True Freedom.
i -
Oh. tear the tight bound fetters off!
And east forever from your sight
The cruel, rusted chains of pain.
Of woe. of sin, of shame, and blight!
Be free!
Free as the sea. in love as broad.
To move where God would have you be!
To dwell in his pure atmosphere;
To breathe, to live, and to be free.
Be free to lend a helping hand.
To ease some heart's distress to-day.
Time is so short; Sin would enslave;
Make haste! Arise! Again, I say,
Be free!
—Frank Llewellyn Browne in Brooklyn
Eagle.
Noel Thornton, feeling very much a
martyr to duty, walked up the old
elm-lined street in the gray gloom of
the winter afternoon. He wondered
irritably if there was any corner of
the globe where the family had no
connections or friends for him to
hunt up.
"And while you are in Exmcuth,”
his mother had said, “be sure and call
on Miss Emmeline. You know she
was one of your grandfather’s stanch
est friends. It was she, you remem
ber, who wrote those charming qua
trains at the time of his death. Be
sure you cail on her, Noel.”
A delay in forwarding girders had
temporarily stopped work on the
bridge, and back at the hotel he had
so reluctantly quitted the other engi
neers wrere starting a game of pitch.
Instead of enjoying that game with
them, as by all the laws and the
prophets he should have been doing,
he was tramping up this endless street
to call on a lady of much intellect and
* many years.
The fact that Miss Emmeline had
been a friend of his philosopher grand
father (Noel termed his ancestor “A
brainy old boy, but way beyond him”)
filled him with dismal forebodings.
He fancied himself endeavoring to
keep pace with Miss Emmeline’s con
versation, and groaned inwardly. Nev
ertheless, he walked briskly on, and
presently stopped before a huge old
colonial house on whose polished door
plate shone the name “Calvert.”
He mounted the steps and gave sev
eral resounding blows with the brass
knocker.
To the portly colored woman who
answered his summons he handed his
card, and was shown into what evi
dently was the reception room. It
was huge and dim, but furnished
modernly and with quiet taste.
A fire sputtered cheerfully on the
broad hearth, and by the windows
were azalia bushes in full bloom. On
the wall he saw a large oil painting of
his intellectual grandfather. He had
risen and was standing “before this
when a soft voice said:
“And this is Mr. Noel Thornton. I’m
charmed to meet you.”
Noel turned. There was a faint
smell of lavender in the room. In
the doorway stood Miss Emmeline.
It seemed to him that some beauty
ol several decades ago had come sud
denly to life from some old canvas,
and had walked straight from the
frame to him.
Her dress of green silk was cut in
the absurd fashion of the early fifties;
her fresh, plump hands were half hid
den in black mitts; her gray hair
made strange little corkscrew curls
about her temples.
But her face bore no trace of wrin
kles, her round cheeks were touched
with delicate color, her lips were full
and red, and her dark eyes sparkled
like a girl’s.
“Good heavens,” Noel was thinking
to himself, “and the woman is 764”
He took her extended hand and
bowed low. “Miss Calvert!” was all
he wras able to murmur.
“It's so good of you to come,” she
In the gray gloom of a winter after*
noon.
said. “Won’t you sit down? Molly
will bring us tea In a moment.”
They talked of commonplace things
—the weather, the town, the new
bridge he was helping to build. Miss
Emmeline showed a lively interest
in things modern, and as the talk
went on Noel forgot his misgivings
and embarrassments.
When the tea came in Miss Emme
line had just finished a capital golf
anecdote, and they were laughing to
gether like a gay young couple. Noel
glanced at his grandfather’s portrait
“Old Boy,” he said to himself, “I never
envied you until now.”
When Noel departed it was not un
til he had received Miss Emmeline's
permission to call again the following
Thursday. He walked down the street
in an entirely different mood from
that which had possessed him earlier
in the afternoon.
"Such eyes,” he repeated. “And 76!
