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TEE PSALM-BOOK IN THE GAR
RET. BT BENJAMIN r. TATLGB. A garret grows a buman thing With lonely orieutal eyes. To whom confiding finders bring The world iu yesterday's disguise. Ah, richer far than noontide bla* The soft grey silence of the aift As if long years of ended days Had garnered all their twilight* there. The heart can see so clear and far In 6uch a place with such a light God counts His heavens star by star, And rains them down unclouded night. Where rafters 6et their cobwebb'd feet Upon the rugged oaken ledge, I found a flock of singers sweet, Like snow-bound sparrows in a In silk of spider's spinning hid, A long and narrow Paalm-boak lay I wrote a name upon the lid, Then brushed the idle dust away. Ah, dotted tribe with ebon heads That climb the slender fence along! As black as ink, as thick as weeds, Ye little Africans of song! Who wrote upon this page "Forget Me Not V" These cruel leaves of old Have crushed to death a violet— 8ee here its specter's pallid gol®. A penciled whisper during pravef Is that poor dim and girlish word, But ah, I linger longest where II opens of its own accord. These spotted leaves! flow they once basked Beneath the glance of girlhood's eyes, And parted to the gaze unasked, As spread the. wings of butterflies. The book falls open where it will— Broad on the page runs Silver Street! That shining way to Zion's Hill Where base and treble used to meet. I shake the leaves. They part at Mear— Again they strike the good old tune The village church is builded here Th twilight turns to afternoon. Old house of Puritanic wood, Through whose unpainted windows streamed, On seats as primitive and rude As Jacob's pillow when he dreamed, The white and undiluted day! Thy naked aisle no rosea grace That blossomed at the shuttle's I^iji Nor saints distempered bless the puce. Like feudal castles, front to front, In timbered oak of Saxon Thor, To brave the siege and bear the brant Of Bunyan's endless Holy War, The pulpit ard the gallery stand— Between the twain a peaceful space, The prayer and praise 011 either hand, And girls and Gospel face to face. hear the reverend Elder say, Hymn tifty-flrst, long meter, sing!" I hear the Psalm-books' fluttered play Like flocks of sparrows taking wing. Armed with a fork to pitch the tune, I hear the Deacon call Dundee!" And mount as brisk as Bonny Doon His "fa, sol, la," and scent the key. He "trees" the note for Sister Ciray The old Scotch warbling strains begin The base of Bashan leads the way, And all the girls fall sweetly in. How swells the hymn of heavenly love, As rise the tides in Fundy's Bay! Till all the air below, above, Is sweet with song and caraway! A fugue let loose cheers up the place With base and tenor, alto, air The parts strike in with measured grace, And something sweet is everywhere! As if some warbling brood should build Of bits of tunes a singing nest, Each bringing that with which it thrilled And weaving it with all the rest! The congregation rise and stand: Old Hundred's rolling thunder comes In heavy surges, slow and urand, As beats the surf its solemn drums. Now comes the times when China's wail Is blended with the faint perfume Of whispering crape and cloudy veil, That fold within their rustling gloom Some wounded human mourning-dove, And fall around some stricken With nothing left alive to love Below the unregarded sun! And now they sing a star in sight, The blessed Star of Bethlehem And now the air is royal bright With Coronation's diadem. They show me spots of dimpled sod. They say the girls of old are there— Oh, no, they swell the choirs of God The dear old songs are everywhere! —Scritmtr for April. REDEEMED. THB fact is, we were ooth too young to marry. She was eighteen I was barely out of my majority but she was a poor, desolate little orphan sent out in to the cold world to do the best she could for herself as a governess I was madly in love with her, and I was my own master we had no wiser heads to advise us and no more experienced hands to guide us—so we took our own way, as was but natural, and married on my clerkship of three hundred a year. I need scarcely say we were happy. For the first two years indeed it seemed to me as if I had never really lived until now. Our pretty little home at Kilburn was bright and cheerful. Edith was al ways affectionate, alwaysgood-tempercd anu like Annabel Lee seemed to live with no other thought than to love and be loved by •hie." My work sat on me easily and being young people of mod erate tastes we had money enough for all we wanted. There was not a flaw anywhere, and the days were scarelv long enough for the ioy that filled them with sunshine from beginning to end. All this continued for two years, and then my wife became a mother. This was the first break in our manner