Evening Star Newspaper, August 26, 1893, Page 7

THE EVENING STAR: WASHINGTON, D. C., SATURDAY, AUGUST 26, 1893-SIXTEEN PAGES. RULINGS OF STYLES. It is Not Necessary to Be Ultra- Fashionable Nowadays. OLD STYLES NOTGONE OUT There Are Variations in Skirts, Sleeves and Frills. SOME COSTUMES FOR OUTING. Special Correspondence of The Evening Star. NEW YORK, August %, 1898. VEN IF your judgment is excellent you mey think that unless you are sup- Plied with a large number of striking gowns you might just as well stay at home down cellar tn- stead of going away and having a lovely time this summer. But don't you be- Meve it.The real truth is that the new vogue came in so suddenly and so vio- lently that the less Pronounced of the older styles aid not have a chance to be really out and that now they do not look as queer as do the more pronounced of the new style. The Sreat run of people are dressing pretty much as they always have, with a varia- tion here and there in favor of later ideas. Skirts are undoubtedly wider, but they are Rot all balloon, nor are they nearly all gored and cut with wonderful back falling folds, while many are merely full on the band. Sleeves are all more or less big, but they have been, you know, since the pretty fo the hearts of us all but a little while ago, is no more. Round waists are pretty gen- erally adopted, and there is likely to be a tendency toward frilitiveness on the best Fegulated gowns. The ultra things will al- ways be, but the medium, whether happy or not, we have always with us. So, if you are one of that kind, don’t go down cellar, just stay up stairs and have a good time and be as happy a “medium” as you A Stylish Walking Costume. A promenade costume which is very styl- ish and yet avoids the extremes of the pres- ent rules fs to be seen in the initial iMlustra- tion. It ts composed of green foulard and garnished with lace and ribbon. The skirt is gathered in back, but it will not be very full, as all the seams must be biased. Around the bottom are two ruffles of lace, trimmed with rosette bows of green ribbon. ‘The bodice comes over the skirt, and is hooked to the latter to prevent It from slip- , Its lining fastens in the middle, but foulard at the left side. The yoke is Rointed in front and back. made of ‘pleated ‘and is sewed on separately, thus constituting only @ trimming, and is ‘edged @ lace ruffle, as shown. Commenc under the arms at the sides is another ted arrangement of foulard, correspond- to the yoke, the right piece lapping over the same ‘as the yoke, and each finished with a tiny rosette. The epaulettes over the sl.eves are of wider lace than that ing the yoke. The sleeves have a full and a long tight cuff. With the dress is worn a dressy little ‘t of ecru lace, trimmed with green faille ribbon, having gilt _picots. A lace bow, with an ‘aigrette, shows in front. The tle strings are green ‘bbon. ‘& New Sort of Skirt Ornamentation. ‘The second toilet sketched is in pale blue Mousseline delaine, figured with and trimmed with dark blue surah. The skirt is garnished with a folded strip of surah, put on zig-zag. and the points held in place by small butterfly bows of ribbon, this constituting one of the new variations of the general round and round skirt trim- ming. The bodice has a shirred piece in- serted in back and front, finish by two bands of surah pointed at the waist in back and front, with a third piece down the cen- ter. In addition the bodice is garnished with bretelles of the figured mousseline. The collar and folded belt are of surah. ‘The present summer girl borrows indis- ¢riminately from the cradle and the club, the latter being, of course, the man’s club. finely and a well developed neck. The cos- tume itself may not be classic, but it will sive your classic lines a chance. If the bath not long enough then let other soft shirt waists in their outing ‘Two Vacation Dresses. Coming to the couple shéwn in the fourth picture the costume at the left {s made of white woolen sulting with the plaid in dif- ferent shades of ‘The round waist has double bretelles that form a collar in back and full gigot sleeves. The costume is fin- ished by a shirt waist and black silk four- in-hand. The belt is red striped ribbon fust- ening with a buckle and leather straps. The other dress is composed of pale mode col- CE ee trimmed with embroidery. ‘The skirt is unlined and is yarnished with two ruffles of embroidery, each put on with two rows of gathering and showing a small head. It fits snugly, over, the hips and the fullness is gathered in back. The blouse waist has a tight lining over which the em- broidery is draped with a slight fullness in back and front, but plain under the arms. The embroidery is pleated into the collar and waist band. The lining hooks in front, but the embroidery comes over to the left shoulder and under the arm. The sleeves have a deep cuff of embroidery and a full pul of the plain gingham. The belt ts pale ue satin ribbon, ties at the side, and the collar is also made of band of standin: rk blue | this rib ‘with a bow in back. The very dainty toilet of the last ig made of striped foulard trimmed with changeable taffeta silk. The skirt is rather wide around the bottom, and the front has & panel of three lace ruffies put on plain and ‘with two bands of taffeta with point- $2,cnds aa shown. The round waist has @ deep decollete filled in with lace in front, but the back is high at the neck. Revers and folded belt are of silk. ‘The puffed sleeves have large double epauiettes of lace and a lace cuff. Fashion's Fads. Here ts a grist of whims. Cut glass but- tons are the things for evening tailor- made white gowns. A watch in one sleeve button and a perpetual calendar in the other makes a pair for a business woman. Col- lars and cuffs are again seen with tailor gowns. Gold and silver tips are put on evening shoes. A diamond hangs by a slender chain from the ring on Miladi Sat Paim's hand. Gold tipped shoe do for a little offering at Mias Richgirl's shrine. Real lace and lacings with gold tips increase the expense of the swellest corsets. Now he gives her an ivory and gold mourt- ed calendar, with the eng: ts rhe has iven him marked thereon that she may rot forget. She has her own special orchid now and the favored swain may wear it. It isn’t ways smelling salts; sometimes it's