Why don't they raise girls like that
now?” he burst out.
Xoel called again on Miss Emmeline
the next Thursday and the next. Af
ter that he went often. Whether it
was her soft, vibrant voice, her gentle
eyes c«r her girlish manner that drew
her to him he could not say. There
was some exquisite, indefinable charm
about her, and beyond that point he
did not attempt analysis.
One bleak afternoon as he was
about to take his departure they were
Drew her hand away rather abruptly.
standing together in the hall. Noel
suddenly seized her hand and pressed
it to his lips.
“Some day,” he said quietly and
firmly, “I shall find her, and she will
be like you.”
Miss Emmeline drew away her hand
rather abruptly. Noel looked up to
find her blushing furiously. She mur
mured something indistinctly about
“hoping he .would find her,” and left
him there alone. Noel went out ex
tremely puzzled.
That night he wrote his mother a
long letter setting forth the charms
of Miss Emmeline. “The face of a
girl—and the mind of a sage,” was
among th£ things he wrote.
Two days later he received an an
swering letter from his mother.
“I can’t understand about Miss Em
meline,” she wrote. “She is here in
New York, and the bouse is in charge
of her grandniece.”
Noel waited impatiently in the re
ception room. Presently he heard
the swish of silk and Miss Emmeline
came in. He took her hand and held
it firmly.
“I’ve fonnd her,” he said abruptly,
“the one like ycra.”
She looked at him narrowly.
“Will you marry me?” he asked,
quietly.
Her eyes opened wide rn amaze
ment.
“My dear boy, at my age-”
“Pardon me,” said Noel, “your wig
has slipped back.”
It was a choice bit of fiction, but it
worked beautifully. She gave a little
cry of dismay and sank into a chair.
“Oh,” she said, almost in tears, “I
was masquerading in these clothes the
first day you came, and—well, it was
an awful temptation."
Noel came over to the chair and
took one of the hands in his.
“Will you marry me?”
He felt the little hand tighten about
his own.
“You’ll never tell Aun<* Emmeline?”
she whispered.—Boston Globe.
Old Lady Was Surprised.
In the great Boston public library
there stands on a pedestal in a corner
of Bates hall, the main reading room,
a bust in very dark bronze of Oliver
Wendell Holmes, the patron saint of
Boston. As Lindsay Swift, the assist
ant librarian, was walking about keep
ing an eye over his charges the other
day he saw two old ladies who were
wandering about the building ap
proach the shrine, and to his aston
ishment and horror overheard the
following words as both the good
dames critically examined the like
ness:
‘Why, I never knew,’ remarked one
to the other, drawing back a little,
“that Dr. Holmes was a negro!”—
New York Times.
Knew the Locality.
One of Simeon Ford’s latest stories
Is about a Pennsylvania Sunday
school. A young lady with philan
thropic motives w'as teaching a dozen
or two little ones in the mining dis
trict.
“Now, where did I tell you the
Savior was born?” she asked one
morning.
“Allentown!” shrieked a grimy
twelve-year-old.
“Why, what do you mean, Johnnie?
I told you He was born at Bethlehem.”
“Well,” replied Johnnie. “I knowed
’twuz some place on de Lehigh Valley
railroad.”—New York Times.
MUSIC WAS NOT WANTED,
Bandmaster’s Sudden and Unwelcome
Realization of the Fact.
A H»iiladelpliian recently gave a
breakfast in John Philip Sousa's
honor. As the breakfast began a
stringed orchestra struck up, and Mr.
Sousa said, with a smile:
“This music, striking up just now,
reminds me of something that hap
pened on the frontier a year ago.
“A noted European soldier was
spending several weeks on the front
ier studying certain military questions
there, and whenever he dined at head
quarters the regimental band, to show
its respect for him, voluntarily played.
“Day after day the foreigner messed
with the officers, and day after day, as
soon as he sat down, the admiring
band hurried to its place and began to
toot.