of life, the first shadow cast over the •brightness of our happy love. It changed the whole order of tilings, and the change told heavily against me. Edith was no ionger my companion as she had been. The baby was delicate, and her health also gave way. She was obliged to go to her own room (juite early in the evening, sometimes at seven o'clock or so, and even when -she was well she was up in the morning with the child, and the even ings hung on me heavy and long. I was no student in those days. 1 was social, and if not inordinately yet undoubtedly fond of amusement hence, silting alone for all these hours alter my solitary dinner —for Edith dined early by the doctor's or ders—was dreary work for me, and I grew daily more fretted by the dullness of my once sunshiny home. I tell the story just as it w« Mt to excuse myself, but to explain. Also, too, the desire for more experi ence natural to my age began to itself felt, and more than once I found myself confessing: "We married too voung." Yet I did not wish for dissipa tion I was not conscious of a reserve of wad oats that I vu longing to mm, I did want a little change from the dead monotony of my spoiled home. I was yearning.for the society of men of my own age and standing, and naturally the boy, though I loved him well enough—for all that I thought him the ncliest and oddest little imp I had ever •een—was not to me what he was to his mother. To her indeed lie was every thing. The mother had superseded the wife, and the husband was nowhere in Comparison with the child. Edith was angry too that I did not, as she phrased it, take to him more," and I was angry that she took to him so much. May be that I was jealous. On looking back I should say that was. Just when Bertie was three months old fellow in our office introduced me to Jack Langhorne. Handsome, well-man •ered, rich, gay, good-tempered, gener ous, Jack was just the man to fascinate a comparatively raw lad. as I still was. He knew everything, being one of the kind who start at seventeen as men and "see life" systematically from that time. There was not an accomplishment in which he was not a proficient not a game he could not play, giving long odds and winning. He was lavish of his money, and a gambler by inbred instinct. He was always staking his fate on chance, and hitherto chance had been his friend. He used often to say that he had been too lucky, and that lie should have to pay for it before he had done. Nevertheless the day of payment gave no sign of dawning, and Jack went on Staking and landing, backing the right color and the winning horse as if he had a private Nostradamus at his elbow, and could read the future as other men could fead the past. 1 dare say many of my readers will laugh at me for the confession, but I had never seen a race until Jack Langhorne took me down to the Derby on his drag. It was a day both of great enjoyment and great excitement to me, for under his auspices I netted fifty pounds and I felt a millionaire. I was wild with pleasure perhaps, too, the champagne counted for something in rny hilarity as I took home to Edith a sixth of my year ly income, made in lewer hours than it took me to earn my paltry diurnial guinea. Visions of fortune, golden and bright, passed before my eyes, and al ready I saw Edith queening it in the ?aultless iark with her high-stepping bays and turn-out. She should have ev erything money could command. What ever else my visions showed me she was always in my thoughts and highest in my hopes. "But when I gave her the money she turned away from me coldly and a min ute after had buried her face in the pil low of the sofa where she was lying and was sobbing. 1 was a good deal sur prised, a little shocked and greatly hurt —I had better use the harsher word and •ay vexed—at this outburst. I did not •ee the good of it and I did not under stand it. Besides it chills a man so painfully to be received with coldness and tears after such a day as 1 had spent! It makes the contrast between life inside and outside the home too sharp, and only gends him further off instead of drawing him nearer. However, tears were too scarce yet for me to disregard or w ith stand them, so I kissed my wife and did my best to soothe her, and by degrees brought her round so far that she left of! crying, and began to kiss the baby as it it was something quite new and she had never kissed it before. Though I was sorry to see her cry this vexed me again. She had not seen me all the day, and she had had the boy. I thought she might have paid a little at tention to the one wjio had been absent, to nut it on no other ground. But when I remonstrated she only answered "1 know, George, you do not care for baby. You never have cared for him, and if it were not for me he might die of neglect." I began to laugh at this. It struck