whisky in that little bottle a swinging from her belt. She writes her notes in French now, and there is a handy little book with ali sorts of French notes ready male. Her manicure scissors have silver handles. In her boudoir there is a cut glass and silver mounted cordial set. Creme de menthe and yellow chartreuse are the corlials. Her lorgnette has a crystal handle. Every- thing is made of crystal or that cut glass can be. No matter whether your cheeks are Tosy oF not you are all right if your lips and the tips of your ears are. Yon must not use your coat-of-arms, It ts shoddy in this country, but if you have one you must be sure to say that you don’t use it. Her bon bon box {s of crystal, end, hanging a does from her belt, its transparency attests her admirer’s constant generosity. No mat- fer Jf her shirt waist is only plain cambric, her studs, collar button and sleeve links are all right. ——___ee. THE SUMMER TRESSES. Styles in Locks Are as Heterogeneous as Styles in Gowns. With gowns, so with tresses. As there ts nothing prescribed and everything allowed She wears neckties, visor caps, frock coats, shirt waists, English gloves and all the Fest of it from the club, and from the cra- dle she takes baby gimps for her wash muslin gowns, baby caps tied under her chin with fine lace pleated all around the face, baby hats with great rosettes at either cheek, and even baby frocks. The only real trouble about it is that too often the wrong girl goes for the baby things, and the effect is awful. Nothing ts more distressful than the girl with the wrong kind of a face, framed in a round baby bonnet with two or three curls pulled out either side on the wrong kind of cheek. But the right girl in the same thing is Just too sweet for anything. ‘The fabric of the next model presented is black silk, and It is set off with narrow jet passementerie and white lace. The moderately wide bell skirt is garnished with & festooned gathered ruffle, headed by jet sementerie, which is repeated twice fur Ther up. The bodice is alike back and Another. front and has a_plastron of white lace over white silk. The inserted piece below the plastron is trimmed with pointed rows of jet. The elbow sleeves are finished with silk frill and a band of jet passe- For Outing Wear. ‘The three pretty dresses shown in the two} remaining pictures are for outing wear, but before coming to consideration of them im detail a pointer in bathing suits may not be amiss. Let the other girls take to new fashions in bath suits, don’t you give up the sailor style that allows a low turn away saflor collar snd a vest set in to simulate a shirt of the kind the real sailor men wear, ‘The kind meant has stripes across and no collar, giving a straight line across the chest just below the rise of the neck. That 1s, stick to this if you have a head that sets in the matter of robes, so every woman The Victoria Bow. chooses her own coiffure. However, they all have one end in view—simplicity. But complex methods are often required to bring about these simple effects. Not scl- dom the hairdresser’s powerful aids—tiny curls and puffs—are necessarily brought in. For instance, the nest. a popular arrange. ment, is a great loose coil at the back of the head, in the center of which are laid long narrow puffs. Another sort of double twist at the crown is finished off beneath with two small puffs in a horizontal position. Then, from the top of the twist, rises a tightly twisted coll that curves forward in @ semicircle and is then caught down at the top of the head in a twist. The mooted question of parting is no nearer settlement. The war is still waged, and more sensible folks simply follow that fashion which is most pee With the part the hair generally falls lightly over the forehead in thin ripples. ‘The colffure here shown has been ar- ranged after passing the hair through a cir- cular piece of net that has a rather large hole in the center. Such a device keeps the locks well together and renders it a simple matter to coil the thick hair. The small patts can be made with the ends of hatr, tf it is of even length, or can be pinned’ In ter. What From Puck. Hoon (entering Hawville Hotel)—“Say, Tanner, ts Hank Bitters around here any- where?’ I've looked for him at the Tonsor- fal Parlor, the Ice Cream Parlor, the Tin- type Parior, Slade’s Coffin Parlors, the Rosebud Fortune Parlors, Root's Dental Parlors and every other place I can think of where he usually hangs out, and blamed if I can find him Landlord Tanner—“He hain’t been here today. I reckon if he’s in town you'll find him elther at the Temple of Economy or the Palace livery stable. met Boirrs' Browo Lirata cures sick headache, nen- Talgia and insomnia where all other bromos fall. ‘Three doses, 10 cents. SOME MIXED ADVICE. Various Ways of How to Manage a Husband GIVEN T0 A PROSPECTIVE BRIDE By a Number of Her Intimate Friends. NO TWO SEEM TO AGREE. SS en ; CONFESS,” SAID the girl who ‘s to be married next week, a3 she handed The Star woman her second cup of tea, “that now all my gowns are done, and the worry about my millinery over, and the curds all safely out, and all the other preliminary arrangements attend- ed to, I have for the first time had an op- portunity to think of marriage {tself, and incidentally of the man in the case. It seems Perfectly easy to ac- quire a husband, but, pray tell me, what am 1 begin after I get him?” a ses woman wie niaPRY:¢gauewented The Star ‘My dear,” said the woman in the ham- mock, ignoring the triteness of The Star Roma's "ort, Hones, of The, Siar ‘There was & faint murmur of approbution from the other women on the lawi, and the woman in the hammock settled herseif com- placently for a dissertation on the subject. ‘Men, my dear, are but children of a larger growth, as I believe somebody has already remarked. Women are years and years ‘their elders, for the women, you know, are the mothers of the world. You must begin by convincing your husband that you are the cleverest woman on earth. You can do this by seeming to consider him the most brillant man of the day. Vanity, all is vanity, my dear, and men ure the yainest of created beings. A man will be delighted with compliments so barefaced that a woman would be disgusted by them. Tickle his vanity. Make him think that hi is the only man on earth, and he will