“ ‘These little attentions,’ the band
master wTent around explaining, ‘are
what foreign officers of rank like.
They are used to them at home, and
if they didn’t get them here they’d
feel that they were being slighted.’
“One evening, as the band was play
ing with great industry in the foreign- j
er's honor, the old man, at the end of j
a rousing march, suddenly uttered an
oath that resounded through the room.
“‘Perdition take that band!’ he ex- I
claimed in a thunderous voice. ‘It al
ways begins its noise just at the time
I’m sitting down to dinner and want
to talk.’
‘'Thereupon the bandmaster, flush- j
ing, signaled to his men, and they all
trooped out silently with their instru- ;
ments and music books, not alto
gether complimented with the effect j
of their strains.”
THE RETORT THAT BITES.
Some Experiences of a Saleswoman
on a Busy Day.
“When a complaint is coming my j
way,” said the experienced saleswom- 1
an, "give me the customer who is an
out-and-out sccld instead of one who
is brimming over with sarcasm. You
can always get a word back somehow
with the cross woman. But the sar
castic snapper has gathered up her
bundles and gone before you under
stand what a nasty bit of talk she has
tnrown at you. In the department for
children's wash suits, the other day,
I was kept waiting for a customer's
cnange. When I took it to her she
said:
“ ‘Oh, you might as well go back
and get me a size larger. My little
boy is sure to have grown while I
have been waiting for this change.”
“I had to get even with somebody
for that one. My chance came next
day in the ribbon department. We
were getting rid of job lots at a bar
gain. .
“‘Only three cents a yard?’ asked
one woman.
“‘Yes, ma’am,’ I replied.
“ ‘Shop-worn, I suppose?” she asked
suspiciously.
“ ‘No, ma’am,’ I said. ‘Did you want
them shop-worn?’”
Mizpah.
Go thou thy way. and I go mine,
Apart yet not afar.
Only a thin veil hangs between
The pathways where we are.
And "God keep watch 'tween thee and
me."
This is my prayer.
He looks thy way. He looketh mine.
And keeps us near.
I know not where thy roed may be,
Or which way mine shall be;
If mine will lead through parching sands.
And thine beside the sea:
Yet God keeps watch 'tween thee and me.
So never fear.
He holds my hand. He claspeth thine,
And keeps us near.
Should wealth and fame perchance be
thine,
And my lot lonely be:
Or you be sad and sorrowful.
And glory be for me;
Yet "God keep watch ’tween thee and
me.”
Both be his care.
One arm round thee, and one round me.
Will keep us near.
I'll sigh sometimes to see thy face,
But since this may not be:'
I'll leave thee to the care of Him
Who cares for thee and me.
"I'll keep you both beneath My wings.”
This comforts, dear;
One wing o'er thee, and one o’er me,
So we are near.
And though our paths he separate,
And thy way is not mine.
Yet coming to the mercy-seat.
My soul shall meet with thine;
And "God keep watch ’tween thee and
me.’’
I'll whisper there
He blesseth thee. He Wesseth me.
And so we are near.
—Liverpool (Eng.) Mercury.
In Death as In Life.
They tell a good story of a well
known contractor In Chicago, named
Coleseed, who had always been very
active with all sort of schemes. Al
though his means were not Targe, ne
had managed to keep his head above
water through the aid of pretty near
ly all the banks.
His wife was discussing with him
the sudden death of Herman Butler
and said:
“Mrs. Butler.told me that her hus
band selected his pall bearers before
he died. I think it was so nice of
him, my dear; if you were taken be
fore me, who would yon like to have
act as pall bearers?”
Coleseed thought a moment and
then said: “Well, dear, ask the presi
dents of the eight leading banks of
Chicago. They have carried me ail
my life.”—New York Times.
Many Getting Insured.
