Evening Star Newspaper, January 29, 1898, Page 18

18 (Copyright, 1898, the Written for The cS) Rhoda, the elder said, meant a rose, or something 1ike it. But sureiy, if there was anything of the rose about Miss Rhody, it was a faded, a pressed and withered one. And yet a certain hint of the sweetness of the rose always hung about her, perhaps spiritualized, but none the less sweet. The children recognized it, for it was Miss Rhody who put the buttered brown paper on their bruises and consoled them for their bumps, now with an apple when no one else had apples—for Miss Rhody’s few trees always bore on the cff year—and now with a shining square of loaf sugar from the great cone wrapped in purple paper which seemed to them a part of the wonders of the outlandish countries on the other side of the world where people walked head down as the flies do on the ceiling. And now and then she consoled one of the ten- derest and dearest with a kiss instead, which the little thing endured for the sake of the cuddling on the soft shoulder, the agreeableness of the half-guessed scent of dried roses that she was never without, and the doll-baby rags that came afterward. And the young girls recognized it, for it was to Miss Rhody they came with the hty confidences of their hopcs and their griefs and hesitations, their gushes and blushes, and it was from her that they had the excellent advice which they never fol- lowed. The mothers recognized it, for it was not only that Miss Rhody came to them in their illnesses aad the illnesses of their children, nor that she brought them tne bunch of peonies for the parlor pitcher, but she seemed to Pave an insight into ex- periences which she had never shared, and | gave them silent sympathy at <"Sezet | moments when they would have been the last to confess they needed it. And the old people recogrized it, too; but, loth to say, Rot altogether with the same friendliness of feeling toward it; for it was Miss Rhody who so long had dressed their dear ones for the last long rest that they knew she was the one likely to perform that office for themselves, znd that flower-like sweetness of hers had to them something of the qual- ity of the flowers blossoming on graves. ‘There was only one person on all the shore really indifferent to this poor charm of Miss Rhody’s, and that was Will Ma- ther, who never perceived any charm at all about her, and who looked on her with @ good-natured indulgence as he would have looked on Ann Mather’s canary had it escaped and come across his way, an¢ who never thought of her when he did not see her. Her pale, thin personality was such a colorless thing beside that of her cousin Ann, the black-eyed, red- cheeked beauty, or even beside the tender, smiling loveliness of the pretty Sally, whom Tom Brier would have died for, and whom Humphrey Lavendar had made his own. She was, in fact, to Will Mather only like the shadow of some one else, and Will Mather was the only one whose feel- ing in regard to herself had any vital sig- nificance to Miss Rhody. Every time that he came home from a voyage, more bluff and burly and trump- et-toned than before, all the suggestions of the romance of the deep seas gathered about him in her fancy, and the whole outside foreign world came with him. He was the hero of wild wrestles with wind and weather; what dangers of night and storm had threatened him; what tri- umphs were his when he brought his white canvas into port! For Will was now the captain of the Man-o'-Mull, a man ot mark and of authority in the village of the shore. But to Miss Rhody he had been as much as this, and more, before ever he ran away to sea; always an ideal, always a being of adventure. It might have seemed to another that she wavered a little in her allegiance when Humphrey Lavendar took the hand of his crazy mother as she was dancing in the street and put her shawl about her and led her home, and Rhody ran and took her other hand, sharing with Humphrey the shame and pain of the thing he was one day to inherit. But it was nothing of the sort. Humphrey was some one in distress, and she went to him just as she went to the hurt creature, out of the abundance of her heart's tenderness. But as for Will, he would never be one of those in any dis- | tress, for even before she was a dozen years old she had felt all that was potent | and fortunate, and that captivated all the giris in town, in his strong and reckless ature, even before he climbed the out- side of the meeting house steeple to res- cue a parrot that had taken a flight of | fancy to the vane and had hurt its wing and feared to try its fate downward. To be sure, he was thrashed for it. “And de- served it,” said Will; “but I had the limb.” “I'll teach you to frighten your mother again, you ship’s monkey,” cried his fath- er. But Will