ad- penetration and your good teste. Lean on him—the sturdy oak and clinging Vine sort of a thing, you know. Nothing takes like dependence, and ‘dish raggy women have the most ‘attraction for men. It doesn’t — any difference whether you really do lean on him or not, make him think you do. Why, I know a woman in Chicago who is about twice the size of her husband, and who could command « regi- ment with ease; but with that man she 1s 80 clinging and so dependent on his superior st ‘and intellect that he fancies he’s nine feet tall and a Sandow in strenzth. Of course it’s funny, but it pleases the man, and quite convinces him that his wife is Perfection. Be a vine, my dear. Be Fascinating. “Yes, that’s quite right,” said the woman with the pink garden hat, “and do be dell- cate. I don’t mean in health, but have lots of sensibilities, you know. Be afraid of things. Why, I know one woman who keeps her husband at home every night in Ns lite simply by being afraid to, be left me. He fancies that he has found woman of su delicacy and refinemen’ She's actually afraid of the dark. T! funny part of {t is that she used to be a reporter—not a ‘lady journalist,’ but a regular reporter somewhere out west and ran about at all hours of the night by her- self. The Blonde Gives Her Opinion. ‘The blonde on the pile of pillows under the oak tree roused herself at that. “And let me remark,” she said, “that the very things a man admires in a sweetheart are Just the things he tries to train out of a wife. You know it never occurs to a man that in the twenty-two or twenty-three ears of a girl's life her character and bits may have become fixed a bit. 0 dear, no. He is going to train her an make her over entirely. He likes his sweet- heart to be dian, but @ bit opinionated and just a bit giddy, but his wife—oh, dear me! she mustn’t venture out of doors alone, she mustn’t have an’ ones he fixes up for her, and as for giddi- ness, well, just you see how soon she'll be reminded of the proper dignity of her post- tion if she tries it on, that’s all. The poor, foolish man. He doesn’t know any better, but It ts the dream of his life to train a wife up to his ideal.”” “It seems to me,” sald a woman who be- longs to a woman's club and makes speeches in public, “that you are all taking a fil pant view of this subject. The true m: Fiage is an ideal companionship, and what man seeks is a companion. Don't devo’ time to the filpperies of life, but set yout self to becoming a fit companion for your husband. Inform yourself on every detail of his business. If he is a physician read enough of his medical books to be able to converse intelligently about his various cases with him. If he is a lawyer read Blackstone in your leisure moments. If he is in politics endeavor to comprehend the tarift Gad the sliver question” general groan went up at the sen- tence, and a girl in blue mull remarked, “Well, I'm content to be lke Socrates on the silver question. It was Socrates, wasn’t it, who said that he knew just one thing more than the rest of the world, and that was that he didn’t know anything? I don’t Delieve that all those fellows up at the Cap!- tol know anything about silver, and I'm sure I don’t. ‘Whereupon the club woman continued, without noticing the interruption: “If you are truly companionable in this way your husband will not seek the society of others, and you will find that you have elevat marriage and advanced the cause of woman.” Don’t Drag in Shop. “I don’t agree with you,” said the blonde on the cushions. “I don't know anything aboyt the cause of woman, and all the rights I have ever wanted was the right to have my own way, which I have always succeeded in securing, but if you want to drag the shop into the bosom of the family, I rise to protest. American men are too ‘shoppy’ as it is, If you overhear two talking on the cars, what are they talk about? Shop. I am told that men talk about other things at their stag suppers, and say all sorts of witty and unrepeat- able things, but so far as I can find out, they eat, drink, sleep, dance, and amuse themselves with shop on the brain. Mx- thilde, don’t pry into George's business. Let him run it himself. He comes home tired from the office. Don’t bring Blackstone. Don't open your head about the tariff. Don't ask him about his_prac- tice. What a man wants is variety. If you are going to talk just as the men he sces down town talk, he might as well stay down town and save car fare. Talk sbout your own affairs, and what you are inter- opinions except the ut ested in. Take my word for it, a man wants to forget the shop the moment he puts his latch key in the lock, and the more complete you make his forgetfutness the greater success you'll be as a wire. And as a postscript,” concluded the blonde, who isn’t above being a bit cutting at times, “don’t talk about woman's rights. If you want more rights, just reach out and take them, but don’t, as the old folks say, ‘make a blowing horn’ of it. A man doesn’t like to hear how his sex has kept woman downtrodden, for if you'll stop to think of it he isn't'to blame for being a man, and really can't help it, He doesn’t like ‘the idea of woman's suffrage, and as he isn’t a reasonable being, you can't con- vince him that his old idea about a wo- man’s being unsexed by voting Is non- sense. Think what you please, but don’t argue the question with hit Mathilde, another cup of tea.” The club woman looked a trifle uncom- fortable, and the woman in the hammock said, to break a somewhat awkward silence: “My dear Mathilde, the true g.:ide to matri- monial happiness is the cook book. To manage your husband successfully you must feed him. Have your table linen al- ways spotless, your silver and glass ware without a blemish, and when the table has been set with mathematical exactness, have something fit to eat, and have it served ex- quisitely. I have known a fried beefsteak to wreck the happiness of years, and cold soup has swallowed up domestic fellcity more times than one. man’s temper de- pends entirely on his stomach, and if you can keep him well fed half the battle is won.” “Yes, that’s true, said the woman in the pink garden . who always agrees with the woman in the hammock, “and let me tell you just this. If you want anythin from your husband don’t ask him for it til he has had his dinner. Don’t tell him any- thing unpleasant, don’t let him see any bills and don’t ask for money before dinner. A hungry man is very likely to be irritable, but a good dinner will soothe evea a sav- age.” Every Woman Should Have an Allow- ance. think,” remarked a woman with 180 sleeves, “that {t's just that very question of money that causes most of the unhappli- ness of married people. Every woman ought to have a regular allowance. There is nothing quite so humiliating to a sensitive woman as to be obliged to ask for money lke @ beggar. The very knowledge that the man can refuse it to her, even though he doesn’t do it, is exceedingly unpleasant to her. To think that the new stair carpet or the children’s new shoes must depend on anything so capricious as a man’s temper is positivel . A wife oughtn’t to have to for money like a slave. She ought to be her husband's partner, and en- titled to a share in bis profits. 