Statistics that speak with the au
thority of complete knowledge point
to the existence to-day of a good sup
ply of ready capital among the rank
and file of America’s eighty millions
of inhabitants, for not in many years
has life insurance Kbsiness been so
active as now. This branch of indus
try serves as a barometer, as money
placed in this direction is usually
classified under the “luxury” list.
Two men in this country are now
insured for more than a million and
a half each, one for a million, eight
for three-quarters of a million, and
twenty-seven men carry individual pol
icies of half a million.
A New Language.
The last man to propose a universal
language is Prof. Plano. It is essen
tially Latin, but without inflections,
tenses, moods and genders. Persons,
cases and numbers are also abolished.
It looks easy, but its very omissions
may prove dangerous.
Conway Is to Rest.
Moncure D. Conway has finished his
autobiography and has gone to London
for a long rest
WITH THE
VETEB41NS
rnnio*—••
Dead at Liao-Yang.
He had no quarrel with any man.
He knew not what they called him for;
Yet. roll and pack upon his back,
Ivan, the peasant, went to war.
"The little father calls.” he said.
And followed, followed as he sang.
Till on a trampled trench he lay
Among the dead at Liao-Yang.
Not his the dream of land and power.
The greed of gain, the dread of loss;
He marched with orders to the field
To bear his rifle—and his cross.
God had ordained it, so he faced
The pelting hail that snarled and sang
And gave his patient blood away
Among the dead at Liao-Yang.
Among the glitter of his court
In safety sat the mystic czar;
Safe sat the scheming minister
Who cast a careless die for war;
They could not hear the shattered groan,
The horrid chant of death that lang
Where unconsulted thousands lay.
Among the dead at Liao-Yang.
He had no quarrel with any man,
He had no cause to battle for:
Yet. roll and puck upon his back,
Ivan, the peasant, went to war.
A minister had made a map
From which a deadly army sprang.
So Ivan fell and made no sign
Among the dead at Liao-Yang.
—New York Globe.
Grant Wouldn't Scare.
Soon after Mr. Lincoln's great spirit
had taken flight, April 15, 1805, Gen.
Halieck appeared at the Baltimore &
Ohio station to escort Gen. Grant to
the war department. They parted at
Secretary Stanton's private office door
and Halieck paced nervously up and
down the corridor. At length, turning
to Grant’s staff attendant, he said:
“Don't let Gen. Grant stop at Wil
lard's. He will not be safe there.''
“But. general," the attendant replied,
“wouldn't such advice to my chief be
presumptuous?”
After a moment’s reflection. Halieck
so modified it as to request its deliv
ery as an earnest wish from him.
This was done in front of the white
house, eliciting instantaneous re
sponse:
“I reckon if they want me they’ll
find me wherever I may be. We'll go
to Willard's.”—“Grant’s Shadow,” in
National Magazine.
Drummer Boy of Chickamauga.
This is .a picture of “Johnnie” Clem,
aged 12, the "Drummer Boy of Cbiek
amauga,” now Col. John L. Clem,
chiet quartermaster of the Philippine
division.
Fun on FTcket Duty.
"I eant see yet,” said Dan R. An
derson, “where those Russians and
Japs have any fun on picket. Now,
in lie old days there was always
something doing in the First Ken
tucky, and it was more exciting in the
early days of the war to go on picket
than to go scouting. On one occasion
while we were in camp at Kanawha
Fails I was detailed for picket with
Bob Murphy, Donald Brick and John
Banister of my own company, and five
or six men from other companies. We
were sent down the river road and
posted at the lower end of the nar- I
rows. There was only one post and
the reserve held the road.
“The picket post was a natural fort,
formed by detached rocks that had
broken loose from the mountain and
fallen so as to make a rock-inclosed
bastion large enough to hold com
fortably five or six men. On the side
next the mountain was a large rock,
nearly flat on top, this top sloping
downward toward the inside of the
fort. This rock was seven or eight
feet high, wet'h a flat face and a step,
or shelf, about two feet high, which
was a standing invitation to a man
of average parts to sit down.