saw the twinkle in his fath- er’s eye, for all the blows, and knew there was a bubbling pride over the boy's achievement in the old sailor’s heart. “A chip of the old block,” the father was | muttering to himself as he put up the strap, and that in spite of the fact that he had been heard to say that he would rather the boy died young than live to follow his father’s path in blue water. But nothing of that mattered to Rhody and to the little public, to Ann and Flora and Humphrey, to Sally and Tom Brier and Joy Hodge and the rest of them, w whom the thrashing was an affair of every day. but the climbing set their nerves to thrilling and their blood to spinning. They held council among themselves, and knew that seoner or later it was decreed in fate that Will Mather would run away to sea. And he was as good as their word. To sea he went, and when he came back breezy and brown and roiling in his gait, he could have had any girl on the shore for the asking—except Sally. It is hardly any sacrifice of her maiden modesty to say he could have had Rhody; although I do not know but the asking would have surprised her out of the possibility, for she did not look on him as girls look upon a lover, but as a subject looks upon a king, as a slave upon a master; he was the hero of the long. unwritten romance she was spelling out and reading every hour. But Will Mather hardly knew that poor Rhody existed, other than as part of the dim outlines and phan- tasmagoria that fill up the background of all people's memories. Her cousin Ann's rich color, her flashing eyes and sparkling teeth, her ringing laugh and gay spirit, all that. indeed, filled up the foreground of Will's fancy, and when he took ship again it was with Ann's promise that she would be his wife when he should ship first mate. What Will wanted to go to sea for, when he could stay at home and be happy with her, Ann could never imagine: but Rhody understood it all. She, too, without being a poet, knew the tune Will Mather’s heart was beating. God help me, save I take a part Of danger on the roaring sea, A devil rises in my heart Far worse than any death to me, and her thoughts followed him all along the wide sea ways and into storms and into ims and into strange ports of the orient. ‘Oh, Ann.” she would say, running in at the close of a lowering day, or when such a tempest of rain and sleet was beating that no one who could stay at home ventured abroad. “I thought I'd jes’ step over: you must be so sort of dismal. But you know it ain't blowing any such way as this down on the other side of the globe.” “Well, Rhody, you must think! As if 1 didn't know that!” was the reply, with a toss of the sleek black head. “I suppose,” Rhody continued, “the sun's shining enough to tan melons down there where he is.” “Where who is? Oh, Will!? I do* know, sure.” yhy. Ann, do you mean to say you don’t feel all sorter worked up with the wind roaring down chimbly like this, and you hear the pounding of the big. waves rolling in acrost the-bar? I know better. I know how hard it seems, an’ I made shift to run over, because I guessed your heart was in your throat every time the wind put its great shoulder to the house.” “My gracious! Then you'd better make shift to run back. The idea! In this MISS RHODY, ——__+—_—_ BY HARRIET PRESOOT? SPOFFORD. ——_.+—__— DUD NONDNT OND HOU NONO HON OUON ONO! ise se ESESESENESENETES ESTES EVES NES ENG S. S. McClure Co.) Evening Star. WO?) weather! And I'll be bound you ain't any rubbers on—" ‘As if rubbers—" You're allus so in the clouds, Rhody, that you don't know where you set your teet, an’ both of ‘em hev ben in a puddle, and if yo’ don’t take your death o” cold— You better go home an’ go to bed an’ drink a hot Lowl of thoroughwort tea.”” “Ch, I'll jes” toast “em by the fire here. You allus do hev a good fire, Ann. I hope Will's got 1s good a one wherever he is.” “What in the world does Will want with a fire down under the equator?” “Do you suppose that’s where he is?” said Rhody, wistfully, reaching the point for which she started, her errand of con- solation having been occasioned chiefty by her wanting consolation herself, it may be. “My, how it blows!” “Or thereabouts,” answered Ann, snip- ping off her threads. “And you don't really feel concerned about his being safe?” “Well, you are soft, Rhody! For my part, give Will a stick and a string and I'd trust him against any storm that blows.” Rhody looked at her admiringly. “You're jes’ the wife for him, ain't you, Ann?” she said, sweetly. “If I was a sailor's wife I | Ey een, SAL ITEE, avg FTN 8 oo AND ONE AND ANOTHER CAME TO through long the old Lowena-. a that portrait painted—the she had so long felt the Lay da without. The artist, a wandering low of an uncertain talent, stayed with her during the progress the work, ané one and