1 how many women do you know—wives of “well- todo men. too—who never have @ cent to spend except what they ask their husban: for? And they contrive and connive to avoid asking for money, and scheme and plot .until—well, when the sons of such women grow up thieves who do you think is to blame? Mathilde, inasmuch as we live in a barbarous country where marriage set- tlements are unknown, you must have your mother stipulate with George that you are to receive a certain allowance monthly or yearly. Of course George won't like it, and will take it as a reflection on his generosity, but as he won't really like your mother anyway—the man never does—you might as well have it settled” gs Everybody agreed to this, except the rosy-cheeked bride, who was sure that nothing could ever ‘cause Jack to be cross about money, and who didn’t want a sal- ary just like a hired housekeeper. “And,” said the blonde on the cushions, “don't be dowdy. Just now you put on your prettiest clothes when George 1s com- ing. Keep it up. No man can love a ‘slouchy’ woman. Don’t wear shabby slip- pers. if you wear print gowns of 4 morn. ing do have them trim, fresh and becoming. Don't let your hair be untidy. Don't wear curl paj to breakfast. You remember T. 8 Arthur's stories about the woman who grew careless of her clothes and ap- pearance till John began to entio to the pretty widow. Then there was trib- ulation till Mary put on a clean collar at breakfast, a bright bow at her throat and always greeted John with a pleasant smile. That's mainly nonsense, but it is a fact that a man always admires neatness, and wants to see his wife well dressed. Make dressing a science. Fine feathers will al- ways make fine birds until it becomes fashionable for birds to go about plucked. Study your own good points and dress to make the most of them.” After patting the pillows and feeding a lump of sugar to her dog the blonde con- tinued: “And, my dear, be ‘ascinatiag. A man {s a bit of a dog in the manger, and wants the things other men want too. Don't flirt, because flirting in a married woman {s vulgar, and vulgarity is the unpardon- able sin, but be pleasing to men. Make your husband see that other men stand ready to pay you attention, and, take my word for it, he'll see that they ‘haven't a chance. Pique his jealousy just a bit, and flatter ‘his pride, Don’t mope at home if he chooses to leave you alone. Put on your prettiest gown and talk to the hand- somest man you know. Rest assured, your husband will be dancing attendance on you before long. The day of the young girl ts over, my dear, and the men—for most of them don’t want to marry—pre- fer the society of married women. The ingenue is a bore to any but cubs. The bride looked distinctly shocked, at this, whereupon the blonde continued: “Of course, Mathilde, you are not so simple as to expect to be happy di the honey- moon the bride falviy gasped with Indig= nation at the heresy. ‘Honeymoons are merely a substitute for purgatory, and if you can get through the first six weeks without a quarrel you are sure of happiness all the rest of your life. Of course you love George devotediy, and George worships you, but you really don't know anything about each other, or each other’s ways, and till you do there is bound to be some slight un- leasantness.” Pigput dont quarrel,” begged the bride. “Tt 4s so horrid to have Ja—your husband going off slamming e door and never rou |-by, and—" meeting the eye of the Bionde ‘she broke off blushing. “On the contrary,” went on the very ter- rible blonde, “do quarrel. Find some sub- ject utterly foreign to your domestic life, and when you must disagree, disagree about that. Now, I have two friends who live like turtle doves, but whenever things re jopelessly wrong they squabble about the merits of Thackeray, whom she dotes on, and Balzac, whom he swears by. The dis- cussion can bly be personal, and it serves as a ive. “The ideal wife,” said the woman with the 1830 sl as looked at her watch, “4s a trinity of Ww the component thi persons are mistress an: And if you my way’ es your gate.” The blonde disa) with the 1830 sleeves and the rest shook opt their skirts and drifted away. Mathilde wore a puzzled and somewhat serious expression. It was clear that the conversation had not deter- mined her on any course of conduct. The woman in the pink garden hat ran back to say: “To be happy, let him do as he pleases. Do as you please yourself. Don't let either of you hamper the other. It's the only way “facthide. vever, recalled the “unham- red” of t cular woman's Risbana"and felt a prey to doubt, As she went up the stepa she met a beautiful to set you down at white hatred wor wo pete. tare hap- vine was uni ly ‘ pierell me,” said the girl, “how you have been happy. ¥ keeping uth. shut. When my humana’ We out et Rumor, Tuhever say" word. When I am cross he keeps still.” “and how do our husband?’ Sty deat, teturmed theo ler woman, “I have never tried to manage him.” Mosquito ‘rom the Chicago Mail. the Red Balloon. “Tm blowed if 't’aint gas!” only say that he would have to think over what was best to be done, “as Providence had brought this child into his humble home it was for some good and wise purpose, and he would do what seemed right with the Poor little innocent.”” Wei, divac, 4 must say this: You are either one of the biggest hyppercrits I ever *eard of or else you're one of the best old chaps as I ever met, blowed if you ain't, whichever way it is you just think over what you would like to do, and keep an eye on the ‘amper while I goes to see Widdy Furlong’s daughter, Lizzy, as lost her own blessed hinfant only last week from the ‘ooping cough, and, maybe, she would look after your’n for you! If the child cries be sure to take her up and carry her a bit. I'm reg’lar knocked stupid, that I arm, but'li not be long.” Baby didn’t cry, however, and during Mrs. Judkins’ absence Job had time to peruse the mysterious message which accompanied the equally mysterious little stranger. After an interval of twenty minutes or half an hour Mrs. Judkins yeturned with her friend Lizzy, and they were both as surprised as alarmed to find poor Job lying motionless on the floor. However, they set about restoring him, and their efforts were soon successful, but the old man seemed for some time, although profuse in his apologies for the ‘trouble he had given em. Mrs. Judkins accounted for his fainting as the result of the shock he nad had, and, OLD MOKE. WRITTEN FOR THE EVENING STAR B. ALEX. DOUGLAS LITHGOW. (Copyright, 1893, by the author.) CHAPTER I. For five and forty years Job Mokiss had lived in two rooms in Welland street, off Soho square, and for five and forty years he had walked daily, morning and evening, | in all kinds of weather, to and from the large tobacco manufactory of Messrs, Turn- er and Moffat in Pulford Square, where he was employed. He had come to London when about twenty-one years of age, but where he came from or under what circumstances nobody knew, as Job had always been very reti- cent when questioned, and remained 4 mys- tery to all who knew him. Beyond a few people in the works and a few of those who lodged in the same tene- ment he seemed to know nobody, and even those with whom he had been acquainz for many years were never permitted to en- BY Joy anything like familiar intercourse. suddenly recollecting that she had not pre- His neighbors regarded him as having | Part nis tet; was ston busily engaged With been “crossed in life,” but beyond this sup- position they knew nothing, and as he al- ways paid his way punctiliously and was scrupulously regular in his habits they were forced to content themselves by regarding | him as an oddity. Not that he was churlish or ill-natured by any means, for in times of difficulty or trouble there was no one in the neigabor- hood whose advice was more sought after, and no one who could give it elther so just- ly or judiciously. Job, in his appearance, was also some- thing of an anachronism, reminding one of the good old days when George the III was king, as he invariably wore a very long cloth coat, with a large velvet collar, and whatever color it had been orizinally, it was now of a sombre brown, and more than a little the worse for wear; added to this his hat was of beaver, with a low grown and broad brim, and had once been white. He was about the medium height, and, about, “Poor old’ Moke! It’s ‘bad business!” Job ‘felt in no humor for eating, but Mrs. Judkins insisted upon his swallowing a cup of tea, with a little drop of brandy in it, and, as soon as he had swallowed it, she directed his attention to Lizzy, who had come with her to see what could be done about the baby. Job had the baby brought to him, and ex- amining it carefully, he at length ‘impress- ed a kiss upon its’ little white forehead, and handed it back to Mrs. Judkins. Then with some emotion he said: “It is the unexpected which generally happens, and recognising the hand of Prov- idence as having brought this poor little babe into my care, I am willing to bring her up as if she were my own,” and then are ly exclaimed, “and I will, so help Jt was then arranged that, for a consid- eration, Lizzy was to take full charge of the infant, Job, in order to secure his pro- prictary right, insisting that she shculd brought to see him every morning be- although his hair was white and rather | fore he left, and every evenin; long, he was active and wiry and walked | returned. To ‘this Lissy agreed, “aed 2S as ol ly af many a much younger man. | Mrs. Judkins hanced the baby over to her In repose his face was wan, dcep-lined and anxious-looking, as if he had suffer- ed much at some period of his life; but when in conversation a sweet and tender amile stole over his features, and his stead- fast blue eyes gave his listener an impres- sion of @ sterling nature and an honest heart. He was much respected at the works in which the greater part of his life had been spent, not only by his employers (of whom he had served under three or four genera- tions), but also by all the employes whe were ‘brought into contact with him, and though somewhat quiet and_ taciturn "Old Moke,” as he was familiarly called by everybody, was looked upon by all as 9 man of strict integrity and high principle, as a true and faithful friend who never made an enemy. Unfortunately, when a comparatively young man, he sustained a slight attack of paralysis, which left his right hand and @rm forever useless, and this had mbli- tated mueh against his advancement If the factory, as otherwise there was no pori- tion to’ which he might not have attained in it. But such was his force of character, he so deftly educated his left hand that in @ few years he could fold up and seal the Packets of tobacco which were handed te im far more quickly than anybody else in the works could do with both hanas. Such was the humble position he occu- pled and the duties of which he had faith- ully discharged for over thirty years with- out a break of a single day. But the sezenity of his peaceful life was at length rudely broken by a circumstance | of terrible and perplexing reality. After his eventful and tranquil five-and- forty years he returned one evening,as was his wont, to his quiet fireside and. frugal evening meal. As usual, he doffed his beaver hat and long brown ‘coat, and await- ed the coming of the aged Abigail who administered to his domestic wants. - Scarcely, however, had he seated himself in his accustomed corner when a low and mysterious sound greeted his ears and sent the blood wave through his heart with sud- den and increased rapidity. “God bless me! What was that?” But again the sound was repeated with unequivocal and unmistakable. intensity. Poor Job sat bolt upright, and gave a