“I was on first relief and was post
ed in the fort, the officer in charge
6aying: ‘If you hear anyone coming
down from the direction of the moun
tain fire and fall back on the reserve.’
Soon I heard someone coming—com
ing boldly and making a good deal of
noise. I brought my gun into position,
and the old muzzle loader seemed.
In its anxiety to get into action, to
describe all sorts 6t curves and cir
cles. It gyrated like a searchlight
striving to locate the enemy, and the
Inclination to pull the trigger was al
most irresistible, and finally I
pulled it.
iiiere was a tremendous explosion
in my immediate vicinity and a noise
in front like the scurry of a cavalry
company. Then there was a thump
ing against the big rock and in three
minutes I was reinforced by the en
tire picket outfit. There was still a
thumping noise in front ana some of
the boys went forward to see how
many cavalrymen I had put out of ac
tion. Snug up against my little fort
Jay a fine, fat 2-year-old steer, with a
short piece of chain around his neck,
and, mark you, shot in the head. That
meant fresh beef in camp.”—Chicago
Inter Ocean.
Gen. Elack’s Farewell.
Gen. John C. Black, who has just
retired from the office of the head oi
the Grand Army of the Republic,
crowned a very successful administra
tioa by presiding with marked dignity
and ability over the national encamp
ment the proceedings of which were
characterized by unblemished good
feeling, earnestness and zeal. Ger.
Black's address the encampraen
was touchingly eloquent and grandl:
fraternal. We quote from it briefly
as follows:
“A year since, at San Francisco. you
elected me commander-in-chief of the
Grand Army of the Republic. In ac
cepting fhe high office 1 was enjoined
to use the power with prudence anc
judgment and with regard to the feel
ings of those associated with me and
only with one thought—the interest
of our noble order. This was the
charge laid upon me by that Seniot
of us all whom we delight to honor
and whose wise counsels have evei
been at his comrade’s service. The
obligation I then assumed I have tc
the best of my ability kept and per
formed; it is for the record now op
ened before you to testify in what
measure I have succeeded. Touched
by unfaltering Time, our ranks are
thinned (despite all recruiting), b’d
they remain firm and united. Those
who survive are the Old Guard of the
Republic, who have never known over
throw, whose high ideals still remain
whose noble obligations are unbroken
whose deeds of fraternity charity and
loyalty still bind up brothers’ wounds
still minister to the wants of the
weary and worn; still lift on high the
unsullied standards of country, hu
manity and God. For us all abides
one unalterable purpose—the Union,
the whole Union; one prayer—that its
blessings of peace and liberty may be
wide as the world; one pledge—of life
and fortune and sacred honor to the
upholding of starry Splendors of Free
dom’s flag.”
Suffered in Libby.
Among the many old soldiers that
are still living in Wrentham, Mass.,
'ays a dispatch from that place, none
have passed through any greater suf
ferings than those which Martin Van
Buren Murphy endured while he was
confined in Libby prison for a period
of four months. Mr. Murphy enlisted
from this town and filled up its quota
in the Twenty-sixth Massachusetts.
After the battle of Cedar Creek he
was sent out to reconnoiter with a
number of others and was captured
by a detachment of cavalry under Mos
by and sent to Libby prison. When
captured he weighed 130 pounds; four
months afterward he was exchanged
and taken to a Washington hospital,
and after a month’s treatment was
discharged, weighing sixty-seven
pounds.
The diet in Libby prison, he says,
consisted of an inch square of corn
bread with the cob gremnd in, and a
bit of mule meat in the morning and
at night another inch of bread and a
cup of bean soup with a. dozen beans
in it.
When he was discharged from the
hospital in Washington he was rn
time to see Sherman’s army marct
through the city, and the memory ®l
that grand spectacle still lingers in
the old soldier’s mind.