another came great frankness, both concerning the painting and the sitter, but, on not with unkindness. She could never quite under- stand why Iry cruel criticism upon that painting, making unpleasant remarks about the angles of the eyes, and saying that “Weather did— Will Mather’s, and so were faultless, and she had the thing sent to Ann at last, feel- cate tints, to bleach her pale hair, to leave her the wraith of herself for thinness, to settle her in her vocation as the village nurse. But she would have told you that she was happy. She enjoyed her evening meeting, her preparatory lecture, her call from the elder, her little tea gatherings. Sometimes, when she was off duty, she had a children’s party in the old garden, with real tea in as many of her eggshell cups as remained, with tiny sandwiches, with honey, after which repest there were games and forfeits, the children adoring Miss Rhody on these occasions, although when they met her in the street going about her business with ber basket on her arm they recognized the basket with a slight sensxtion of awe, as the one in which she had first brought them to their moth- ers, and were persuaded that a damp place at the fevt of the garden, where the quince bushes grew, and that was barred against them by a tangle of briers, in some myste- rious way had to do with the filling of that basket. But or these picnicking tea parties Miss Rhody was as much s child herself as any of them, except, perhaps, little Polly Lavendar, who, after all, was more a sprite than a child, now whirling like a dervish, »vew laughing uproariously about nothing, till she cried, also about nothing, now mounting through the scuttle and walking the ridge-pole, with outstretched arms, springing from the eaves into a treetop, 7 ASSIST. should be scared to death and hide my head in the blankets every time the weath- er changed. All the same, I don’t believe but what you be a little stirred up, an’ that's why I come over to keep you heart- ened like. I suppose,” she went on, dream- ily, looking into the fire, “if one was high enough to see, the earth would be like Miss Brier’s blue changeable silk, here a bit of blue sea, and there a bit of gray storm, and there a bit of green field, and there clear silver blue again, all sort o’ changeable and shining, and you're here in the bit of gray storm, an’ Will's out there in the sil- ver blue.” “I should like to know the good of sech notions! I'd a sight rather be thinking of the peeny muslins Will will fetch home.” “I should think ‘twas a plenty if he brought himself home, if I was you, Ann.” “I declare, you're enough to make a per- son creep. What was that? Did you hear the door rattle? Oh, Rhody, what if them old songs an’ stories is true! Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I wake up in a cold chill, the stories ‘of the dead’ and drowned sailor comin’ to the door.” “Yes, bbed Rhody, “I; oh, I re- He'd a sailor’s cap and a visage te, As he died on board of the Nightingale. And they locked their arms about each other, both crying together. And Rhody had to stay that night, to keep Ann's tremors company with her own, which, after all, was why she came over. But when it was sunny, and only a soft garden, Rhody‘s heart eee eects was as light as the wings of the birds that had that old garden all their own way. It was a spacious place, — since run wild, here and there a bed of ‘fashioned flowers or pot-herbs that | Rhody gave the little care they neede: saving the bunches of sage gnd mint ‘and , for she was already at odd der full-flowing snowy sails. Rhody's father had been the la e the shore, but he had not been particularly gbedient to law himself, that {s\ the law ct healthy living, and he had early left hee to buffet the world as she could, with rothing but the old house for her portion It had long fallen into disrepair: but when it leaked too seriously in one room, Rhody Woxed to another. it was said that Iry Hodge once paid court to her till he found in her complete unsuspiciousness of his weoing the negative of his desires. But he cherished no ill-will on account of that. On the contrary, with considerable cir. cumlocution, he induced the other younsy, men, once when Will was at home, to help" him, and with Will and Humphrey Laver. dar and Tom Brier and Joe Burns, he had the old roof shingled and the back porch rebuilt fer Rhody. Poor Iry, of course. nad small credit for it with Rhody. For though she thanked him very prettily, in her heart of hearts she was sure that it was Will who first thought of the kind- ress and put it into execution; and she was the happler thinking of the nobility and generosity of his nature thus mani- fested than she was in the repairs them- selves. And as she sat in the porch now, this poor, silly Miss Rhody, she had an un- spoken