quick glance round his humble abode, yet | searching enough to recognize the cause of “the commotion as proceeding from a hamper in one corner of the room, which must have somehow been placed there by mistake. ‘The sounds now succeeded each other with such marvelous rapidity as to constitute | one uninterrupted wail, and Job's instincts | prompted him, with fear and trembiing, | to investigate the contents of the hamper. Even the lid was not fastened, and as he gently ralsed it his action was rewarded by h she nestled and fondled it in her bosom with passionate tenderness, doubtless prompted all the more by thoughts of her own dear little one which she had lost so J oe Mi dl sym, ol irs. Judkins looked on - thizingly, and when Lizzie took her charge away they were both too overcome to peak for some minutes. In process of time the novelty wore off, lob ceased to be annoyed by the quiz- zing of his friends and neighbors. Meanwhile, under Lizzy’s care, the child grew up healthy and vigorous, and was a father, “whom she loved deatiy tak tio > Whom she lov. 5 wi fairly ‘aoted ‘on her. eee job's special request she had been christened “Louisa Bertrand,” but he gave Ro reason for his fancy, nor was he at all {nclined to discuss the question with any- Uneventfully the years passed 5 when little ieee was about ion some old circumstances occurred which ‘com: Bletely, changed the even ‘tenor of thelr made a complet. Bay; And made a complete break in her Job nad now HAPTER 1. 0) now completed fifty years at the tobacco factory, and his generous employers had honored his jubilee of falthful service by bestowing upon him a competent pen- sion. Besides the street in ‘Was doomed, for be” had decreed that it Was to be removed, in order to carry out a go improvement. ie latter circumstance was a great blow to Job, but he was too philosophical not to quietly submit to the inevitable, and at Jength determined to spend the remainder of his life in the country with his beloved foster child. ‘ter much consideration he finall lected Shelstone, in Essex, as fis. futere abode, but not ‘before he ‘had visited the place and made such inquiries as he thought desirable. Shelstone was a small town of — se red aconr a and about miles inland from the coast, an: he had selected a small stable cottage on the confines of the town and not | very far from a good school, which seemed to weigh with him in choosing it. The cottage stood by itself a short dis- tance from the main road, and had a nice flower garden in front and a patch for vegetables behind. The house itself con- tained four rooms, a kitchen and offices, and had a trellis work porch in front, now covered with jasmine, honeysuckle and wild roses, At length the day of their departure ar- rived and many tears were anes. by Mrs. Judkins, Lizzy (who had so long supplied the place of a mother to Louisa) and other | friends and neighbors who had known the old man for many years. Little Louie, too, sobbed as if her little heart would break, and poor old Job himself showed unmistakably what a wrench his feelings were undergoing at leaving them all, per- haps for ever. The brave old soul, how- ever, begged them all to come and see him and ‘Louie whenever they led, and after many hand-shakings and “God biess yous’ the old man and the light of his eyes, his Precious Louie, at length started for their new life in the country. > Louie was delighted with her new home, and all her surroundings, and when she had settled down at school amid children of her own age, and formed many new compan- jonships, she was, indeed, supremely happy. Not that she was ever otherwise than happy When with her foster-father, whom she had long learned to call “grandad.” Nor had she ever forgotten her dear Lizzy, Mrs, Judkins, or the few other friends who had ministered so much to her comfort and hap- | piness in former years. | Perhaps, however, her chiefest joy was experienced when, during the summier even- ings, Job used to take her for lovely walks in all directions, although she sometimes quizzed him concerning his partiality for mistake: and I must say ur- | the trimly-kept God’s-acre which surround- prised at you, and at your age too! at | ed the little church. Job delighted in read- will the neighbors say? I calls it a wicked | ing the inscriptions upon. the tombstones, scandal, I do! | and would often sigh as he read them, or Job, however, said little in reply, but let kept silent for some time, as if long-buried his oid factotum run on, hoping she would | memories were reawakened by their perus- aor the sooner. jal. There was one re in particular which “It’s a purty little dear, at any rate! he never left the churchyard without visit- Look at its lovely blue eyes, and its beau-| Ing, and he generally brought a few flowers tiful hair! Did it want its bottle, poor | to strew over this moss-grown tomb, which dear? 1t shall have it, then, that it shall,” | bore the name of “Louisa Bartlett, aged Here she busied herself in preparing ‘a | 31." fresh supply of milk for the “little angel,” | “Little Loute often wondered whom she had which said angel v rously imbibed and | been, and if “grandad” had known her, but almost immediately fell asleep. Judkins | to all her questionings he replied evasively, looked at Job, as she crooned to the sleep-| and told her he would tell her all some day, ing infant on her lap, and at length, as if | with which she had to be content. unable to contain herself any longer, ex- claimed: Years flew on, and as Louie bloomed f sng 1 09, Yous Sit, there, Moke, mover say- ehitidhood into lovely ‘maidenhood. poor Jom, ‘oan we vou! What wants to know ‘in, —— to be expected, waxed feebler and whose is it, where it come from and ovely girl what are you going to do with it? Lawks tit lini 8 = wees aetaneae eg poet a massy me! I never could ha’ believed that keep his eyes from her beautiful a reg'lur old bloke like you Would have led | fare. ‘and he. Indeed, doted apn eee some silly wench away and become a fill- | Precious daviing = = as wig ative father. You needn't shake your head, | ‘They had now resided at Shelstone over that’s what the lawyers will call you; least-| twelve years, during which thelr shows Yise, they did when Billy Skidder got poor | jives and tastes had been sanctified be ther Sal Grogan‘s Mariar into trouble. But