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Merry, though the moon shines pal# And the wind tossed branches waiL Purest crystals float and fall. Thero they sparkle, .v>\ Here they darkle, On the pine and lonely wall. Merry, though the stream is still ’Neath the cold and trackless hill. There the realms of Hesper glow. Twilight lingers. Shining lingers Gild the sleeping fields of snow. ^Genesee Richardson in Woman's Home Com panion. THE ABBE’S BOB. Abbe Sauteu was the cure of a sleepy little village at the extreme end of Prov ence—the Provence of the olden time, when doubts had not yet crept in to cor rupt the simple faith of the peasants. The old priest lived happily ilmong his parishioners, kindly souls all of them, and so obedient to the commandments of God and our holy mother church that their lives were a real benediction for their spiritual father. The good man had no need to touch them up every now and then with a rousing sermon, nor did he ask the aid of others more eloquent than himself to convert his flock. They were born, lived and died in the fold, and their pastor discharged liis simple priestly duties and led in anticipation the life of the blessed. The abbe adored nature, and every day you could have seen him strolling among the fields, reading his breviary, while from time to time he glanced at the gambols of Oremus, his little dog. They were as inseparable as St Roch and his famous bowwow. Oremus en joyed these strolls as much as his mas ter, hut in a different fashion. The priest’s pleasure was purely contempla tive, that of the doggie active. Oremus firmly believed that God gave ' four legs to little dogs so that they could be twice as alert as their masters, who, poor creatures, had but two. So lie raced ovei; the fields, sometimes be hind, sometimes ahead of the cure, jumping, making a corkscrew of his tail, snapping at the birds and giving himself up to all the pranks befitting the well bred dog of a priest. Superfluous to add that Oremus un derstood absolutely all that his master said to him and that he could do ev erything but speak. As for tricks, our Oremus could have given points to the whole canine world. He danced on his hind legs and shook hands like a Chris tian, and his great feat was to refuse the most delicious chop, the juiciest morsel, if offered with the left hand. You may well believe that this vic tory over the canine flesh was not gain ed without effort. The abbe and bis dog had given much time and patience to the perfecting of this triumph, and evenings after the cure had dined alone the little dog was put through his paces, always ending the performance with the famous “chop act.” Then the abbe, with tears in his eyes, would ask him self if the good God could have the heart to refuse a scrap of paradise to such a creature. Let- us hasten to add that the worthy priest would have died before giving voice to such a seutimeut —he, a son of the church. But nothing is perfect iu this world, and one day the sacred calm of Abiho was turned into confusion. Listen, and you will leam how. A young conscript, who had been absent seven years and who was supposed by the villagers to have been killed in the war, reappeared one fine morning and immediately took up his old life of farming. So far so good. But what a scandal arose, my friends, when it was known that Le Faiard absented himself from mass on Sunday, swore like a pirate at every word, and, more than all, ate meat on Friday! Abbe fcanteu almost died of mortifica tion. Night and day be racked bis brain to find some means of bringing the apos tate back to tbe faith of bis childhood. As if by accident M. le Core often strolled past the field where Le Faiard was working. Almost always he stop ped to gossip with his black sheep, and very often the conversation turned on the all absorbing question. Le Faiard, for his part, was only too ready to argue the point. He was a pigheaded fellow, who liked to hear himself talk, and fre quently it happened that our good abbo —who was by no means a well of learn ing—found himself floored by the argu ments which his opponent had picked up in his military life and which he vet-led off with a parrGtlike volubility. One day when Le Faiard had reduced Lis adversary to silence, he asked, as a finishing stroke: “Anyway, father, do you take me for a saint?” “Alas, far :rom it, my son.” “The devil fly away with me, then, if you don't demand more of me than a saint or even an apostle is capable of.” “Heaven forbid!” ejaculated the priest, falling innocently into the snare. “Well, then, father, ” said Le Faiard, ■with a sly grin, “did St Thomas be lieve on the faith of others? Didn’t he require a miracle, and, trone-de-Dieu, what a miracle! Who can blame me for following St. Thomas’ example— only I ask less than his saintship. Show me the least little miracle, I don’t care how small, and I’ll go to confession ■with all my heart. ” Then seeing that the priest was dum founded, he added: “Morbleu, father, won't you show me one? That ought not to feaze a friend of God’s. ” Then he walked away, in high glee, at the effect produced by his words. “Work a miracle, ” said the priest to himself. “Impossible! And yet if God would help me”— In truth God did help him, and one day in mid-Lent Father Sauteu left the house, escorted by his dog. All the way to Le Faiard’s field he chuckled softly “to himself. “A miracle, indeed. You must have a miracle, must you, you rogue? Ore mus, little villain, leave those birds alone. You have other things to da A miracle! Yes, my fine fellow, you are going to have your miracle, and I'm go ing to have your soul!” It was Friday. Le Faiard has just killed his pig, and would probably have a sausage for dinner. The priest soon reached his destina tion. “Good day, Le Faiard,” said he, in a fatherly tone. “Good day. father,” replied the dis ciple of Voltaire. j With that they fell into a chat, inter rupted from time to time by the yelps of Oremus, and punctured, so to speak, by the handfuls of seed that the young ' farmer scattered right and left as he walked along. Dinner hour. The two men seated themselves on a little hillock, and Le | Faiard pulled a sausage from his pocket, j a superb sausage, red as a tomato, and with an odor to have made a saint’s mouth water. “Holy Virgin, Le Faiard. what a sin! On a Friday, in Lent too. Don’t eat it, my son. ’ ’ “Not eat it! That’s good. The idea! I would eat it on Good Friday if I had it. Besides, haven’t I seen with my own eyes bishops and archbishops, too, for that matter, in India, who always ate meat whether it was good or bad Fri day. ’ ’ “Your joking is ill timed. God is good, but he will not always have pa tience with you. Some day he will open your eyes by a miracle, but who can say if then the gate of mercy may not be closed for you. ” “Father, miracles are always in sea son, but unfortunately the time for them has gone by. As for me, death of my life, I wouldn’t ask better than to see what you threaten me with. Mean while the sausage claims my attention —and”— And the rascal took a great mouthful of his dinner. Oremus had not lifted his eyes from the sausage since its appearance on the scene. Every time Le Faiard took a bite the poor bowwow licked his chops and wagged his tail, which distinctly said in dog language: un, wnai au eiegant sausage j flow I should like some!” ‘‘Watch my dog, you mocker,” said the abbe, “See how he is devouring the sausage with his eyes. Well, when I say, ‘It is Friday, Oremus, ’ he will not touch the piece that I am going to offer him. And he is only a dog. ” Le Faiard was convulsed with laugh ter. “Oh, father, that’s too much! All the same, though, I would like to see your miracle—it would take me to mass— yes, and vespers too. ” Taking a delicious morsel 6f the sau sage, the abhe called, “Oremus!” Oremus came like a streak. “It is Friday. Oremus,” went on the abbe, “but just see what I have for you, ” and he offered the tempting bit, which he held, be it understood, in his left hand. Imagine, if you can, the astonishment of Le Faiard when he saw Oremus halt suddenly in front- of his master, head lowered, tail between his legs and with the air of an actor who had forgotten his lines. “Good doggie, Oremus, cat it!” Sure of his success, the priest put the sausage under the dog's nose. .Not a movement! Oremus’ eyes were good. He saw that the sausage staid in the left hand, and after a few minutes he turned tail and retreated to the shade of a bush close by, where he sadly flung himself down and tried to forget his dis appointment in a little nap. During this scene Le Faiard had been petrified. With open mouth he watch ed the priest and his dog as a criminal watches his judge. When Oremus final ly beat a retreat,, Le Faiard roused him self aud ejected the mouthful already half masticated. “Father,” he cried, “I have seen enough and too much. I am the most miserable sinner on earth, and it has taken a dog to convince me of it. ” The following Sunday Le Faiard went to mass and vespers, and ever since that memorable day it is he who lights the candles and rings the bells in Abi ho, where the holy peace of God reigns now as formerly.