Evening Star Newspaper, February 17, 1894, Page 13

THE EVENING STAR, SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 17 THE ARTIST'S MODEL! A Curious Side of Life in the French Capital. TUE QUESTION OF THE NODE IN ART A Painter Must Have the Figure Before Him. HOW THEY ALL LIVE Special Correspondence of The Evening Star. PARIS, Jan. 23, 1804. T HE TRADE OF artists’ model grows and flourishes w artists flourish. an artist goes to paint a landscape he chooses out his point of view and makes; a sketch of what he/ sees. The landscape poses for him. When | an artist has to paint in figure “Sam- son Grinding Grain tines” or “Elisha Criticised by | —he must have the figures be-, fore him. | In last year’s competition at the Beaux | Arts for the Prix de Rome the subject given out was Samson at the mill. You| may be sure that the young art students Were not content to imagine what the mill | should be like; but that they studied, in the museums, in books of eastern travel. | and every other source, to arrive at some} sensible approximation of Philistine mill- ing. Yet this was searcely a beginning. It is right that the archaeology should not be wrong; it is essential that the emotions coming through the eye should be aroused. ‘You must have Samson, the betrayed pa- triot, still the strongest man. must make you see the strained muscles, | the harness wearing deep into the flesh, | the outraged bravo dragging at the beam. | This the artist himself must see before he | paints it. With his model posed before him some coal heaver or suburban bully—ihe artist's trained imagination will undoubt- edly see more than you or I—in fact, more than is there. There are some things, how- ever, imagination cannot do. Undoubtedly to paint a Samson you must have a Samson posing. and otherwise you will be smiled at by mere fourteen-year-old girls, who ere mot without their iniuitions, though seeing but the blameless nudity of street car horses. For it is not to be believed that the (ancient) Philistines were of a mc sufficiently high-collared to dress the up in coat and vest before they swatted him with loaded thongs. “Too Stout, My Son.” The spirited portrayal of living forms in action requires experience of the nude. In the large painting by David (the artist of the first Napoleon's time’ which hangs un- finished in a northern gallery of the Louvre the visitors are sometimes shocked to finda rowd of eminent politicians of the period Posed nude, in a debate, part done in char- coal, part worked up, but with only their faces actually finished. It was David's Practice, and continues to be the practice of gome artists of the present day, to com- all figure pictures from nude models; m, when satisfied with the blocked-out attitudes.to dress them up in proper clothes. The secret of this Louvre picture simply is that David died before he found the time to paint on coats and trousers. Mr. Carl Gutherz of St. Louis, one of the esteemed American artists of Paris, tells me that he often made use of this practice. If it be a ecruple, it is, at least, a laborious scruple, tly inoreasing the actual work of draw- But labor {fs a common thing with Ss. In the great classes of the Beaux-Arts, where the French government peys out the People’s money to insure 2 prestige and a Fevenue to France, and in the large, if un- Official, private schools,where students from all countries spend their time and money, question of the nude in art might pos- sibly—althou. joes not—bear discussion. But on th necessity of models and Bude mod cussion woult be deemed! too laughable. ‘Take the single case of the rtrait of a gentleman, in a frock coat. e creasings of the céat as he stands and Bits so easily depen: entirely on the play of fauscles beneath the coat. ! ni a Modet?* in great and con- le of artist male and Hemon and Baucis, guard of/ y rounds from | in the garments of} mest, bedraggled, Ss eye to see the n these commonplace ex- hi E nite, he takes her quite as as he would a battered papa 2s of a beggar. 3 often at Bi runs in a family. ouguereau was a ¥ h her hushand, who is also HKiouguereau—and hi six ‘ery one a model and posed for EBougue- was the original of Another has . the rarest of all e the French-Irish gir! new novel, she has never er shoes. Yet put her foot beside ture foot which from her aad ¥ ‘ou See how art im- The brother of this girl the other day #28 pos: i 01 mertean ers in the| Bering ommission pi . Which Carl Sutherz has imply to get the lezen weil- Satrons isto a. It was| coat. Half a Maids 2nd that now have i The artist | #4 But the good and rosy face of Senator | Morgan is discerned quite clearly. ' Two dollars a day is considered good pay | by a Paris model. The business of a model , is not necessarily a complete Mvelihood. Some are content to take a dollar for three or four hours’ sitting. On the other hand, Bouguereau'’s Daphnis and Chloe. it has often happened that a particular model has made the fame of an artist. Be- ing very beautiful, the artist has used her face again and again in a hundred cos- tumes. The people want it. Under such circumstances the artist is very careful to let nohody else get hold of her. He can afford to support her handsomely, and her family with her, even when he Is not using her. Sarah Brown (her prosecution for her share in the students’ ball last year helped to cause the bloody students’ riots) did a great deal in this way for Rochegrosse, who painted her again and again. Still, she is not a very great model, posed in all the academies, which is not the greatest kind of work. She is a little passe, and her chief virtue as a model is her mag- and has ; experience of oriental life American read- 1 in any | higher | d suc- necessary in an artists’ model other field of usefulness. So far I have only spoken of the kind of artists, men of standing ani cess. I have the friendship of several such, and there is not one of them but practically supports some model, even when he does not need her. This is because of the girl’s intel- ligence, good taste and dexterity. If the e Knows how to give his work a criticism that is both honest and intelligent, and dif- ferent from that of the prattling ladies of the great world. A model of this kind will often remain a model—and an honest wo- man—in spite of great temptations. Such ones learn to love the atmosphere of the studio. They begin to have opinions on the various schools, to finger chalks and pencils lovingly, and many actually take to draw- ing. When such a one shows the slightest talent, the