you| rare affection which sometimes existe te, men are ail alike, that's what 1 says; and | tween the young and the old; and during again I asks you whose it is and what are | which Lizay had several times been to pee you going to do w! ? Poor Jobs, expression was really most | crue tee cee tee pitiable to behold, and much as he resented | Mrs. Judkins’ imputations as to himself, he | Ban Mg te samme Cogn 4 was really more eager to find out something | Could not restrain his tears when he heard about the poor stray little lamb from the | of the sad event: for he could never forget missive in his pocket. He could only deny | the great help she had been to him in the any knowledge whatever of the infant in long ago, nor the true, kind heart which any way; but Mrs. Judkins knew “all about | had throbbed under a rather rough exterior. men and their wickedness, drat 'em!” and | “TLoule was now seventeen years of age, @ although by no means assured by Job's de- ceful, charming girl, who was never so lals she ended by anathematizing “the | happy as when doing something for others, ‘eartless ‘ussey as could thus leave her own | especially for her beloved “grandad,” from flesh and blood without a mother’s or even | whom she was almost inseparable. ‘oman’s protection.” The last winter had tried poor c!4 Job “What's to be done, Moke? Shall I make | very much, and he was even yet suffer 8 pilice job of It; or are you going to keep | from the effects of an attack of bronchitis it ke a man if it’s your'n? Who's to look | which selzed him about Christmas time, and after it, I should like to know?” which had left him feeble. The doctor Job looked appealingly at her, and could said that if he ved the spring he is seeing laid upon a pillow, and with a alf-emptied bottle of milk’ beside it, a lovely, healthy looking baby. At this moment Mrs. Judkins entered to prepare Job's homely meal. “Oh, Mokey, Mokey, what do I see and hear, and whatever have you been a doin’ of to bring this blessed babby into such a| place as this?” | “I assure you, Mrs. Judkins, I know noth- | ing of it, more than you do yourself,” said | 0} ‘Oh, very likely!” said Mrs. Judkins, ‘I've ‘heard that tale afore! At this moment, however, the baby gave a plercing shriek,’ as much’as to say, “Do stop jabbering, and attend to me at once.” Mrs. Judkins accordingly lifted the baby from the hamper and Job, to make sur that there was nothing else in it, took up | the pillow on which it had recline}, and Was astonished to find a letter pinned to | one side of it addressed to himselt. ‘To slip this into his pocket for future consideration was the work of a moment, | as, for obvious reasons, he thought it expe- dient to keep the contents of the letter « known, for the present, at any rate, to an: one but himself, especially as it was evi- dently intended’ that he alone should re- ceive it. “Well, this ‘eres a nice job, but comfortable | Louie, indeed, had grown into a| 7 might 1 <9, through the summer, but he Was afraid he would never get an- other winter. This was a terrible Liow to Loule, who redoubled, if possible, her atten- tion to him, and, as he had been confined to the house for many months, she, too, pcor girl, felt the want of her wonted fresh air Gnd exercise. It was now March, and the cold east Winds seemed to freeze in poor old Job's Veins, and during the past few days he had not been so weil. He felt that his were numbered, although Louie was looking for- Ward to ‘the summer, when she and he might again revisit some of the dear spots where they had often wandered together. Job's cough had returned, and his breath- ing was very short and labored, but on this Particular evening he insisted’ upon being placed in ‘his tavorite old arm chalt, and for a time he seem @ little easier from the change of position. He asked for a little brandy and water, and as soon us Louie had placed it by his side he called her to him, and asked her to lock all the doors and to See that nobody was about, as he had something particular to say to her. ‘All right, grandad, dear,” said Louie, ‘but you have forgotten that Lizzy wrote to say she would come this evening and she may (arrive at way moment.” ‘orgotten it, dariing,”” lied Job, ‘but 1 shall be very giad to an ber andi don't much mind Whether she hears my story or mot.” hen she had again seated herself by his side he placed his aged hand on her shai 1y Read and said: a) “You have often asked me, Louie, lo ‘who was buried in that grave in the old church yard, to the side of Which 1 have — taken you, and 1 am now soing to you. “I am an old man, Louie, ity-three Qlmost imagine it is my darling Louie Bertran whom I last saw over sixty years ago, for, indeed, dear, you have ai- most grown to be her living image, and at the time I speak of she was just about your age. I needn't trouble you about my- self or my ogre gH am the sole sur- others have passed away as do before long. Louie and 1 Were engaged, but her father, who was the schoolmaster in this very town, thought I was not good ‘enough for her, and made her promise she would never see me again or have any communication with me. “I was almost demented, for I loved her with all my heart and soul, and she, too, poor darling, afterwards had a severe at- tack of brain fever, from which she almost died. 1 loved her ‘too well to ask her to break her word and 1 went away, little caring what became of me, resolving to have no further communication with any of my relatives or former friends and to make my own way in the world as best 1 could. 1 may have been isolating myself, but 1 —— en years after I left I heard that Louie had at length married a musi¢ teacher, very much against “her own but her parents insisted, and at last she gave in. 1 never heard of her her death, which happened years ago, and the name cut the grave beside which you oe me linger ts that of my own darling, Bertrand—after whom ere named—her husband's tt “AS years wore on I felt an sire to see once again the scenes which 1 once been so happy, ing assi that no one would remem! after such a absence, 1 found I sho q have to, sive up my. lon rooms, I resolved to come here and seek such accommodation required, “But the hand of Providence : L i fi § ! 