—“L’Echo de la Se maiue. ’ ’ “See a Pin and Pick It Up." It may be before lung that our pins will have to be clipped in carbolic acid before being put on our bureaus. For pins have been proved to be a prolific source of danger in spreading conta gious diseases. All kinds of germs, it is said, can be collected under the heads, and nurses who indulge the feminine habit of holding pins in their mouths lay themselves open to serious attack. The doctors who have warned the pub lic say that many of the so called new pins are not new at all. but have been picked up in the streets and laid side by side with the others. The idea is not an altogether pleasant one, and is, more over, one likely to increase the uneasi ness of the overfastidious. There are some women now who are so afraid of germs that they wash all their gold and silver pieces before han dling them and who never allow a bank bill to go into their purses until it has been wrapped in some kind of disinfect ing paper. They even require the shop girls who hand them their change to wrap in paper first. What is to be done, if all this is so, with the popular super stitions about picking up all the pins that one sees and never passing a penny in the street?—Harper’s Bazar. The Mymtery of Mysteries Providence moves in a mysterious way, but those who make a specialty of j explaining these mysteries have never been able to account for the regularity with which twins and triplets come to the home of the man who earns a salary of $8 per week.—Washington Post Plans and Estimates. Inquiring Son—Pop, is an architect an artist? Pop (who has just had a new house built)—I guess so. They say artists are perfect children about money matters, —Hew York Weekly. SPEAKING THE SHIPS. Untraveled dweller by the haven side, I saw the great ships come, sojourn a day, Then set their eager sails, their anchor weigh And give themselves to rocking wind and tide. I spake them not, nor they to me replied Of where their void and lonely journey lay. Now, since my lips have tasted midsea spray, In common speech I hall those wanderers wide. To this, “Proud Scotia gave thy ribs to thee!" To this, “Thy masts have known the Apen nines!" Or, “Tagus empties where thy frame was planned!" Or, “Say, thou gallant one, if true it be, Thou hither camsfc with hoard of Levant wines And dulcet fruits from many a sun loved landl" —Edith M. Thomas in Century. A FRIENDLY RUSE. Mr. Garraway stood up as young Mrs. Bradshaw rose from her seat at the dinuer table. It had been rather a quiet dinner, and he had had to do nearly all the talking. Bradshaw open ed the door, aud Mr. Garraway noticed that each avoided looking at the other. .Ernest Bradshaw closed the door and came back to the table. He cracked a walnut, and on opening it- threw it into the fire. “Bad?” said Mr. Garraway. He was starting a cigar and he had refilled his glass. He was perfectly at home with the Bradshaws. “Yes,” said young Mr. Bradshaw violently. “Of course it’s bad. Worst of it is that you never know until you try.” Mr. Garraway owed his success as a solicitor mainly to knowing exactly when not to do the wrong thing. Young Bradshaw lighted a cigar and after a few puffs let it go out. Then he stood up with his back to the fire—it was his tire—and looked at Garraway. “I want to ask you something, Garra way. Do you ever have people coming to you to draw up deeds of separation?” “Oh, yes; pretty often.” “Well, would you mind being of some use to me—and to Ellen?” Why, certainly. 1 ve known you both—Mrs. Bradshaw especially—for a long time. But you two don’t want to be separated? Why, man alive, you haven’t been married a year!” “Garraway, look here. We have had a row, a dispute, or whatever you like to call it. ” “ What I should call it, ” said Garra way, rising and speaking with some as cerbity, “would be a little disagreement between two excellent young people who ought to know better. ’ ’ “Nevertheless, my dear Garraway”— j the young husband’s lips quivered— “nevertheless we have agreed to part.” On the piano in the drawingroom up ' stairs a few chords were struck and ! the clear voice of Mrs. Bradshaw rang ! out. Garraway, getting on in the thir- j ties, and sober man of law, found the hand that held iiis cigar shaking for a j moment. “You see,” said Bradshaw;“perfect ly jolly over it.” There was a sudden stop and a crash on the piano, as though the player could keep it up no longer. “Look here, Bradshaw”—Mr. Garra way passed his hand carefully over his smooth, spare hair—“look here. Call at my place at 11 tomorrow morning, and I’ll do what is wanted. ” “Thank you, Garraway.” " Shall we go up stairs? I must ar range with her. ’ ’ The demure, precise little clock on the mantelpiece in Mr. Garraway’s chambers struck 11 o’clock. A small boy entered with a card. “Thank you, Judd. Show the lady in, Mr. Gibson,” Mr. Gibson withdrew his work to the outer office, stepping aside at the door to permit a slim, girlish figure to enter. "How do you do, Mr. Garraway? I’m not late, am I? I did not know the place, and I had a little difficulty. I presume you are aware of the nature of my er