artists who employ her push her on with incredible patience and good nature, giving her solid instruction and aa- istance. Other models save up their money and take some little business, like the set- ting up a repertoire of costumes. Thinking Up a Subject. The models who own costumes, however, belong rather to the lower world of students than to successful artists. Most of the known artists of Paris have great quanti- ties of costumes, armor and furniture of their own. Edwin Lord Weeks, an Ameri- can, long resident in Paris, and a student of all eastern lands, is an example. Of hig ers are beginning to learn something in the magazines. Mr. Weeks has tapestries and nificent hair and the beautiful shape of her head. Discussing the Work. *As to ordinary models, they simply go and come. Some one knocks at the ate- lier door. “Entre: “Do you want a model?” Not today. I'll put you on my book.” And the artist writes the name, address, complexion, style, &c. “I will write you when I need you.” And the model must walk out into the mud and rain of Paris in the winter or take the om- nibus across the city and go through cther like scenes, perhaps for the whole day, and not penny earned. The a ‘s relations with his models are regulated by strict business. Like a bark cashier, whom familiarity has taught to look en hundred-dollar bills as only so much paper, so the artist pushes, pulls and poses all this beauty. A primrose by the river's brim a simple primrose is to him, and it is nothing more.® Requisites of a Model. The first requisite of a young female mvdel is undoubtedly her face. It must he something fine, sentimental or iaking, something nice to copy. A face that is real- ly charming, that has an individuality, does } Avenue Wagram looks like a museum. away with the need of invention on the artist's part, and it su ts ideas. Con- trary to a general impression in the lay mind, the face is the fortune, and the fig- ure comes afterward. There are a great many models who never pose for the nude. Posing in costume is quite as .mportant, and what I have heretofore said about the necessity of nude models is not modiiied by this consideration. Simpiy, drapery and costume are so exceedingly importaut that all the trouble taken with the nude bcfore- hand is simply that the drapery may be right afterward. When models with de- sirable faces are difficult and will not pose for the figure also the artist must have in some cases two models. And then, ten to one, the highly virtuous model wiil sneer at the figure of the other girl. Diana for Falguiere. After the face, the important thing is the figure and its lines. Beautiful hands and feet in particular are very highly prized. A fine breast is not easy to get, and the corset responsible for a great deal of disfigure- I have seldom heard great artists object to the female figure having its corset on when fully dressed. That improves on nature. But let them not expect to pose sreat success. Now the quality of sup- For this reason the lazy, unthinking Italians are such successful mod- i The police register shows that more ‘ans are down as artists’ models in Paris there are artists to employ them. possessing this quality of stands up, all the Hines seem to gracefully, without self-conscious- or effort on the model's part. Corsets and tight shoes prevent this suppleness. A 3 model wiil frequently suggest the picture for the artist by the accidental tak- ing of some new pose. For instance, she e stood a long time in some trying udied out carefully by the artist, ho scarcely knows if he is pleased with it | or not. In a moment's pause, merely to rest herself, she may fall charming th: revelation. into an attitude so it strikes the artist like a Seep that, keep that, don't budge, I say!” Immediately his plans are changed. His studies are recommenced. The work of a week is thrown aside, and he be- gins sketching his figure from this new pose. A Lifeless Mannikin. It is here that the element of the model's own good taste, experience, quickness and docility comes in, to make her a success or a failure. Take a case the writer has some knowledge of. It is a young girl, extremely pretty, and still young. Beginning life as a nursery governess, she failed; graduated to the Jardh de Paris and the Trouville boardwalk, she failed; coming back to ability as a copyist and addresser of elopes. she failed. Now, under good aus- he is starting as an artists’ model— ‘til fail; for she has not one of those which insist on being copied—not one And as face: pretty girl in fifty has such a face. for the qualities lacking in her—patience, courage, docility and the rest—they are as arms and furniture, silks of the east and Moorish stuffs until his pretty house on 3. s for supplementary costumes, there are spe- celal dealers, who send out their notices and cards. Five francs a day will rent a deal of stuff from them. With the models who own costumes, pos- ing in them for the young men of the aca‘ emies, a wholly different world of artists’ model life is reached. Formed artists treat their models with gravity; students frater- nize with them. It is at once one of the amusing and pathetic sights in the world to sit at night in such students’ brasseries as the Harcourt and watch these models and their companions (tombees dans la fete) as they sit with their students, art and medicine and law. Many are still fresh, even as fresh as sixteen years of age. They look around them superciliously. They are not like other girls in brasseries. They accompany their students, play cards with their students and take an equal part in learned conversations. It is nothing that interminable debates on law and med- icine and art should bore them to death, they are still proud. STERLING HEILIG. ——___ + e+ ______ FAMED PLANT OF SWITZERLAND. The Wholesale Destruction of Edel- Weiss Stopped by the Little Repub! Every traveler in Switzerland is familiar with the tender star-shaped flowers of this curious plant, whose sage green blossoms are stuck into the hat of every guide and collected with rare ingenuity by the impor- tunate little rascals who race the carriages on the road, or start out like rabbits from the bushes as the pedestrian begins his solitary climb. The plant is scarce and very partial. It is found in the Engadine, sel- dom in the Bernese Oberland, and has par- ticular corners and mountains that it loves to affect. This scarcity and partiality gave to the edelweiss a somewhat unhealthy no- toriety, according to the Philadeiphia Times. The rarer it