me aa too comical that a wife should reproach her husband for not taking care of the baby for surely if there is such a thing "woman's work" in the world, and they are not meant by nature and the eternal fitness of things to be siddiers and sailors and lawyers and doctors and the Lord knows what besides, that work is to be found in the home and the nursery. But she was angry when I laughed, and raising herself on her elbow drew such a picture of the infamy, ruin, degradation that was to follow on my taking to bad courses, founded on my not caring for baby and my having won fifty pounds at the Derby, that I seemed to be listening to a maniac, not the Edith I had left in the morning and had loved for so long. Perhaps I was too impatient and ought to have remembered that if I found my life dull hers was not too gay I ought to have made allowance for the morbid nervousness and brooding fancies of a woman left alone for the whole day but I was younger then than 1 am now, and the thing ended by our having our first grave quarrel, whereip we were both silly, both unjust, and neither of us would give way The bad blood made between us to night grew worse as time went on and the circle we were in was a vicious one. 1 kept away more and more from home because my wife made it too miserable for me by her coWness, her tears, her complaints, her ill-humor and the more I kept away the more she resented it. She took an almost insane hatred and suspicion of my friends and my actions, and did not scruple to accuse me and them of vices and crimes because I was often late, from no worse cause than playing pool and billiards. Her re proaches first wearied and then hardened me and by degrees a kind of fierce feeling took possession of me—a kind of revenge ful determination hat I would he what she imagined me to be, and give her cause to denounce me as she did. Harmless amusement became amuse ment not SO harmless, pettv little stakes of half-a crown and a shilling grew to gold the glass of beer became the gic.s» of brandy—and more than one: and the f,trill* df*ceii*u« had one more self-direct ed victim on its slippery way. Work wah intolerable to inc. hat I did I did badly, and I shirked all I could. I was often late, 1 as often left too early and my employers were really good and len ient. As "it was, however, I wearied out their patience, and they remonstrated with me firmly but kindly. This sobered me for a moment but I had gone too far to retreat until I came out at the other side 1 must go on. The fortune which had so long be friended Jack Langhorne deserted him now, and with his fortune his n rve. Where he had staked with judgment he now backed wildly, recklessly, and the more he lost the more recklessly he staked. His fortune seemed to influence mine. Hitherto I had been immensely successful now the luck ran dead against me, and I lost mere than I could aflord, and soon more than 1 could pay, and so came face to face with ruin. During all this time the estrangement between £«Utta sad mysetf gum wider. She look the wrong method with me, and being a woman she kept to it. She thought to dragoon me back to the quiet of my former life, and made my private actions personal to herself seek ing to fosce me into rendering an account of all my doings, and of every item of ex penditure, then takinp it as an affront when 1 refused to answer questions. But now there was no hope for it. 1 must perforce confess. With that writ out against me it was useless to attempt con cealment, and if marriage is not feminine sumriority yet it is partnership. You may be sure it was a bitter mo ment for me when I Lad to tell my wife that all her worst anticipations were realized that she had been right throughout and 1 wrong, and that the destruction she had prophesied had over taken us. In her temper of so many months now it was doubly hard. But it wems that I knew as little of women as she of men, and had miscalculated the depth of her goodness underneath all her wrong-lieadedness, just as she had miscalculated my power of will and truth of love when fairly pulled up. She heard me out to the end without making a sign. There was no interrup tion, no angry expression, no scornful look. I saw the hand with which she held the child tighten round his body, the one playing with his curls tremble. But that was all. When 1 had finished she looked up and said quietly: "It is better to know the worst, George, for then we can meet it. Now that 1 know the worst I know what to do." And you do not reproach me, Edith?" I asked. She rose from her seat and came over to me. Her eyes were full of tears, her lips were quivering, and yet there was more love, mere softness in her face through its sorrow than there had been for all these long, bad, dreary months, passing now into years. She slid the boy from her arms