rand?” said the visitor. “We often have little difficulties in the law, Mrs. Bradshaw. If everything worked smoothly, we would starve. I had no chance of speaking to you last night,” said Mr. Garraway, “excepting to ask you to call, but I had a brief conversation with Bradshaw, and he assured me that you had quite made up your mind about the matter. ’ ’ “He is, in this particular instance, quito right. ” She put her lips together and looked as determined as she could. “And so I am to draw up the deed of separation?” lx you please. “It’s rather rough on rue,” went ou Hr. Garraway, with an effort at humor. “Why, it seems only yesterday that I was his host man, and you and he went away to Neuehatel, and we cheered you as you left Victoria station. Do you re member?' ’ “Would you mind telling me, please, when the document can be drawn?” “And do you remember your first din ner after your return, and how jolly wo all were? Why, you were as comforta ble as anything until a week or so ago —weren’t you?” “What I propose to do,” said the stem young lady, with just the suspi cion of a catch in her voice, “is to go abroad with my aunt for a year or two and leave the house just as it stands for Ernest to live in. He can get a house keeper, you see, and”— “By Jove!” cried Mr. Garraway. “That’s not a bad idea*!” "You think—you think it will work all right, Mr. Garraway?” “Oh, I think so! I’ll tell you why. Of course you want Ernest to be com fortable, don’t you?” There was a softening of her eyes. “Oh, yes! It is only our one great quarrel of last week that is parting us and”— ’ “I know; I know. Now, look here, Mrs. Bradshaw. I wouldn’t take so much trouble if I were only your law yer, but I'm your friend as well, am I not?” “Dear Mr. Garraway, we two have llways been good friends.” "Well, will you allow me, then, as yi Md friend, to give yon a little ad vice? I should advise yon to make up fjiis difference of opinion with Ernest. I’m told—of course I’m only a bachelor —but I'm told that all young couples !uvw their quarrels to begin with, and the,1- do say—here again I speak, of course, as a mere bachelor—that, tho inaling up is always tho most delight ful part of it. ” “.Mr. Garraway. I thought you would urgie in that way, and it is very good nf vou, but my mind was made up bo ■ fore I came here, and nothing that you can say will alter it. A woman must j judfe for herself in these matters.” ■“Quite so. I think that to a certain extent you are right, and if it is use i less to say anything after your present i resolution, why”— ‘‘You may be sure of that,” said youig Mrs. Bradshaw confidently. “Er nest must put up with the consequences. Ant you will see to the drawing up of the deed?” “It shall be put in hand at once.” “1 should like to leave London this | j day week if possible. ’ ’ “I dare say.” said Mr. Garraway, I with great amiability, "that that can j bo managed. ’ ’ ‘ There is only the question of a . housekeeper. Somebody must be there to ook after the servants.” “It is there I think I can be of some asastance to Ernest” Mr. Garraway spoke with genial assurance. “It so happens that a client of mine is looking for precisely a situation of this kind. ” “How extremely fortunate!” ‘She is a good manager, she’s a wid ow, and she has had charge of a house sinilar to yours. ” ‘That’s capital. As Isay, I shouldn’t life the house to go to rack and ruin. \Ylen could this old lady come, do you thfak?” “This—who?” ‘This old lady. The widow. When coild she come?” “Oh, but”—Mr. Garraway smiled pleasantly— ‘you are laboring under a slijht mistake, Mrs. Bradshaw. The la dy is not old. ” On : hue is not young, i suppose. ‘■Well, as a matter of fact, she is rather young. By the bye, I ought to ha*e her portrait here somewhere.” -t had cost Mr. Garraway a shilling, this cabinet portrait, in a shop in the Strand that morning. The shopman coildn’t tell him who it was, didn't know her from Adam, he said, but she wts an exceedingly pretty girl in de unre black, and the wily Mr. Garraway wis content. ‘‘Surely, surely. Mr. Garraway,” gasped young Mrs. Bradshaw as she gazed at the portrait, “this is not the kfad of person for a housekeeper. ” “Oh, yes,” said Mr. Garraway airily, “she'll do all right. Bradshaw would lire her very much, I’m sure, after she lnd been in the house a-week or two. I’m told she is a capital manager.” The bunch of scented narcissus at the lidy’s bodice was bobbing up and down a; she continued to look at the photo graph. “You see, the great thing is to get some one who would make poor Brad shaw comfortable and not compel him to be always at the club. ” She put the photograph down on the tyible. “This lady,” said young Mrs, Brad shaw definitely, “shall never come into n|y house.” “No,” agreed Mr. Garraway sweetly. “Of