became the more ambitious were the excursionists to obtain a sprig. Some years ago every cockney hat was adorned with the curious bloom, feathered, as its botanical name applies, like an old man’s beard, and it was no longer a sign of patience aad endurance to wear this pret- ty badge that hitherto had denoted a long climb and a patient search. When tourists began to brand their alpenstocks down in the valley with the name of a mountain whose base they touched, but whose top they never attempted to reach, then was edelweiss sold by the handful at Interlaken, Chamounix and Grindelwald, and the guides, porters and boys were tempted to rifle the mountains of their peerless flowers. When the rage for art greens came upon us in full force esthetic young ladies flattered themselves that a wreath of these soft pet- als would look becoming in the hair, and some went so far as to appear at fancy balls in the character of “The Alps” smoth- ered in edelweiss. As for the flower itself, it refused to be in any way gracious at the touch of a botanist and sternly declined to be transplanted. The more obstinate was the edelweiss the more determined became the florists, and they purchased {it by the root, carefully tended it during the journey home, nursed it across the sea, watched it at every rail- way station and handed it to the family gardener in order to hear in a few days that the plant, sickening and sighing for its mountain home, had refused to exist in England with the aid of any artificial process. There have been only one or two rare and exceptional cases where the edelweiss was induced to live and give forth flowers in England, and then the re- sult was only obtained by a system of nurs- ing that would have worn out the majority of botanists. At last the Swiss government determined to put down by law the wholesale destruc- ton of this popular flower. It was rapidly disappearing altogether from the country when an enactment made it penal to take a plant up by tlie roots. The dignity and importance of legislation gave a new im- petus to the interest that was attached to the plant, and going in search of the edel- weiss became attractive a source of dan- ger as any to be found in Switzerland. Un- accompanied by guides, and straying from the beaten tracks, more than one tourist has risked his life, and several have been killed In the quest. WHAT MONTH IS YOURS? See Whether It Tells Your Disposition Aright. From Harrison's Monthly Mazazine. An old astrological prediction gives the character of a girl according to the month she was born in, as follows: If a girl is born in January she will be a prudent housewife, given to melancholy, but good tempered and fond of fine clothes; if in February, an affectionate wife and tender mother and devoted to dress; if in March, a frivolous chatterbox, somewhat given to quarreling and a connoisseur in gowns and bonnets; if in April, inconstant, not very intelligent, but likely to be good looking and studious of fashion plates; if in May, handsome, amiable and given to style in dress; if in June, impetuous, will marry early, be frivolous and like dressy clothes: if in July, possibly handsome, but with a sulky temper and a penchant for gay at- tire; if in August, amiable and practical, likely to marry rich and dress strikingly; if in September, discreet, affable, much liked and a fashionable dresser; if in Oc- tober, pretty, coquettish and devoted to attractive garniture; if in November, lib- eral, kind, of a mild disposition and an o4- mirer of stylish dress; if in December, well proportioned, fond of novelty, extravagant and a student of dressy effects. ——__+-e+ ____ Justice. From Boston Home Journal. An English lady, walking down the Lung *Arno in Florence, missed her purse. The suspicious movements of a man in front made her boldly demand the stolen prop- erty. Too amazed to refuse, the thief actu- ally handed over the purse. Indignant at such broad-day robbery, the lady stopped an elegantly dressed man, and, in excited tones, began to pour out her grievance. Merely waiting to hear “That man stole my purse!” the gallant Italian rushed after the thief, who promptly took to his heels. They had a good run before the thief could dotge his pursuer. The sun of a summer day did not help the polite Florentine to keep cuol; so, red faced and out of breath, he turned back to meet the English lady with pro- found apologies. “Madam, I am very sorry. I did my Lest, but_your purse is gone.” “Oh, no!" she replied sweetly; “I have my purse. I got it back from the man “Got your purse back! Per Bacco! What did you want then?” “Want! Why, I want justice.” It was too much even for proverbial Ital- fan urbanity, and, almost choking with sud- den vexation, he gasped— “Justice! To think I should have run my- self into a perspiration for justice!” THE SCHOOL TEACHER'S STORY ee Mary E. Wilkins in Romance. HAVE TAUGHT school forty-four years. Now I have delivered the keys of my school house to the committee,I have packed away on the top shelf of my closet a row of primers and readers, geographies, spelling books and arithmetics, and I have stopped work for the rest of my life. Through all these forty-four years I have squeezed resolutely all the sweets out of existence, and stored them up to make a kind of tasteless but life-sustaining honey for old age. I have never spent one penny unless for the barest necessaries. I have added term by term to the sum on my bank-book, until I have been able to build this house and have a sufficient sum at interest to live upon. I need little, very little, to eat, and I wear my clothes carefully and long. 1 was never extravagant in clothes but once, That was twenty-five years ago, when I was thirty-five, and expected to be married in the spring. I had a green silk dress then—a bright green. But I had it dyed black, and, after all, got considerable wear out of it, although it was flimsy. Col- ored silk is apt to be. I had a blue woolen, too, a color I should never have bought, if I had not expected to be married, and that faded. I also had a black velvet cloak, something that was very costly, and I should not have bought it under any cir- cumstances, but I was foolish. However, that has made my winter bonnets ever since; it was a good piece, and not cut up much, Looking backward forty-four years, I cannot remember any other extravagance than this outlay in clothes when I expected to be married at thirty-five. I never have bought any candy except a few cough-drops when I had a cold. I have never bought a