Two Notable Grand Arrsy Men.
The Grand Army post of Lynn,
Mass., has the distinction of having
the oldest and j-oungest of civil war
veterans in the persons of Edward I
Goldsmith aged 93 and William A.
Hammond, who is 51 years old. Mr
Hammond comes of patriotic stock.
His grandfather Hammond was a vet
eran of the Mexican w-ar, and he has
a brother Thomas M. Hammond, who
served on the frigate Hartford during
the civil war. He was born in Boston
Nov. 4, 1852, and enlisted Nov. 27,
1863, when 11 years of age, for three
years or the length of the war, as
messenger boy on the second-class
frigate Ticonderoga. The enlistment
was not accomplished without difflcul
ty, but as the little feliow was large
for his age he was finally accepted.
Mr. Goldsmith does not look a day
over 70 years of age. His eyes are
bright and his hearing is very slightly,
if at all, impaired. He goes for a
walk on nearly every fine day, and is
a familiar figure about the streets of
Lynn Although he was over the age
limit for service when the war broke
out, an exception was made in h:s
case.
Cause of Meade’s Gray Hairs.
After the final surrender of the con
federate forces at Appomattox Gen.
Lee and Gen. Mea£e, who before the
outbreak of hostilities had been com
rades in the United States army, met
with mutual delight and immediately
resumed the terms of intimate friend
ship which had been temporarily in
terrupted by the war. In the course of
the great conflict they had several
times been pitted against each other,
Meade being the victor and Lee the
losing commander at Gettysburg. In
the course of their talk on the day of
the reconciliation Lee remarked play
fully to his old friend that he was be
ginning to feel the weight of years;
time was telling upon him. To this
Meade replied: “It isn’t time, but
Gen. Lee who has made me gray and
wrinkled.”
Women as Social Slaves
“I can’t help wishing,” said a wom
an who values her friendships, “that
we women could rid ourselves of the
debit and credit system in our ex
change of visits and letters.
“Perhaps it is a relic of my Quaker
ancestry, but I feel as if in the paying
of visits and the writing of letters I
would like to be ‘moved by the spirit’
rather than impelled by the mere cir
cumstance of indebtedness. Often I
feel as if I could really enjoy an
hour’s chat with a friend, but the fact
that she owes me a call keeps me at
home, for I lack the courage to face
her well bred surprise over my forget
ting the conventionalities.
“On the other hand, it may happen
that more than the accepted length of
time has elapsed since I visited an ac
quaintance. Then I am sure, when I
do go to see her, to feel a chilly at
mosphere of injured wonder as to j
why I have not called before.
"No one more thoroughly enjoys
writing long letters to her family and
friends than I do, but there are days,
even weeks at a time, when the me
chanical pushing of a pen is irksome,
and I long for some power of telep- ,
athy to communicate with my friends
at a distance. To force oneself to
write letters at such a time seems al
most a sin.
“I know one woman who actually
averages a letter a day the year
through. If she misses writing her
daily stunt on week days she forth
with makes up for it by grinding out
seven letters on Sunday. I could not
consent to become such a mechanical
letter writing machine as that.
“I think we women might learn a
lesson from our husbands and broth
ers. For instance, at dinner my hus
band will say, ‘Oh, by the way, So-ami
So dropped into the office, and we
went out to lunch together. Hadn’t
seen him for ever so long. Had a
good visit with him and he wished to
be remembered to you. Fine fellow.
Always enjoy meeting him.’ Or.
‘Had a line to-day from What's Hip
Name. He's out on the Pacific coast?
been there six months. It's the fii*l
time I heard from him since h# left
New York. I'm glad he’s found the
place he deserves.’
“Imagine such ease cf social rela
tions between two women'. With us
it is foreve: give and take, pound for
pound. In the realms cf calls and
correspondence there is no such be
ing as an emancipated woman.”