5 i i i F increasing ? i i i if cf i i i H ie Ht was in it my child, and worked in a mysterious way! Give me a sip of brandy, Louie, dear, for ing iad tae thle ey “and open the so mu e left top drawer beside the and give me §. bundle of you will find in e right = and he She placed the papers in his hand, “I shall never forget the evening I found you, a tiny baby, in « hamper in my old room! thing. “Judkins—poor Judkins!—iifted you up tenderly, and on looking at the pillow which you laid I found & packet pinned to it, which I greedily in my pocket. The first opportunity I T ex. amined the contents of the envelope, you may imagine my amazement when found it to contain a marriage certificate, letter from your mother, w! I seen or known of, and a letter signature of ‘Louisa Bartlett,” her own daughter from her counseling her, if she ever wan! to seek out Job Mokiss, in and she would find him'a only for her sake. “How she knew where I knows, but I only state also con’ | a tender which thrilled my heart with Ei 8 i i : i i Hf it i soon in each other's arms. “My darling child!” Lizzy almost “how lovely you look; I am you, my pet! How is poor uie told her he seemed had not been so well a days, but begged her to take off net and shawl and come she leant on his breast shi heart would break. Lizzy’s fening to his ‘end, and he tening to his e ga" that told her she had not ‘been Bt Holding Loule’s hand in his own he said: “I am very tired, but I must finish the story I was telling Loule when you enter- #4, dear. No, don’t go, Lizzy, you may as Well hear the end of it, which will soon be told. “The other letter was signed “Marion Car- ruthers,” and proved to be from your own mother, dearie. From this it 21 that she had married a drunken, er- do-well, who had at length left her to live or die with her newly-born infant: that was yourself. Soon afterwards, she heard of his @eath in one of the hospitals from bel run over in the street, and that she been wandering about’ for several weeks with scarcely a@ bit to eat, or a foof to cover her, and if 1 were only the friend her own dear mother said I should be I would take her beloved child and bring her up. As for the writer, as I had never seen, neither should I ever see her, for by the time I read her letter she would be no more. “I have tried to do my duty to you, dar- ling, as the grandchild of her who was ever dearest to me on earth, and I can only leave you in Lizzy’s care, feeling sure that will, indeed, be as a mother to you! ‘1 have almost done. When I am gone you will find I have not left you um ed for, for I have always been thri regular in my habits. In this packet, which I now give you, you will find the documents I spoke of, and some directions which I should Wke to be carried out. Now, kiss me, lovely image of my lovely angel, gone before me, and now waiting for me. God Almighty bless you evermore!” It seemed as if the exertion had been too much for him, for he almost fainted when he ceased talking, but brandy down his throat, an rally for a moment; but he scarcely apoke again. Louie threw her arms round Bim, and kissed him over and over again, but Lizzy at length forced her ‘His lips moved, .d as far as they could make out, he said, “i'm coming, darling!” And when they knelt beside him to catch his last words they had been uttered, for poor “Old Moke” was dead! nae eee LOTS OF FISHING. But the Name of the Place Was Not Suggestive of Sport. ‘W. J. Lampton in the Detroit Free Press, When one goes to the mountains he thinks of fishing and hunting, even if he does not indulge in such pursuits. “Are there any fish about here?” said I to the gentlemanly and urbane hotel clerk. “Yes, plenty out there in the ice box,” said he with a laugh that made his large and elegant diamond rattle in its sash until the putty almost loosened. “Don't get gay,” said I, hurling a look of intense scorn at him. “Is there any fish- ing about here? “Plenty down in the Bull Pasture,” said he. ‘What do you catch there?” said I, “*bull |cats and buffaloes or cattle and ‘clover 2 ‘Then I laughed a bovine laugh. ." said he, “trout and bass.” ‘ome off,” said I, “whoever heard of trout and bass living in a bull pasture?” It was now his tum to laugh again, and he called it. “{ reckon you don't know geography, said he; “that pleasant little river you see winding lke a stream of silver light through the valley and past Goshen ts the rivel and ‘Ye gods,” I cried, “what's In a name?” and the clerk said there were two words in this one. — t0e He Had Hopes. From the Chicago Tribune. Amateur—“T think a great deal of that bow. It has been in the family for fifty years. If I should lose it I don’t think I'd ever touch my violin His Next-Goor Neignbor cwittty ease) ve “How much will buy tl ly Sealed Proposals. From Voge. Minnie—“Did he kiss you when he pro- Posed ?”” May—“Certainly; I wouldn't consider any but sealed proposals.” NOBLE INSCRIPTIONS To Be Found on the Buildings at the Pair. Some of the Signs, However, Are Not Se Noble—Days Could Be Spent on Them. Special Correspondence of The Brening Star. CHICAGO, Aug. 24, 189%. “What have you been doing at the world's fair?” the correspondent of the Evening Star asked a visitor from Washington, whom he met strolling through the grounds. “I have been reading most of the time,” he answered. “What, reading? Why don’t you see the fair? What do you read?” ‘I read the inscriptions on the buildings,” he answered, “and they are, indeed, noble Specimens of English.” This man was right, and, walking «bout the grounds, some of the more notabje in- scriptions were jotted down for the benefit of the readers of The Star. But first of ail it will be interesting to take a glance #t the Signs that abound at the fair. me Fi hi t 2 Ls g i i ; rtf 4 g i ee ii 3 ! ; i rl re EY x £ i ay i hs ie my i) 6g Le ? ? ie fil if , / d Hl | j I H f i a H f t i : g U i i AI i oe “Debs tions. ‘They ought to serve. to A Fistor, to Tine fair with ‘this phase to _ ottn a very exalted and nobis em, otten Cau Down through the orchard bought ‘Comes the soft ir Hused are the katytids, Hit the grace, Sing as they pane. Tiere comes a honey bee From bis retreat, Drowsily humming’ bome, Heavy with sweet. From Trath. One of the crew—“There’s an hefress aboard. Capsize the yacht and rescue her.” ‘The skipper—“Can’t run the risk, ny boy. T'm a married man.” One of the crew—“Gooa! ‘Then yor ‘Ro risk; you won't have to marry her.