ribbon even, or a breast-pin. I have always worn my mother’s old hair pin, although it was so old-fashioned, and the other girls had pretty gold and coral, or cameo ones. My mother died when I was fourteen; my father, when I was sixteen; then I be- gan to teach. My father left me nothing. Mother was sick all her life nearly, and he could not lay up a cent. However, there was enough to pay his funeral expenses, and I was thankful for that. I sometimes wonder what my father would say if he could see me now, and know how I am situated. I wonder if he would think I had done pretty well. I don’t see how it con make any difference to him now; he is past all such earthly vanities, even if he knows about them, but I do sometimes feel glad I have done so well, on his accouut. Any- body has to have some account beside their own, even if it is somebody’s that’s dead. I have built this house, with six rooms in it, and a woodshed. I have a little land, too. I keep hens, and I am going to have a vegetable garden back of the house, and a flower garden front. I have good woolen carpets all over the house except the Kitchen. I have stuffed parlor furniture and a marble top table, and a marble shelf with a worked plush scarf on it. I have a handsome dining set and two nice cham- ber sets, and two beautiful silk quilts I pieced from bits my scholars gave me. I shouldn’t be ashamed to have anybody go over my house. And I keep it nice, too; you couldn't find a speck of dust anywhere. Of course I have nobody to put it out of order, and that makes a difference. It has always been my habit to look at all the advantage there is in life, and I have found there is an advantage side to almost everything. I can keep my house a great deal nicer than I could if I were not alone in the world. I sometimes wonder what I should do if I had a man coming in with muddy boots, or children tracking in dirt, and stubbing out my carpets or kicking the paint off my new doors. To teil the truth, £ have never cared much about children, though I have been teaching them forty-four years. 1 never dared to say so bejore, but it is true. Once in a while I saw a child that I thought a good deal of, but taking them all together, I have often wondered how their own mothers could stand them. I would have worked my fingers to the bone for the few 1 did take a notion to. I fairly grudged them to their folks, but the others!—and I had to hide it, too; it wouldn't have done for the children to think I was partial. They had all the meanness of grown-up folks, without knowing enough to hide it. Grabbing each other's appie-cores,and teas- ing away each other’s candy, and the big oues plaguing the little ones; throwing pa- per-balls, and marking up the walls, and everything else. I know, for one, that there's something in the doctrine of origi- nal sin. I guess most women that have taught a district school forty-four years do. I have never been sure, either, that they learned anything so’s to remember it, and have it do them any good. I have always been afraid that, no matter how hard I tried to do my duty by them, it was never quite done, and that I was teaching myself more than anybody else, just as 1 always seemed to hit my own hands harder than a scholar’s when I had to ferule one. 1 could travel all over the earth, on the map, and never once iose my way, but I wonder if my scholars could. I can spell through the spelling-book without missing a word, but 1 know that not one of my scholars can do it. I can do every sum in the arithmetic, measure the depths of all the wells, caiculate the speed of all the dogs and foxes, and say the multiplication tables by heart, but Iam quite sure that no boy or girl ever left my school who could. It seems to me sometimes that I have gone to school to my scholars, instead of my scholars going to school to me, and that I have never been of any benefit to any one of them. Still, L have sometimes thought that I vas, once, and in a strange way, to the gest scholar I ever had. Before think- g even of this scholar, and this story, I have to review my face, and my whole character, in my mental ‘vision, before , to establish, as it were, my own bility to myself. Is it likely that any- body, who looks like that, should tell her- self that she saw what she did not see, or heard what she did not hear? Is it Mkely that anybody, who is iike that, should? But, after all, I was never given to say- ing things that weren't plain, common sense. Still, it has always kind of seemed to me, when I thought of that time in Marshbrook, that it didn’t ring like any known metal. But there may be some metals that really are on earth, though they are not known, I suppose, and any- body might hear them ring, and be honest enough about it. It was just twenty-five years ago today that [ went to Marshbrook to teach the Number One district school. It was right in the middle of the spring time. I had given up my old school, because I was ex- pecting to be married that May. But when I found out he'd changed his mind toward me, I felt as if I had ought to go to work. again. I'd laid out a good deal of money on my clothes, and I knew I'd have to make it up some way, as long as I was ways going to have nobody but myself to depend on, the way I always had. Maria Rogers had my old school. She had come from the east village to teach It, when I gave it up, and it wasn’t more’n three weeks before he began to go with her. She was good-looking, always smil- ing, though it always seemed to me It was a kind of silly smile. I was always sober and set-looking, and I couldn't smile easy, even if I felt like it. Her hair curled, too. T tried to curl mine, but it wouldn't look like hers. I wouldn't believe {it at first when folks came and told me he was going with her, and they thought I ought to know; but after a while I saw enough to satisfy me, myself. I wrote him a letter, and told him, I'd found out he had changed his mind, and he had my best wishes for his welfare and prosperity, and then I be- gan to look ont for another school. He didn't marry Maria Rogers till the spring term was through. She wanted the money for her wedding clothes. She was a poor girl, or T could have had my old school. As it _was, she had him, and my school, too. T don’t know as T should have got any till fall. if the teacher at the Number One dts- trict In Marshbrook hadn't left sudden. One of the committee came for me the next day, and sat] Td ent to eo there. whether or no T asked why the other teacher had left. and nid she wasn’t