and pressed them round my neck. Why should I reproach youi" she said. Is not your burden heavy enough without that* While 1 thought I could help to keep you straight I tried—if clumsily and to no good, yet loyally. Now I know that all is over 1 have only to try and help you both by my1 work and my love." Something seemed to choke me while she spoke. I could have been hard enough if she had been angry, hut this sudden return to the old love—this un expected magnanimity—was too much for me. Still, I am thankful to say 1 did not break down. 1 was man enough for that. Will you trust me, Edith*" said I, in a tone so rough and husky I scarcely recognized it as my own. Love me as you used, be to me what you were, and 1 swear you shall never have cause to re proach me again. I am young, I can work, I can be resolute. I have bought my experience of life and I find the taste too bitter in my mouth. A man may be a man and yet not be ashamed to think of his wife us well as of his pleasures, and I will think of you now." She sighed and then she smiled. You come back to what you left," she said in a tender, caressing kind of way that seemed as if it buried now for ever all that had gone wrong between us. Of course the struggle was a tremen dous one. I lost my clerkship and every sixpence 1 possessed, both in goods and money. My wife had to give lessons and I had to accept anything that would keep us from starvation but we pulled through in time, and the suffering we had encountered was perhaps a good thing in the end. It taught us to value each other in a deeper and truer manner than ewr before: and it gave us a friend. For dear old Jack's luck turned with his uncle's death, and he used his influence to get me a situation that began at !i00 a year, and has steps upward in the future. Things have gone well with me since then. Edith's health has come back, and my boy is at the head of his class. I have traveled a good deal, and lately I have taken up chemistry as a study. Edith declares I will blow the house up some day, but I have not done so yet, and I think 1 am on the track of a discovery that will do a great deal of good—make me a name, and bring in a lot of money. 1 find that as one grows older work is a more satisfying thing than pleasure, and knowledge troes further than excitement: and Edith finds that a w ife's influence is greatest when least visibly exerted, and thnt when a woman abandons the persuasion of love for authoritative command, and tender ness for ill temper, she loses her power and only deepens the unhappiness she aims at preventing. Suicide of a Snake. Your notice, in the Obtener, of the sui cide of a scorpion has reminded me of a similar act of a serpent called a copper head, of which I was a witness a number of years since. Thi.s reptile is said to be allied both to the rattlesnake and the venomous adder though from its color, and the flattening of its head when irri tated, its resemblance to the cobra de cope! la of India is very striking. Meeting with one of these in the fields one day, and wishing for a better ac quaintance, an experiment was at once oommenced with it. As soon as it found escape impossible it turned and came forward to fight. With its head and neck flattened, and assuming a brownish yellow color, and considerably elevated, showing a mouthful of sharp teeth, and eyes sparkling and fiery, and with a kind of stifled hissing, it sprang toward its enemy with surprising quickness and energy. When thrown back it would with unabated courage renew the con flict until, in one of its fierce passes, it accidentally caught a fang in its own body, and giving up the fight it turned upon its back, and coiling in'o a small kuot took its body into its mouth, and as it uncoiled itself drew the most of its length through it, leaving the print of its teeth deep in the flesh all along its sides for more than three-fourths of its entire length. So virulent was the poison that, although the act was performed very quickly, yet before it was fairly accom plished death had put an end to its sufferings, and with its tail still in its mouth it became stiff and cold. As some people think that most natu ral phenomena contain a useful lesson, it would be interesting to know the one contained in this act.—(Jor. N. Y, Ob terver. —Cure for a Cold.—A hot lemonade is one of the best remedies In the world for a cold It acts promptly and effect ively and has no unpleasant after eflects. One lemon properly squeezed, cut in slice* put with sugar, and cover with a half pint of boiling water. Drink just before i£oing to bed and do not expose yourself on th«5 following day. This remedy will ward off an attack of the iMitMi wMui promptly.