sense that it was Will's protection surrounding her, and she dropped her needle and leaned back and dreamed so jong that the low-flying birds regarded her no more than if she were the silver aspen mich had sprung up wild in one of the old pat! By some virtue of her temperament there was hardly any trail of selfishness in Rho- dy’s dreams. Now she was building a bark of which Will was to go master; or now she was collecting bright strips ‘to make the carpet for Ann’s new parlor; or, best of all, she was having Will's portrait paint- ed@ and hung up in a big gold frame in the same splendid clutching the branches and letting herself down hand over foot while Miss Rhody shut her eyes ard screamed, and the other children ached with desire to do what Polly Gi. And then Polly, at Miss Rhody’s re- proof, would burst into passionate crying and run and hide her fsce in Miss Rhody's throat and kiss and kiss her, and Miss Rhody would feel her heart overflow on Polly and on all the rest cn account of Polly's tears and kisses. For all the chil- dren on the shore were Miss Rhody’s. I don’t know what she would have done if there had been a Mather child, but fortu- nately for the other children there never was one. It was through the love of the children that sometimes great spiritual renewal and joy came to Miss Rhody. If she had her superstitions, you must pardon her: for if she thought she saw the soul of little Mary Burns hovering in a thin mist over the body It had jvst left, you need not believe it; but it comforted both herself and Mary’s mother. And as tke breathing of old Mr. Brier ceased to lift his weary breast and only moved his nerveless lips and fluttered and fluttered there till it ceased, if Miss Rhody saw a great white butterfly poised in flight above that falter- ing lip, so far as she was concerned she really did see a white butterfly, and it meant whole gospels to-her. She had never let the children chase the white butterflies since ste had heard Will Mather relate seme legend of the east. “They are little Chinese ghosts, the white butterflies,” she said to the children. “They are flying round the world to find a way out of it. We must not hinder them.’ Miss Rhody was with Sally Lavendar the night that little Polly died. The child had been in a delirium, and Sally had sat on one side of the bed holding her; Miss Rhody on the other. Humphrey was pac- ing up and down the big outer kitchen, like @ wild animal in a cage, and Polly having Sunday Mornings Before Mecting. drcpped into a momentary sleep, Sally had just gone to him. It was just before dawn, and a great star, like a shining tear, hung on the sky. Suddenly the child awake, ap- parently all herself. “Oh, it is dark, it is dark. I am afraid?” she cried presently. “Take my hand! Somebody! Lead me!” “It’s all right, Polly. darling. I’m here,’ cried Miss Rhody. “You're only dreaming, bay aot you ee lamp? Here's my ‘s then ly came running back. She turned up the light, but it filckered and went out. She threw herself on the fatfeetue RE }ding garment and showing. all her hand- cid li hin I f it, est | 7 a3 stars and wonder if Will saw them, too, and if he was the shore and of Ann and of her, » also. And safe and sound, she had a surance that the wl was. right side up. But one voyage thé bark did mot come back. A typhoon swept the Indian seas, and the bones of tha Man o’ Mull were strewn from Celebes to Malabar. And as for Will Mather, no one knows where his Brave is to this day. en the loss was a definite thing to the underwriters, Ann. recived her insurance money, a tidy little sum for her sma!l way of life, and she put on her. black, and in time she took it off again, and, a brisk and busy body, she took her pleasure with her neighbors as she had always done. If hor wash was out before Mrs. Burns’ whitened the yard behind, if her baked beans were Pronounced one atom crisp2r than Mrs. Dennis’, if the recipe for her rule of fruit cake was in demand, if she -had_ cherry tonic and jellies to send to the. ailing, if her house cleaning was over the first along the shore, if her best black silk would stand alone, if she knew all that was going on, and keeping one eye on Sally. Laven- dar’s door had the last news of Humphrey and his odd behavior, and another eye on the goings and comings of the rest of the village, she was content enough, and after a while Ann was not at all unhappy, and even had a mild satisfaction in Iry Hodge's admiration of her still buxom beauty. But it was a much longer time before Miss Rhody would acc2pt the fact of Will Mather’s loss. He had been so full of life and vigor she could never make him dead. She was always expecting to see him step down from the coach every tim? it came lumbering along from port. She did not | See a strange boat in the stream along the re