very well—“kind of hys- * he called it. He was an old man. and a doctor. I looked him straight tn the face when he spoke, and I knew there was somethine behind what he safd, and he} knew T did. " fifty cents a weak more, me to oblire,”” says he, I knew what it all ‘| after it was colored, though it seemed a jl | Meant. I had heard about district Number One in Marshbrook ever since I could re- | member. They never could keep a teacher | | there through the spring term. There wasn’t | any trouble fall and winter, but the teacher ; Would leave in the spring term. They al- Ways tried to hush it up, and nobody ever knew exactly what they left for. I rather guess they bound the teachers over not to tell—maybe paid them a little extra. Any- way, nobody ever knew exactly what it was, but it got whispered round there was something wrong about the Number One school house. Nobody but a stranger or somebody that was along in years and pretty courageous could be hired to go there und teach the spring term. The chances were that old Doctor Emmons couldn't get another soul besides me for love or money, and if I wouldn't go, the school would have to be shut up till fall. But I didn’t care anything about the stories. I never was one of the! kind that listen, and hark, and screech, and | T had had enough real things to think and | | Worry about. Then I had a kind of feeling then—I suppose it was wicked—that it didn’t matter much what happened anyway, after what had happened. | So I just packed up my trunk, while Doc- tor Emmons waited, and then he put it in behind in his wagon, and carried me over to | Marshbrook. It was about six miles away. Marshbrook was named after the brook there, that runs through marshy land, end gets soaked up in it some seasons of the year. That spring it was quite high, and the land all around it was yellow as gold with cowslips. We-rode beside it quite a Ways, and the doctor said his wife had | boiled cowslip greens twic>. He talked con- siderable about such things being better for | folks to eat than meat, too. He didn’t say a word about the school, till he set me down | at the house where I’ was ‘going to board. ; Then he said I looked as if I wasn’t fidgety, | and he hadn't any notion but what I should | get along well, and like the school. ‘Then he sald, kind of as if he hated to, but thought | he'd better, that he guessed I might just as well make up my mind not to stay after | school at night much, and not to keep the scholars, The school house was in rather a} lonesome place, and some stragglers might come along; then, too, it was rather damp there, being near the brook, after the dew fell, and he didn’t think it was very healthy. I said, “Very well.” Then Mr. Orrin Simonds, the man where I was going to board, came out, and they carried my trunk betwixt them ints the house. I began school the next morning, along well enough. The school was quite a large one, about forty in it, and none of them very old. They behaved well as usu- al, and I taught them the best I knew how. I ought to have done better by them than I had ever done for other scholars, for I hadn't any lookout for myself to take my mind off." I suppose I always had had a little, though T had hardly known {t myself, and I ought to have been ashamed of it. I did not stay after’ school for some two weeks, not because I was afraid of any- thing, for I wasn't, but I hadn't any call to. I didn’t mind what Doctor Emmons had said at all, as far as I was concerned, but I thought I wouldn't keep the scholars any- way, so if anything did come up, I wouldn't be blamed on their accounts. There wasn’t anybody to blame me on mine, if I didn’t give up the school—and I wasn’t going to do that, anyway. I went to meeting the Sunday after I went to Marshbrook. I suppose some folks thought I would get somebody to carry me home to meeting, seeing as it was only six miles, and I belonged to the church there, but I felt as if I had just as soon see some new faces. Maria Rogers used to sit right in front of me at home. I noticed that folks in the meeting house at Marshbrook eyed me some. I don't know whether it was because I had come to teach the Number One school or because I wore my green silk. I suppose it did look most too fine, but I had it and it was a pleasant Sunday, and I thought I might just as well Wear It, though somehow every time I look- ed down at my lap as I sat in meeting there was something about the color seemed to strike over me and make me sick. I fmever liked green very well, but he did, and that was why I got it. I liked it betcer and got shame to have all the stiffening taken out of it. It was a beautiful piece. T had a good boarding place, just Mr. Simonds and his wife, and she was as neat as wax and a good cook. She was kind of | woodeny, and didn’t talk much, but I didn't feel much like talking, and I liked it full as well, She used to have s »per early, abbut as soon as T got home from school, and then | I used to go upstairs to my chamber, end | sit by myself. Mrs. Simonds didn’t neighbor | much, she said, but I guess after I ca folks run in more. I'd hear them talking downstairs. I guess they wanted to find out how I was getting along at the Number One school. Once Mrs. Simonds sald, if she was in my place, she'd make her plans not to stay after school. She didn’t seem any more fidgety herself than a wooden post, but I guess she'd heard so much from the neizh- bors, she thought she ought to say some- thing. I said I hadn’t had any occasion to stay after schoo!, and I hadn't. I didn’t really have any occasion the night I did stay, but I felt kind of down at the heel, and I didn't want any supper, and I just sat there on the platform behind my desk, after the scholars marched out of the room. I don’t know how long I sat there—quite a while, I suppose, for it began to grow dusky. The frogs peeped as if they were in the room, and there was a damp wind blew in the window, and I could smell wintergreen and swamp pinks. It was all I could do to Keep the children from chewing wintergreen leaves in schooltime. They were real :hick all around the school house. All of a sudden, as I sat there, I had a queer feeling as if there was somebody in the room, and I looked up. I saw, down in the middle of the room a little white arm raised in the dusk. It was the way the children did, when they wanted to ask some- thing, and I thought for a second that one had stayed or come back, unbeknown to me, and was rasing an arm. Of course, ‘hat was queer. but it was the only reason I