— A »w Use for Clothes-Pins—A Hint to Aiegleeted House wives. Ladies who have husbands who are neglectful in supplying tliem with kin dlings should carefully study the expe rience of a Division street'sister. Ail her married life she has had an un broken struggle with her husband to keep herself supplied with wood, and the greater part of the time she has been obliged to depend upon her ow n deftness with the ax. and anyone who has seen a woman handle an ax knows what a dreadful thing it is. Two months ago she beirged of him not to go awav with out leaving her some kindlings, tie said he wouldn't. But he finally did. Then she hit upon a plan. She had four dozen clothes pins. She took one dozen of them for starting the fire, and found they worked admit ably. The next day she used another dozen, and so she contin ued until the four dozen were gone. Then she went to the store- and purchased another four dozen—having theui "put in the bill." When they were gone she repeated the errand. Siie said no more to him about kindlings. For ten years she had kept lip the battle*, anil now she was tired and sick at heart. He could go his own way, and she would go hers— patiently,uncomplainingly—until the end would come. On Monday he signified at the store that he would like to settle his account. The bill was made out and handed him. He glanced down the items. As he ad vanced along the column his face began to work. First his eyes sl«w ly enlarged, then his mou*h gradually opened, caused by the drooping of his lower jaw and wrinkles formed on his forehead. One third down the column he formed his lips as if to whistle. Pour lines below he did whistle. Half way down he said "Gra cious!" A little further oft kecaftd "Thunder!" Four more lines were taken in, tad he spoke again: By the Jumping Jupiter!" Then he read on, smiting his thigh vig orously and given vent to various ex pressions (tf the liveliest nature. Finally he threw the bill dow n. "I say, Benson, look here this bill can't be mine you've got me mixed up with some lauudry." That 's your bill, sir," arid the grocer, -iniling pleasantly. "I tell you it can't be," persisted the Division street man, beginning to look scared. "Why, here's fifty-five dozen clothes pins in a two months^ bill. What on earth do you take me for—a four-story laundry*" But it is your bill. Your wife can explain it to you. She ordered the mns." My wifiB," gasped the Unfortunate man. "Yes, sir." The debtor clutched the blTl, jammed it into his pocket and hurried straight home. He bolted into the house without any abatement of speed and, flinging the paper on the table before his wife, Knocked his hat on the back of his head, and said: Martha Ann Johnson, what does this mean! There are fifty-live dozen clothes pins in Bt nson's bill for the past two months and he says you ordered every blessed one of them.' "And so I did," said she, demurely. "What! Fifty five dozen clothes pins in two months!'' and he shot down into a chair as if a freight car had fallen a top of him. Fifty five dozen clothes pins in two months!'' he howled. Will a Just heaven stand that?" "I tell you, you needn't stare at me that way. Reuben Wheeler Johnson, nor go to calling onto heaven with your im piousness. I ordered them clothes-pins myself, and I have burnt every one of 'em in that there stove, just because you were too all-fired lazy to get a stick of wood. And I declare, before I'll be lath ered jawing and fighting to get you to cut wood, I'll burn up every clothes pin in the land and you shall pay for them, if you have to sell the shirt un your back to do it. So now!" Awl Mrs. Johnson, with a face like scarlet snatched up the broom and went to sweeping the carpet as if every flake of dust was a red hot coal, while the un happy Mr. Johnson hastened to the store and paid the bill. And before dark that night he had a#half-cord of wood sawed, split and piled up ready for use. —Danbury Newu. A Solemn Sketch. "I*** taken your paper for twenty-six years," he commenced as he reached the head of the stairs, tnd now 1 want a putt." He was n very tall, slender man, had a face which hadn't smiled since IH42, and his neck was embraced by a white cravat and his hands were thrust into black gloves. I've got a new hearse, a new stock of coffins and I want a local notice," he con tinued, as he sat down and sighed, as if ready to screw a coffin lid down. My dear sir," replied the man in the corner, I've met you at a great many funerals and your general bearing has created a favorable impression. You sigh with the sighers, grieve with the grievers, and on extra occasions you can shed tears of sorrow, even though you know that you can't get 10 per cent, of your bill under six months." Yes." sighed the undertaker, instinct ively measuring the length of the table with his eye and wondering to himself why editors table* weren't covcred with crape, w ith rows of coffln-nails around the edges Death is a very solemn