course it would be in Ernest’s hfiuse. I am sure that on my recom njendation”— “Do you mean to say, Mr. Garraway, that you would recommend a person like this for such a position?” Mrs. Bradshaw had risen from her chair and stoke indignantly. “Now, Mrs. Bradshaw, pardon me. I can’t allow you to speak ill of a client o? mine. I have every reason to believe tlat she is a well bred young lady and comes from one of the best families. I have no doubt in my own mind that she will make my friend Bradshaw, whom Hook upon as one of the best fellows in tie world, very comfortable indeed.” There was a nip at the door, and the smart boy entered with a card. “Show him in, Judd.” Mr. Garraway went toward the door to receive the newcomer, not before, hiwever, ho had seen a handkerchief go tu the eyes of his young visitor. “Bradshaw,” he whispered at the dior, “listen to me, man. Your wife’s i| there crying. Go and kiss her and wake it up. ’ ’ Aiul bundling the worried young Eradsliaw into tho room in the most un pjofessional manner Mr. Garraway went aid spoke in tho outer office with Gib 8411. I shan't be back for an hour, Gib sy1- Tell that lady and gentleman so if tlleyask for me. I’m going down to sea cyinsel in the temple. ’ ’ MIt was an hour and a half later that r. Garraway sauntered back. The shall Judd followed him into his room a*d put some more coal on the fire. “Mr. and Mrs. Bradshaw gone, Jvldt demanded Mr. Garraway. Master Judd said, “Yessir. ” •‘What the deuce aro you grinning atput, Judd?” Vhe excellent Judd said it was noth special. Being pressed, howover, Mister Judd confessed tliat, entering room about 20 minutes after his iter had left, ho saw the gent and the ~ kissing each other “liko 1 o’clock as 'appy as”— Judd! said Mr. Garraway severo I am surprised at you. I am sur >d that a man, just now perhaps of tender years, but one who is possibly dettined for the highest honors, should beguilty of the highest impropriety— anl gross unprofessional impropriety, sir—of noticing a matter of this kind. I’ii surprised at you, perfectly surprised at jyou. Would you like very much to go to the theater tonight, you young scmndrel?’ ’ Jlaster Judd, with some emphasis, sail, “Rather!” ‘Then here’s half a crown for you. WT(W be off. I’m rather behind with my ircrk today. ’ ’—Exchange. I COACHING. Graceful Accomplinbraent to Know How to Drive Four-in-hand. Every considerable city in this land has now horse lovers who either own coaches for pleasure driving already or who expect to do so in the future. There is no joy greater than howling up hill and down dale with a party of friends on the top of a coach drawn by hand some horses with tossing heads and shining coats, animals s i well trained that they take pride in ; nswering the light pressure of their driver’s hand upon the rein. Beautiful horses, pretty, gayly dressed women, and men as good looking as may be, but who before all love good driving equines and know them, where can you beat the combina tion? How to drive a four-in-hand is some thing that every horse lover wants to know. Mr. Aurel Batonyi has written a book in which instructions on the subject are given with drawings illus trative. The pictures here are repro duced from the Batonvi illustrations: FIG. I—REINS IN LEFT HAND. OFF LEAbEk FIG. IT—HEINS IN EIGHT HAND. FIG. Ill—LOOP -WHEN TERNIXG TO RIGHT. rtA) /V£A& no. IV—SHARI' RIGHT ANGLE TERN”, WITH LOOP TO THE RIGHT AND LEFT OPPOSITION — WRAP AROUND THUMB. *c\ HBAk le/Kb&lb MEAl fill I FIU. V—LOOP WHF.N TURNING TO LEFT. T10. VI—SI1AW LEFT ANGLE TURK, WITH LOOP TO LEFT HANI) AND RIGHT OPPOSI TION. Even where private citizens in a town have no coach it is common for enterprising livery stables to keep one or more for hire on occasion, and the man who knows how to drive the four steeds gracefully and safely is always in demand. Sheep in pasture ohooso for their night resting place the highest points. They naturally like dry spots, if tliore is a barren knob, therefore, in a field, they will in the course of a short time fertilize it completely by their drop pings while making it their night quar ters. THE FARMER WON. Bnt Schaefer ConMder. It the Shortest Game of HU Life. “Some years ago,” said a sporting man, when Scliaefer kept a billiard room in this city, he was always ready to play all comers who desired a game. Many strangers and people unknown to Schaefer naturally strolled in; many, too, who probably did not know him! h-ut it made no difference to Schaefer. Si modules strangers would desire to phiy for money, but this Schaefer would never do. To all such propositions he would say: ‘No, I won’t play for mon eF’ but 1 11 tell you what I will do—I , 1 P‘ay a Same, the loser to treat the house. One day an old farmer entered the place, and after wandering about look ing at the pictures on the walls and ex amining the tables he asked if there was any one present who would like to play him a game of billiards. Schaefer, as usual, said that he would play the stranger. How much shall we play for?’ ask ed the farmer. “ ‘ I never play for money, ’ replied K-diaefer, ‘but I will play you for the drinks for the house. ’ All right,’ said the farmer. ‘How many points shall we play?’ Oh, ’ replied Schaefer demurely in all the consciousness of his superior powers, ‘we’ll just play until you are satisfied, and we will call that a game.* “The crowd smiled as the players prepared for the contest. The balls were placed on the table, and Schaefer brought out his favorite cue, aud it fell to his lot to open the game. “The opening shot in a billiard game is a somewhat difficult one, as most players know, and Schaefer, probably through indifference, missed it. He not only missed it, but left the balls close together near one of the cushions. It was what is termed in billiard parlance a ‘ set un. ’ “The old farmer carefully chalked his cue, and after deliberation made the shot. He then gazed at the halls a mo ment, laid down his cuo and exclaimed: “ ‘ I am satisfied. ’ “The score was then 1 to 0 in favor of the old farmer, but as Schaefer had agreed to make the game as long or short as the farmer desired he had to he satisfied. Schaefer of course had to in vite all present, including his conqueror, to partake of the hospitality of the house. As the crowd laughed and drank Schaefer remarked that the game was the shortest he had ever played, and probably the shortest on record. ”—New York Tribune. LOVED LIFE TOO WELL. Ancient Natchez Indian Who Rebelled Against Being Sacrificed. One of the repulsive features of the laws under which the Natchez Indians were governed was that when a mem ber of the royal family of the nation died it was necessary that several others of the people should accompany him to the tomb by suffering death at the hands of executioners. When the “great sun,’- the hereditary chief of the whole nation, died, all his wives, in case he were provided with more than one, and also several of his sub jects, were obliged to follow him into the vale of shadows. The “littlesuns, ” secondary chiefs, and also members of the royal family, likewise claimed, when dying, their tribute of death from the living. In addition to this, the in exorable law also condemned to death any man of the Natchez race who had married a girl of the royal line of the “suns.” On the occasion of her death he was called upon to accompany her. “I will narrate to yon upon this sub ject,” writes au old French chronicler of Louisiana, ‘ ‘ the story of an Indian who was not in a humor to submit to this law. His name was Etteacteal. He had contracted an alliance with the ‘suns.’ The honor came near having a fatal result for him. His wife fell sick, aud as soon as he perceived that she was approaching her end he took to flight, embarking in a pirogue on the Mississippi, and sought a refuge in New Orleans. He placed himself under the protection of the governor, who was at that time M. de Bienville, offering him self to be the governor’s hunter. The governor accepted his services, and in terested himself in his behalf with the Natchez, who declared, in answer, that he had nothing to fear, inasmuch as the ceremony was over, and as he had not been present when it took place he was no longer available as a candidate for execution.”—New Orleans Picayune. Flower Painters. About the last literary work complet ed by the late Cora Stuart Wheeler was a beautiful tribute to ‘‘Some Court Painters to Queen Rose” published in The Woman’s Home Companion, in which she says: “As a rule, women make the best flower painters. The men who excel in this branch of art are comparatively few, even when we consider the small number of artists of both sexes who have acquired reputation in the pictur ing of flowers. The reason is not diffi cult to see. The average woman has a fondness for flowers which brings her into the closest sympathy with them and enables her to appreciate and un derstand them as men seldom do. In the interpretation of certain subtle phases of floral life her sensitive tem perament and the peculiarly sympathetic feeling that she is apt to bring to her labor of love especially qualify her for engaging in this department of picture making. In point of technical ability some marvelously clever work has been done by artists of the gentler sex in the reproduction of flowers and in the treatment of difficult subjects. ” A Bad Beginning. The Guest (an art connoisseur)—Su perb 1 Simply elegant! Hostess—I’m glad you like it. Soups »re my hobby. The Guest—Oh, I meant the tureen. •-Jewelers’ Weekly.