could think of, and it flashed through my head. “What is it?” says I, and then I heard a little girl's voice pipe up, “Please, teacher, find my doll for me, and hear my next les- son in the primer.” “What?” says I, for it didn’t seem to me I could have heard right. And then the voice sald it over again, and that little white arm crooked out of the gloom. I got up, and went down the aisle between the desks, and when I came close enough, I saw a little girl, in a queer, straight white dress, almost like a nightzown, sit Her little face was so white in thi made me creep, and her features lo. : even her mouth didn’t move when she spoke. It was open a little, and the words just seemed to flow out between her lips. “Please, teacher, find my doll for me, ond hear my next lesson in the primer, she over in, dreadful pitiful. I put my hand on her shoulder, and then I jumped and took it away, for I never felt anything so cold as her little shoulder was, It seemed as if the cold struck to my heart from it, and I had to catch my breath. “What is your name?” says I, as soon as T could. “Maty Williams, aged six years, three months and five days,” says she, Then my blood ran cold, but I tried to reason it out to myself again, that she was some child I hadn't seen, that had run in there, and maybe she wasn’t quite right in her mind. “Well,” says I, “you had better run home now. If you want to come to school, you can ccme at 9 o'clock tomorrow morning, if your mother is willing. Then I will hear your lesson and ma: you will find your dol, but you mustn't bring it to school. I can't have any dolls brought to school.” With that she rose up and dropped a queer ttle curtsey that made a puff of fey cold wind in my face, and was out of the room, very fast, as she slid or floated, without taking any steps at all. I put on my bonnet and locked up the school house, and went home then. Look- ing back, I can’t say as I felt scared or nervous at all. I know I didn’t walk a mite faster when I went past the old grave yard. There was an old grave yard near the school house, and the children used to play there at recess, @When I got home Mrs. Simonds asized me why I hadn’t been home, and if I didn't want any supper, but she didn’t act sur- prised or curious. She never seemed sur- prised or curious at anything. I went up stairs to my chamber and sat down and thought it over. It seemed to me there must be some above-board reason for it. As I thought it over I remembered that there had been a strange, faint, chok- ing smell about the child, and then IT put my own dress skirt up to my face and I smelled it then. I hung my dress out of the window to air when I took it off. The next morning when the scholars filed into school I tried to think that strange little girl might be among them, but she wasn't, and she didn’t come in the after- noon. That night I stayed after school again. I had made up my mind I would. I waited, and after a while that litle white arm showed out of the dusk, but I had not seen the child come into the’ room. I asked her again what she wanted, and she piped up, just as she did before, “Please, teacher, find my doll for me, and hear me say the next lesson in the primer.” I got up, and went to her just as I had | before, and there she was just the same, and the faint smell came in my face. “When did you lose your doll?” says I. But she wouldn't say. | “Please, teacher, find my doll for me, and | bear y my lesson in the primer,” says | |she, with @ Kind of wail. I never heard | one | anything so pitiful as it was. It seemed to me, somehow, as if all the wants I had — pot pangs sounded in that child's voice, and as if she was for some- thing I had lost myself. sie But I spoke decided. It was always my Way with children. I found it worked bet- ter. “Now you run right home,” says I, “and you come tomorrow, and I'll give you your doll, and hear your lesson in the And then she rose up and curtsied, just as she had before, and was gone. 2 I dia not try to follow her. That evening I went around to old Dr. Emmons’, and asked Mrs. Emmons if I could see the doctor a few minutes. I guess she suspected what had | for she looked at me real sharp, and said she hoped 1 wasn’t getting nervous and overwrought with school teaching. I said I wasn’t. I just wanted to see the doctor about a new scholar; and she left me in the sitting room, and called him in. asked him, point-blank, if any: had ever happened there in Marehbrooke and he wouidn’t tell me at first. “I suppose you want to give the school up. I thought you were old enough to be- have yourself,” says he. He was pretty hort Sometimes, but he meant well. “I’ve done the best I could by the school,” says I. “Why couldn't you come home when school was done, as you was told to, in- stead of staying there in that lonesome place, and getting hystericky?” says he. “I don’t know as I can get another teacher this term. The school house will have to be shut up. It's a pity all the female school teachers in creation couldn't be ducked a few times, and get the fidees out of them. I'll get a man for the place next time. I’ve had enough of women.” _ don’t want to give up the school,” says I. What are you talking about, then?” says he. “I want to know if anything hi ever happened here in Marshbrook,” says I. “I don’t want to give up the school if anything has happened.” He finally told me how a little girl had been murdered, some fifty or sixty years ago, on her way to school, on the brook road. They found her laying dead beside a clump of swamp pinks, with a great bruise on the back of her neck, as if she'd been hit by a stone, and her doll and her primer were laying in the road, where she'd drop- ped them when she run from whoever killed her. They never found him. “Was her name Mary Williams?” says I. “How did you know it?” says the doctor. he told me,” says I. The old doctor turned as white as a sheet. “You ain't hystericky,” says he. When he found out I wasn’t scared and didn’t want to give up the school he want- ed to know what I'd seen, and asked a good many questions. I told him as short as I could, and then I went home. The next morning before school I got some linen rags from Mrs. Simonds and a piece of bright blue thibet, and I made a real pretty little rag baby. I'd never made one before, but I couldn't see why I didn't make it as well as anybody. I raveled out a little of an old black stocking I had for its hair, and I colored its cheeks and mouth with cranberry juice id made its eyes with blue ink. I found, too, an old