thing," con tinued the man in the corner, but still it is an occasion when one can appreci ate a neat thing. I've seen you rub your kn uc kles against door-posts and never change countenance I've seen you listen to eulogies on men who owed you for twenty years before their death, and you looked even more solemn than the be reaved widow I've seen you back your hearse up to a door in such an easy, quiet way that it robbed death of half its ter rors. All this have I seen and appreci ated, but I couldn't write a puff for you." Why not?" he demanded. For many reasons. Now you have a new hearse. Could I go OD and say: •Mr. Sackcloth, the genial undertaker, Ins just received a fine new hearse, and we hope that our citizens will endeavor to bestow upon it the patronage, such en I terprise deserves. It rides easily, is handsomely finished, and those who try it once will want no other,' Could I say I that?" No, not very well." "Of course I couldn't. To* Mt Call a grocer or dry goods man a 'genial friend' and it's all riitht, but you aren't genial—Vou can't be. It's your business i to be solemn. If you could be even more solemn than you are it would be money to £UUi nodkt'L" That's so," he said, sighing heavily. If it was an omnibus, or a coal cart, or a wheelbarrow, I could go on and write a chapter on every separate spoke, but it isn't, you see." He leaned back and sighed again. As to your coffins, they are doubtless niee coffins, and your prices are probably reasonable, but could I go on and say: Mr. Sackcloth, the undertaker, has just received his new styles in spring coflins, all sizes, aud is now prepared to see as many of his old customers as want some thing handsome and durable at a moder ate price.' Could 1 say that?" Another sigh. 1 couldn't say that you were holding a clearing-out sale in order to get ready for the spring trade, or that, for the sake of increasing your patronage, you had decided to present each customer with a chromo. I couldn't say that you were repairing and reputing, and" had the most attractive coffin shop in Detroit. It wou'dn't do to hope that people would patronize you, or to say that all orders sent in by mail would be promptly filled, and that your motto was 'Quick sales and small profits!"' He put on the look of a tombstone and made no reply. You see. if you had stoves to sell, or dealt in mackerel, or sold fishing tackle, everything would be lovely. You are an undertaker—Mlemn, sedate, mournful. You revel in crape, and you never pass a black walnut door without thinking how much good coffin lumber was recklessly wasted. The tolling bell is music to yoii and the City-Hall flag at half-mast is fat on your ribs. We'd like to oblige you, but ou see how it is." Yes, I see," he sighed, and he formed in procession and moved down stairs, looking around now and then to see if the hearse was just thirty-four feet be hind the officiating clergyman's carriage. —Detroit Pre# Pirn*. German Htorti* IT is a proverb in Germany that in Russia you only see the cold, whereas in Germany you feel it. In palaces, it is true, the system of warming by Russian flues is much adopted, so that an equal temperature prevails in the halls, galler ies and staircases, but such arrange ments cannot be carried out in home life." Fuel is immensely expensive in Germany and is becoming more so with every year. Formerly in good houses nothing hut wood was burned, but for this the old-fashioned lierhurr Kathflvfen was necessary and the hardest beech wood indispensable. This kind of stove resembles a huge monument and is built (of a great thickness) of a sort of con crete, composed of clay and gypsum, the outside glazed with white porcelain the interior is so contrived tnat the heat passes slowly through endless circum volutory valves, by degrees warming the whole mass. The interior of the stove, preparatory to heating, is well piled up witli wood, a strong draught is created and when the logs are reduced to ashes a handle is turned In the wall of the stove, a little door is drawn over the grating at its mouth, and the draught be ing thus cut off the heated air remains imprisoned in the ofm, which will keep warm for many hours, and to the remotest corner of the room an equalized heat will result. The drawback to this ar rsngemcnt lies in the fact that if the es cape valves be closed too soon the tunics of charcoal will pass into the room, aud in a sleeping apartment the danger of as phyxiation is great During very cold weather such casualties are by no means uncommon, especially among the lower orders, who, unwilling to waste any of the heat, are sometimes tempted to close the escape-valves too soon, and. retiring to rest early, reap the consequences of their fatal economy. But the cast-iron stove frequently replaces in modern houses our solid old Iriend the