
less favored by Nature are also aware
that there is" nothing like a slightly
rough-surfaced fabric to give an increased
look to the size of their slender
arms and shoulders. Some of these
suits are made up in the severest style,
white others are remarkably jaunty and
picturesque, with cutaway jackets and
crimson serge waistcoats in old Continental
style, large pocket flaps adorned
with bright buttons in old medal designs,
and deep panelled skirts, over
which are draped the smartest and nattiest
of short tunics, piped with crimson.
N. Y. Evening Post.
m
Advice to Bathers.
The Royal Human Society, in its re
cently issued report, gives the following
advice to swimmers and bathers: Avoid
bathing within two hours after a meal.
Avoid bathing when exhausted by
fatigue, or from any other cause. Avoid
Darning wnen tue Douy is coonng aiter
perspiration. Avoid bathing altogether
in the open air if, after having been a
short time in the water, it causes a
sense of chilliness with numbness of
the hands and feet. Bathe when the
body is warm, provided no time is lost
in getting into the water. Avoid chilling
the body by sitting or standing undressed
on the banks or in boats after
having been in the water. Avoid remaining
too long in the water; leave the
water immediately there is the slightest
feeling of chilliness. The vigorous and
strong may bathe early in the morning
on an empty stomach. The young and
those who are weak had better bathe
two or three hours after a meal; the best
time for such is from two or three hours
after breakfast. Those who are subject
to attacks of giddiness or faintness, and
those who suffer from palpitation and
other sense of discomfort at the heart,
should not bathe without first consulfr
ing their inndical adviser."
PERSONAL U DEPERSONA&r
W. F. Miller, a j&or newsdealer erf
Faterson, N. J., by the death of .relatives
in New York, has fallen heir to an
estate of $350,000. iV. Y. Sun.
Mrs. Jane Swisshelm says: The
things we call women are simply small
packages of aches and pains, done up
in velvet and lace, and topped out wHb
rArthur W. Oliver; a young man belonging
to one of the best families oijL.
'LynnVMass. ,'
ly with chloroform, because a young
lady to whom he had been paying'
to.jnarry him. Boston
Post-
A girl sixteen years old went to a
dentist in Troy, N. Y., recently, and insisted
on being put under the influence
of chloroform before he performed an
operation on her teeth. He applied the
drug, from the effects of which she died
soon after.
Martin Bennett, an old and respected
resident of East New York, died of a
broken heart the other night. On the
corresponding day two years ago, his
wife died suddenly at a picnic, and since
that time his mind has not been right.
He visited his wife's grave every morning,
rain or shine, and gave up business
entirely. He leaves over 100,000.
Ar. Y. Tribune.
Josh Billings crossed the plains to
the Rocky Mountains fifteen years before
Fremont did. He is one of the last
of the old line of humorists; vagrants
he calls them, Artemus Ward, Henry
Clapp, George Arnold, Orpheus C. Kerr
and Doesticks. Henry W. Shaw and
Shillaber, to wit Josh Billings and
Mrs. Partington are about the only
ones left. Detroit Post.
Captain William P. Joy, of New
York, master of the American ship St.
Nicholas, was presented with a handsome
tea and coffee service of silver recently
by Collector Robertson, at the New
York Custom House. The silver was a
gift from Queen Victoria, as a slight
recognition of the heroism of Captain
Joy in rescuing from death the Captain
and crew of the British bark Lenox.
N Y. News.
A correspondent, who recently met
Mr. and Mrs. Beecher on their travels,
says of the latter that "she is not a
vinegar cruet nor an acid bottle; neither
is she thin, angular and sour. That's
all a mistake. She is an aged, fleshy
woman, with a kind and benevolent
face, and carries her years with lightness.
She appears in excellent health,
and dresses as a sensible old lady
should, comfortably and plainly. Indianapolis
Journal.
The Jersey State Prison, at Trenton,
has a formidable list of notabilities
among its tenants. Among them are
Baldwin, ex-cashier of the Mechanics'
National BankT of Newark, which he
quite thoroughly wrecked; President
John Halliard,, of the Mechanics' "and
Laborers' Bank of Jersey City; James
A. Heddin, another cashier from
Newark; Garret S. Boyce, cashier from
Jersey City; Henry Marchbank, ex-bank
clerk from Newark; Frederick A.
Palmer, ex-Newark Auditor; Lawrence
Beach, a Jersey City book-keeper; Robert
Cook, Assistant Secretary of a Jersey
City savings bank, and Elijah Shaw,
another Jersey City cashier. N. Y.
Herald.
--"-
"A LITTLE NONSENSE."
A donkey has more brayin's than
sense. N. Y. Journal.
It must be a poor singer who can't
make his "board" from the "timbre"
of his voice. MusieaiS World.
First Little Girl "I've been to
Boston with mamma for over Sunday."
Second Little Girl: "Pooh! that's nothing.
. I had a dress there being cleaned
for over two weeks."" Golden Bays.
"No, sah," excitedly exclaimed a
Southern darkey dominie, dat whitewash
on de sleebs ob my coat nebber
come from de roost ob a chicken house.
Dem marks, sah,. am de badge of my
perfeshun, N. Y. Commercial
Advertiser.
A very nice-girl of Milwaukee
Was alyrays excessively talky.
But wtien she vms wed
Was mum as the dead.
And her husband declared she wa3 balky.
A cruel oldi wretch In Chicago,
Bef his wife's jaw go,
She grot a divorce-,
As a inatterof course,
And showed' h&m how far could tho law go.
N. Y. Life.
What to hrm was love or hoper
What to hirm was joy or care? He
stepped on a plug of mottled soap the
girl had left on the topmost stair, and
his feet flew out like wild, fierce wings,
and he struck each stair with a sound
like a drumy and the girl below with
the scrubbing things laughed like a
fiend ta see him come. Chicago Journal.
"There are five persons in the car
and only four fares in the box!" said
the car-driver, as he opened the door.
"All the passengers looked up and at
each other, and a man who sat reading
a paper slowly turned to his wife and
queried: "Why, dear, didn't you pay
your own fare when we got on? You
are becoming very absent minded."
Detroit Free Press.
A Misunderstanding "How's yer
gal comin' on, Aunt Malviny?" "She's
ober ter San Antonio, and dat ar Gabe
Snodgrass, what's jes' come from dar,
done tole me dat she's got stage
struck." "Is dat so?" lfYes, Air.
Johnsing, it am a fac'." "When am
she gwine ter play?" "Not for a right
smart while yit, I reckon, kase de wheel
ob annuder wehicle break two of her
ribs when de stage struck her." "I
miscomprehended yo,' Aunt Malviny,
at fust. Good ebenin'." Texas
A Massachusetts book agent, who
was wearing a small circular piece ot
court-plaster on his face, removed it
while shaving a few mornings since,
and replappd it when his toilet was
complete. Contrary to his usual experience,
as he went about his business
during the rest of the day he was everywhere
received with smiles, which grew
broader and broader, until at last somebody
laughed in his face. Led by this
to look in the glass, he was somewhat
taken aback to discover that, instead of
the court-plaster, he had affixed to his
face a little round printed label, which
had fallen from the back of a new mantel
clock purchased the day before, and
which bore the appropriate inscriptioni
Warranted solid brass HiXchanasu
rr
i