Byron’s Tribute to Boone
Of all men, saving- Sylla the man-slayer.
Who passes for in life and ce-ath most
lucky.
Of the great names which in our faces
stare.
The General Boone, backwoodsman of
Kentucky,
Was happiest amongst mortals anywhere;
For. killing nothing but bear or buck,
he
Enjoyed the lonely, vigorous harmless
days
Of his old age in wilds of deepest maze.
Crime came not near him, she is not the
child
Of solitude; Health shrank not from
him. for
Her home is in the rarely trodden wild.
Where if men seek her not, and death
be more
Their choice than life, forgive them, as
beguiled
By habit to what their own hearts ab
hor,
In cities caged. The present case in point
Cite is. that Boone lived hunting up to
ninety;
And. what's still stranger, left behind a
name
For which men vainly decimate the
throng
Not only famous, hut of that good fame.
Without which glory’s but a tavern
song—
Simple, serene, the antipodes of shame,
Which hate nor envy e'er could tinge
with wrong;
An active hermit, even in age the child
Of nature, or the Man of Ross run wild.
'Tis true he shrank from men, even of his
nation;
When they built up unto his darling
trees.
He moved some hundred miles off. for a
station
Where there were fewer houses and
more ease;
The Inconvenience of civilization
Is that you neither can be pleased nor
please;
But where he met the individual man.
Ho showed himself as kind as mortal can.
He was not all alone; around him grew
A sylvan tribe of children of the chase,
"Whose young, unwakened world was
ever new:
Nor sword nor sorrow yet had left a
trace
On her unwrinkled brow, nor could you
view
A frown on nature’s or on human fate;
The freeborn forest found and kept them
free.
And fresh as is a torrent or a tree.
And tall, and strong, and swift of foot,
were they
Beyond the dwarfing city's pale abor
tions.
Because their thoughts had never been
the prey
Of care or gain; the green woods were
their portions;
No sinking spirits told them they grew
gray;
No fashion made them apes of her dis
tortions;
Simple they were, not savage; and their
rifles.
Though very true, were not yet used for
triflea
Motion was in their days, rest in their
slumbers.
And cheerfulness the handmaid of their
toil;
Nor yet. too many nor too few their
numbers;
Corruption could not make their hearts
her soil.
The lust which stings, the splendor which
encumbers,
With the free foresters divide no spoil;
Serene, not sullen, were the solitudes
Of this unsighing people of the woods.
—Byron (Don Juan).
One of Woman’s Problems
For one blessing man is enviable—
his pockets. Woman occasionally has
a pocket, but she can’t use it. “Put
in a pocket,” she pleads, and the
1 dressmaker sends home the new Skirt
with a pocket stowed away in the
recesses of a hook-up placket hole. It
is not a workable pocket for three
reasons:
First, it bulges if there is even a
handkerchief in it, destroying the
symmetry of the outline.
Second, things aimed at it rarely
succeed in forcing an entrance, but
fall alongside, downward, with a
whack on the floor.
Third, who could fumble through a
whole row of hooks and eyes, placed
in the center seam at the back? As a
trifling obstacle in the way of blind
manipulation it may be mentioned
that such hooks are usually of a
tricky patent, or they would not stay
fastened at all.
At the hem of the garment, under
the “foundation” frill, pockets like a
tiny crescent-shaped pouch may also
be found lurking. A handkerchief can
repose in one in safety, merely involv
ing some suppleness in the owner,
who must execute a kind of dive in
withdrawing and reinserting it. A
silk foundation sometimes accommo
dates quite a practical looking recep*
tacle to which the unwary at first
intrust even a purse or a pocket knife.
But hard objects dangling on a level
with the knee are ill companions, and
those who have once knelt on a latch
key never desire to repeat the expe^
rience.
.“I asked for pockets and they gave
me handbags,” is the plaint of the pet
ticoated throng, who wonder who will
invent them a third hand for their urn
brellas while they guard their money
with their right and w'ith- their left
keep their garments from the mud.