lierlirier ttfen. These cast-iron stoves are un healthy, hideous and unpleasant, while their Ineffectual fires" alternately scorch and choke you. They produce a furnace like heat, affecting taste, smell and sight, the unpleasant consequcnc.es of which are but very slightly counter acted by the vessel of water which you are advised to keep constantly boiling on the hottest part of the iron. When the water boils, the steam which passes into the room slightly relieves one from the distressing sensations produced by the dry heat but the moment the fire goes out the iron becomes cold, and the temperature at once sinks to so many degrees beiow as it was half an hour ago above zero. Wood can not be burned in these stoves, as it would flare away too quickly, without, as in the case of the /Irrliner (/fen, leav ing any genial warmth behind so coal or peat, or a mixture of both, is employed, producing results disastrous to cleanli ness. The thick brown smoke pufl's out into the room, and the muslin curtains look grimy as soon as out up. Some of my old-fashioned friends used to declare that the expense of washing counter balanced the cheapest kind of fuel, and they stuck to their concrete stoves with conservative affection. In soir.e modern houses the Berlin stove will have an opening like an English fire-place, but this is confessedly a luxury, a concession to the eye, for the real business is done by the useful concrete at the back. It is almost superfluous to observe how much work is saved to servants by this institu tion stoves. No bright grates, no polished steel fenders and fire irons and ormulu no black-lcai mysteries, no rotten stone and emery paper and chamois leather. The wood is shoved In and piled up, a light is set to it, the flames iro roaring upward, the handle is presently turned, and the room will keep warm lor the next eight or tea hours.— Berlin Letter. Spring SuitlW lxroHTKD costumes for spring are made up partly of silk and partly of wool goods of light quality, either plain, plaid, or striped The silk forms the lower skirt and sleeves the basque and oversklrt or apron are of wool. The two fabrics in a suit are usually of kindred shades of one color, though quiet con irast s, such as irray with brown or violet, will be much worn. The fashion of making French suits is similar to that in vogue at present. The basque and apron will prevail, yet the round overskirt and the polonaise will not be wholly abandoned. The close cuirass, smoothly fitted and plainly trimmed, remains the popular basque, yet Miine new basques have elaborate irimmings in the way of horizontal folds put on in vest shape in front, and gradu ated to a point behind The neck is cut very high, and fully trimmed shoulder seants are very short sleeves are close coat shaj»e, and are often of different material froin that of the basque con cave cutis ao i clusters of folds or else shirred bands trim t!.e wrists a belt of some kind is added to most basques. New uprons are longer aiul more cling ing than those worn at present. They extend within an inch or two of the bot. torn of the front breadth of the dresst skirt and in some cases are without seams, being made of but one breadth of double-width goods, yet even these nar-! row aprons are drawn back to meet on the tournure, where a tastefully-drapedi sash gives the slight drapery now con sidered necessary for the back. There are also aprons that arc square on one1 side and rounded on the other, while another style is pointed low on one side in the Grecian fashion. Lower skirts are not altered in shape and the first importations show com mendable simplicity in their trimmings. A bias-gathered flounce, headed and edged with narrow side pleating sewed on as a ruffle—that is, with a rough seam on the under side—is the trimming of some of the handsomest skirts. The side pleating only is used on the apron and basque. The novelty in the favorite shirring is to shirr the flounce in length wise rows, making puffs downward inj stead of around the skirt. A French costume of gray camel's-hair over chestnut brown silk will be stylish in the first spring days for street, travel ing, etc. The brown silk skirt has a ten inch bias-gathered flounce edged and headed with knife pleating two inches and a half deep. The long slender apron of gray camel's hair consists of but one wide width, it is edged with hrowu silk pleating and drawn up on the tournure, where a sash of brown silk doubled is knotted and draped capriciously, instead of being set stiffly in a bow or loops. The simple basque of*gray wool is piped with brown silk, and has silk sleeves it is en tirely without plcatings or pockets,tias a high standing collar and medium-sized buttons of brown polished wood. Another spring suit has a basque and apron of delicate gray shaded plaid wool, with sleeves and lower skirt of plain gray wool. The fashion is the same as that Just described, and the sash, bows, and pipings are of violet gros grain. To bo worn with ibis in an English walking hat of gray chip, with scarf and feathers of violet.