primer that Mrs. Simonds said her mother had studied, for I thought that might have been like the one the child was carrying to school when she was killed. That night I stayed after school again, and waited until I saw the little white arm raised out of the dusk. She did not wait for me to speak that time. She piped up quick: “Please, teacher, find my doll for me, and hear me say my lesson in the primer.” “Put your arm down and be quiet,” sa I, “and I will hear your lesson.” I put the rag doll in my pocket and took the old primer I had found and went to her. “Find the place and go on’ with your les- son,” says I, and I gave her the book. She turned over the leaves as if she were quite accustomed to it, and I saw at once that I had the right book. It was a queer little primer that had been written by an old minister in Marshbrook, and used in the schools there for some time. She found the place soon and began to read, piping up quite loud. You could have heard her out of doors; the windows were open. The piece was called “The Character of a Good Child.” She read it very well. I only had her spell out a few of the words. “You have got your lesson very well,” says I. Then I took the doll out of my pocket and gave it to her. She fairly snatched for it with her little, white, gleam- ing hands and they touched mine, and I felt the cold strike to my heart again. She hugged the doll tight and kissed it with her stiff, parted lips. Then she held it off and looked at it. “Please, teacher, find my doll for me,” says she, with a creat wail, and I saw she knew it wasn't her own old doll. “Hush,” says I, “I can’t find a doll that’s been lost fifty years. This doll is just e actly as good. Now, you'd better take and run hom...” ut she just gave that pitiful cry again— lease, teacher, find my doll for me.” “You are not behaving pretty at all,” says I. “That doll is just as good.” Then I don’t know what possessed me to say it, but I says: “She hasn't got any mother, either.” She just hugged the doll tight and kissed it again then and didn’t say another word against it. “Now, you'd better run home,” says I. She rose up and curtsied, and I was all ready to spring. I followed her. I didn’t know as I could keep her in sight, but 1 did, and she went into the old graveyard. I saw a gleam of white in there a minut then it was gone. That evening I went to Dr. Emmons and told him what had happened. “Now,” says I, “I want to know where that child was buried.” “She was buried in the old Williams tomb,” says he. Then I asked him to take a lantérn, and go to the graveyard with me, and look in that tomb. I didn’t know as I could make him for quite a while. He said the Will- jams family had all died out and gone away. There wasn't one of them left in town. He didn't exactly know who had the key of the tomb, and he kept looking at me real sharp. I suppose he was afraid I was getting hystericky. I guess he got pretty sure at last that I wasn’t, for I taught that Marshbrook Number One school seven years after that, though any young thing could have done it, and stayed after school every night in the spring terms, for that little girl never came to scare anyhody again. He kept looking at me that night, and then he felt my pulse and counted it by his watch. ou don't want to give the school up,” says he. “No, I don’t,” says 1. He went out after awhile, and presently he came back with a lighted lantesn and a key. I don’t know where he got it. Then we went down the road to the graveyard. It was a dark night, and it was mistiny litle. He went along in front with the tern, and I followed cn behind, He didn’t speak a word the whole way. I guess he felt kind of grouty at having to come out I didn't care if he w I was bound to find out. When we came to the old gravey, opened the gate, and we went in. is jan. tern lit up all the old headstones, and trees, and scra; bushes, a® we went across te the Williams tomb. It wasnt very far fi the gate. A lot of little bushes were erow ing out of the humped-up roof, and I rea’ Williams in the stone wo-k over the fron door. The doctor fitted the key in the lock. while I held the lantern. I feit the way I used to when I was a child, when I waked up in the dark. in the night, but { held the lantern #8 steady as my ‘and bad been an iron hook. It was hard to tucn the key !n the rusty padlock, and the doctor worked quite a long time, but finally it snapped back and he pulled off the padlock, and slipped the hasp. But even then he could not open the door until he had cleared away some stones and pulled up some little piants that had grown over the threshold by the roots. After he had done that, he opened the door, and a puff of that same *t-ankce ocor which I had noticed about the child came in my face. He took the lantern and step- ped down and into the tomb, ond I after him. All of a sudden, he stopped short and caught hold of my arm. There, on the floor of the tomb, in the lantern light, right be- fore us, lay the doll, and the prime:. + “Beside Himself.” B “py From Life. 13 SACRED SCARABS IN EGYPT. Curious Combinations of Christian and Heathen Symbolism Found Re- cently. One of the most interesting exhibits in the museum at Ghizeh is the jewelry of Queen Abotpou of the seventeenth dynasty (about B. C. 1750) taken from her majesty’s | Person when her mummy case was opened by Maritue Bey, says the Cornhill Maga- zine. Among the most beautiful objects in this very ancient collection is a gold chain or necklet with a scaiab pendant as its cen- tral ornament. On the other hand if the kings had their names engraved on sacred | beetles, the sacred beetles in return gave |their names to mighty kings. The very ‘ord for beetle was so holy that it enters into the composition of many royal titles. Just as elsewhere great princes described themselves as lions, or wolves, or bulls, or deerhounds, so in Egypt they described themselves as beetles of the sun god. | Strange to say, some of the latest scar- jabs bear Christian emblems. Several of | them are inscribed with the cross, and one in Mr. Loftie’s collection is adorned with a well-marked crucifix. This queer jumbiing up of Christian and heathen sym- bolism may seem incredible to those who do not know Egypt or early Christian ari, but to students of the first few centuries & Christendom it is no isolated example. In the Ghizeh museum there are many other works of the transitional period quite as strangely mixed as these—paintings with the ankh or crux ansata, the symbol of immortality, combined with the veritable | Christian cross: emblems of which it is {hard to tell at tirst sight which are | heathen and which Christian; Madonnas that can hardly be discriminated from Isis with the infant Horus; and the Isises that fade off by imperceptible stages | into Madonnas and Kambinos. The fact & Scarabs had been buried with corpses in Egypt for centuries ull they had become, as it were, part of the recognized ceremo- nial of burial; people no more liked to dis- pense with them as marks of respect to the dead than our own people would like to dispense with plumes and mutes and all the other wonted accompaniments of Chris- burial. So, when the Egyptians felt they must adopt the new creed in place of the old, they endeavored to Christianize and convert the scarab by inscribing him with a figure of the crucifixion, just as the |priests in Brittany have Christianized and | converted the cid heathen standing stones | by putting a cross on top, to which the | modern worshiper now nominally, at least, | directs his prayers. There is more of this | Substitution everywhere in Europe than | most people suspect; a large of what passes as modern Christianity is nothing |More than very slightly veneered antique —— -+3e-+ —__ MONKEYING WITH NATURE. The Man With the Ginger Beara Draws a Moral From a Windmill. From the Indianapolis Journal. An agent from the city was trying to sell the grocer a new self-winding clock. There was a small storage battery connected with it, and it was intended that the battery should be kept in operation by means small windmill placed on the roof of house. The agent had about persuaded rocer to buy, when the man with the natural to a man with plenty of spare time on his hands, chipped in. “Sometimes it pays to monkey with ne- ture and let her have the job of doin’ all your work while you air loafin’ around the county court house ten mile away, and sometimes it don’,” said he. “I knowed a feller out in Kansas ‘at had one of them windmill contraptions that was the ruin of “There never was one of these clocks suld in Kansas at all,” said the agent, with some wrath. . “This here wasn’t a clock,” said the man with the ginger beard, “an’ I defy any man in the crowd to prove I said anything about clock. I jist said a windmill contrap- tion. This nere was a pump. You see, this here feller was a sort of market gardner, an’ as it is dry in Kansas, as fur es the weather is concerned, he ‘lowed to rig up a pump arrangement that would water his garden. So he fixed up a wind pump, but that wasn’t enough. He next goes to work and makes a kind of swivel arrangement that would keep the hose movin’ back and forth and up and around till the whole patch was sprinkled. Did all the work {i self, you see. That left him free to go down to the grocery and talk about Mrs. Lease all he wanted to—or all he dast to, at least. Well, he goes away one mornin’, happy as a clam, and comes back at night to find his int. Now, what d'you suppose logs got in?” ventured the clock erent. ee 4 You make me sick. Hawg, nothin’. hot by the friction, and his wh: truck had been scalded to death.” “That was pretty tough,” “AS broke he went into politics, gitt'n’ a good livin’ at the expense < the state. Ef it hadn't a been for that accident i nuns be still havin’ to work for a liv- From Harper's Bozar. A ladies’ luncheon is peculiarly an Amer- ican function. Breakfast parties are given abroad, but we have instituted the lunch. It is said that in the far west any meal which is served at an odd time is calleé lunch, but the ordinary hour for this re- past is one o'clock p.m. Among one’s numerous acquaintances there may be charming en whom one wishes to see at one’s table, but whose husbands one may not care to entertain. To a jun- cheon these ladies can be invited, and it is a convenient and pleasant way to pay | social debts. The midday meal sho.uid not be elaborate, but it snouid be substanuai, as many per- sons foliow Uhe conlinentai custom of simply taking a cup of coiee for their early breakiast. In Unis, as in many other Fespects, we are apt to run into extremes, | and the lunch becomes so elaborate a meal that it is hard to dist.nguish between it and dinner, Course after course is served, beginning with oysters endin cb black coffee, several wines, inciuding champagne, are offered, the tavie is elabor- P }ately decorated with flowers, and cavers, sometimes of great © given to the guests. A luncheon was given only a day or two since which cost (wenty-tive lars a plate without the wine. This ts all wrong as a matter «: No one enjoys a long menu at r of the day, the various wine 5 diges- tion, and the entire sek to nature. The luncheon should t of four courses at the outside: but such a spirit ‘of emulation exists in the mind of the | housewife that because Mrs, A. hed four | courses at her tunch on Monday Mrs. B ;must have six at hers on Friday. One | Tises from the table unrefreshe! ana tired instead of having enjoyed the hour or twe spent with congenial friends. | oo | PEANUTS As Foop. A Receipt for a Fine-Flavered Soup That May Re Made rs m Them. From the New York Times. The value of peanuts as food is not of recent discovery. To eat a tew has been recommended for indigestion, but this view of their efficacy is not exactly borne out by experience. The trouble is to eat the “few”-- peanuts having a seductive quality.like pop- corn, which invites continued munching. A medical journal has called attention again to the food value of the goober, or peanut. The writer of the article, an eminent German physician, be- lieves the nuts would be an especially valu- ‘able article of diet for corpulent diabetics and those subject to diseases of the kidneys, who must avoid food containing much ant- mal albumen. While on the subject, a peanut soup,which has certainly the merit of novelty, is sug- gested by an exchange, with the additional accredited value of being full of nutrition. “Shell a pint of peanuts, remove the red, | paper-like covering and roast the nuts, oF | you may roast them in their shells. Grind | the nuts to a fine flour, or powder, in a mor- tar, or by rolling them on a board. Use the powdered nuts in cream soup, made from pint of milk and a pint of water, a sm: tablespoonful of flour and a large one oi butter, rubbed together, and season with salt and white pepper to taste. The soup may also be made without milk, using a quart of water, and serving with a thin slice or two of lemon fn each @ish. Add the sliced lemon to the soup, just as it goes te { the table, aad serve how.”