In the meantime, while Fashion is
decreeing that sovereigns shall jingle
in jeweled coat of mail from the end
of a slender chain, apparently de
signed for the ready pliers of the
thief, womankind, more cunning than
they seem, are carving a way out of
the difficulty. They may carry their
purses for all the world to see, and a
handkerchief peeps out of their
sleeves, but in many a silken under
skirt, where it will not interfere with
the set, is a pocket, roomy and se
cure. There it is that the wise wom
an keeps her gold and her love let
ters.—London Graphic. ji,
Cure for Whisky Habit
“Talking about not having anything
to take the place of whisky when one
wants to quit for a while,” said a
thoughtful man, “reminds me of the
interesting plan of a friend of mine,
and one, by the way, who had an
original method of doing almost ev
erything he undertook to do. He was
in the habit of getting on sprees, and
they were lively events, I can assure
you. But when he quit, he quit in
dead earnest. There was no middle
ground in his case. He did not drink
to get drunk. He drank for the fun
there was in it, and he could get more
fun out of the game than any other
man I have ever known. But these
sprees did not come often enough to
interfere with his business plans.
However, I started out to tell you
about his sober life, and not about the
drinking part of his career, except as
an incident to the story. Drinking is
exciting. It is a most difficult matter,
as a rule, for a man who drinks to
find anything that will take the place
ef-drinking because of the excitement
of the habit. If this were an easy
tasK I am sure there would be less
drinking in the world because it would
be easier for men to control the pas
sion for strong drink, once the passion
finds lodgment in the system. Mf
friend had solved this problem, and
he solved it in an original way. Ho
would take to dime novels. He would
buy a carload of the most exciting
stories he could find, the very yellow
est of the yellow, and whenever you
found him with a lot of these hooka
you could bet he was in for a long
sober spell. He would carry one in his
pocket all the time, and whenever the
hours began to drag and the day got
dull, you would find him pouring over
the book. ‘It’s just as exciting,’ he
would say, ‘and a whole lot cheaper
than drinking.’ And so it was. But
he is the only man I ever knew who
hit upon a really successful plan of
finding something that would supply
the excitement needed to overcome
the longing for drink in the case of
the man who once becomes used to
that sort of thing. ’—New Orleans
Timea-Democrat.
Hooligan Helped Old Man
—
In Twenty-third street, between
Lexington and Third avenues, a ven
erable man 6its all day long beside an
assortment of shoelaces and lead pen
cils which he offers for sale. He sel
dom speaks, but attracts the attention
of passers-by by motioning with his
forefinger to a painted signboard on
the pavement, which reads: "Ladies
and Gentlemen, Please Do Not Let
an Old Man Starve.’’ In the lid of a
box close by is an assortment of nick
els and pennies, spread out like check
ers on a checkerboard, indicating that
the old man is quite willing to take
the public into his confidence as to
his day’s receipts. There was enough
to keep him from starvation there the
other afternoon, when a travel-stained
wayfarer of the distinct Hooligan
type happened along. He gazed pity
ingly at the long white hair and spot
less white waistcoat of the shoelace
beggar.
“Poo’ ole ehap!” he exclaimed.
Then he dug a nickel from some
where in his tattered clothes and dis*
appeared into a saloon. Buying a
beer, he stepped to the free lunch
counter and stowed away in the broad
and dirty palm of his hand a substan
tial lunch of leberwurst, bread,
cheese, radishes and sliced cucum-*
bers before the astonished bartender
could interfere. Without stopping to
wipe the beer foam from his mu**
tache, the Hooligan hurried to the old
man and deposited his burden of
food flat upon the neatly painted can
vas sign.
“There, ole fel,” he said, “shan't
starve if I can help it. I’ve been a
panhandler myself. But I never had
to work selling shoelaces.”—New
York Times.