—Harper'* POM*. The Effect of Fop on Sonnd. A RAtt.WAY employe writes to the Journal of the Hoeietu of .Irf# on this sub ject He says: "With reference to my remarks in my communication, that traips cannot be heard so distinctly in foggy as in clear weather,' I do not think it is geneially known (although a well known fact among railway men) that aft er a slight shower of rain, or on a dewy or frosty morning, trains cannot be heard at so great a distance as they can on a dry, clear day, because at such times the metals are what is termed greasy, and, as ft makes the metals more greasy than n,ln or dew, 1 think the above will be sufficient to prove that I am correct in what 1 stated, for there is as much difference in the noise that a train makes on a dry day and what is termed a greasy one as there would be in a man running or sliding over a pond covered with ice—the running would represent the dry day and the sliding the greasy one. Now, sir, independent of the above causes, I do not believe that sounds are more audible in foggy than in clear weather, for the following reasons: About two years ago 1 was stationed at the mouth of a tunnel to orotect trains in consequence of a large stream of water having forced itself through the wall at a distance of about a quarter of a mile from the mouth of the tunnel. I could distinctly bear the water run ning. Also, I could hear the men at work trying to prevent it but one morn ing a dense fog came over, and I could neither hear the running of the water nor the men at work, so 1 came to the conclusion that the water had ceased, and when the man came out of the tun nel who had to inform me as to the state of the roads 1 remarked to him that I supposed the water had stopped, but, to my surprise, he said it was running faster if anything! I called his attention to the fact that I could not hear it, and we could neither of us make out the cause, but when the fog cleared away we could hear the noise as distinctly asm-fore, but it was not until the above occurred three or four times that we came to the con clusion that it was owing to the mouth of the tunnel being blocked up with fog that we could not hear the water run ning. Then, again, sir, I don't know whether you have noticed it or not, but fog i« very deceptive, for I have heard old railway men say that they have heard a train coming when it had been foggy, but for the life of them they could not tell whether it was an up or down train!" —One of the earliest processes in the preparation of hides for tanning Is the removal of the hair. This is sometimes •fleeted by inducing a slight putrefac tion, which loosens the epidermis and renders the hairs easily detachable. But in England and America the method usually adopted is to jdace the hales in a large vat or pit containing milk of lime, in which they arc frequently moved so as to allow the lime to act equally on every part. After from sixteen to twenty days the hair is easily removed by a blunt scraper. In Oermany, Austria and Belgium, however, the trade is reported to have all but abandoned the old method of unhairing in favor of one in which sulphide of sodium is the depilatory agent the sulphide of sodium is a crystalline form being now specially manufactured for the purpose in Oer many The process is modified in vari ous ways to meet the peculiarities of the metal operated upon. Sometimes, where it is necessary that the hair should be re moved as quickly as possible, as in the case of sole leather, the hides are painted with a paste consisting of one part of crystallized sulohi'le of sodium and three parts of lime. The bides are covered with damp matting to prevent the drying of the paste, and in fifteen or twenty hours the process is complete and the hides can be unhaired. In other cases the skins are steeped in a solution of sul phide of sodium—one pound to one hun dred quarts—when the time required is two or three days. Where the hides are to be unhaired by h»nd it is necessary that they should be first well ringed with water, and the men employed in the lay ing on the paste are usually provided with india rubber gloves, on account of its corrosive properties. —Coal oil is a sure cure for chilblain* and frosted feet, and a?»o for corns. Tin only ques ion is to keep the affected parts mmtant'y saturated. For chapped hauls use glyc rinc. Ten uttuW will last a whole season. —Smart boy that Pcvr-n If'fit ofitrr fn Maine. His name is Frank Foster he has attended school every day since De cember, and meanwhile bus sawed w»d f'ass iled ten «ords of fctovjtwood besides, bira round.