but she thought it might hold Will. Every time she ran over to Ann's she hoped to hear a great voice roaring out a welcome; and when that failed to sound she still had time to hope Ann had had a letter saying he had been wrecked on des- ert shores, and was now on his way home again. Her dreams were all of this. Now she saw him struggling with night and storm in the black seas, now wandering forlorn among strange folk of a strange tongue, now cast on barren places and watching feverishly the gleam of a sail upon the sky line, and every dream a mis- ery, and chizfly a misery because the at- mosphere of power with which Will had always been clothed in her mind was want- ing there. But, on the other hand, her day dreams were a joy. In them, as she weht about her nursing, as she washed the newly born or stroked the newly dead, as she sat at home sewing in her parlor, Will was always returning, after multitudinous deep-sea adventures; she saw him hurrying up the road and ent2ring to Ann, big and bronzed and full of glad expectation, and, although she varied the dream a thousand Vays, it was always the same dream—Will Mather coming home. You may judge, then, of her dismay when she heard that the banns were published for Ann Mather and Iry Hodge; for some- how Ann had not been able to bring herself to break the news tq Rhody. She hurried over; as you may Suppdge. “Ann!” she cried. And then sh2 softefiéd the reproach. “Ann, dear, what dees’ itwmean? Do you know what they are, saying about you? Really, you must not, let Try in so much. It is making no end ‘of talk. They say— people say—Oh, I know ‘they say’ is a lar! But they do say—that—you are going to marry Iry!” 43 “And so I am,” said Ann. But she look- ed out of the window. Rhody sat frozen to stone. She could not move her lips {At first. And when she could, it was offjy to whisper “You are Will Mather's wife.” | ene “Oh, you be still, Rhody,” said “Ahn, biting off the thread’with which she was running up the breagths of a fine wed- some teeth. “Why, I can't he. sftfil,” whispered Rhody, who for. Hife -Of, her, could not move. “What wil L say?” ‘Nothing, I guess.” “But if he should come back, Ann,” gath- ering strength. “What a simpleton you are, After al' these years an’ the insurance paid and all. You're a perfect death’s head at the feast. An’ look here, [ won't have you talking so to me. And iIry wouldn't like it all——" h, Iry!” with infimite contempt. ‘Yes, Iry. I always liked Iry. An’ he's the lawyer of this village, an’ ‘tisn’t every one marries thé lawyer. And every one respects him.” “Iry’s well enough. I ain’t nothin’ say against Iry. I've allus liked him, too. But Iry ain't no business here.” “He ain't comin’ here. Fm goin’ to his house." “Ann! Well—I do’ no’ ‘how you can stan’ that long-winded talk o* his’n.” + “Rhody, if you wasn’t my oldest frien’—” “I'm more’r your frien’. I'm your blood relation. I’ve a right to speak, an’ you've a right to think shame of yourself. And te think what if Will—” “The Man-o’-Mull hesn’t ben heard from for more’n seven years. And I'm quite within the law. Iry says 30.” “But there was Robinson Crusoe—” S Rhody, you'll be’ the death of me yet; I believe you're as crazy as Hum- pDhrey Lavendar. I guess one Robinson Crusoe'll do. An’ now you've spoke out and done your duty, your conscience’s clear, an’ so is mine. I was a good wife to Cap’n Mather, and F shall be a good wife to Iry Hodge.” “Then,” "murmured Rhody, the tears pouring over her face and -her thin, pur- Ple-veined hands, with which she tried to hide them, “the day you merry Iry—Oh, my! I don’t know how you can—I should think you would be—. You needn’t ask mé to come to the weddin’-I shan’t counte- nance it. But you will send me over Will's picture, then, won’t you? You won't want it for a reminder. And I'd better take care of it for you.” “I don’t know,” said Ann, glancing up at the dark and dashing likeness. : “It Tooks good on the wall. “I’ve kep’ the frame real bright. There ain't nothin’ mean about Iry; he wouldn’t put Will out'n his place. But, there—you allus did set by it. An’ you paid for it, anyway. An’——” Perhaps some tender memory, swept over Ann. “Yes,” she went on, “1 guess ft belongs most to you. But—but ‘Will belonged to me!” And then Ann be- gan to cry and Rhody kissed her—she couldn’t help it; it was Ann. And then she ran home as if a ghost pursued her. One day the picture came, and Rhody put it upstairs in the spare room. It was not for all the world to see. And she made @ case for it as tenderly as ever Elaine wrought on that for Lancelot's shield, if it were not so beautiful—it was of crazy patchwork, a thing of silken shreds and Patches. She made ii oe black gown, Rhody. to too, in those days. She always worn light colors about the 7 fas said it was more cheerful for t! {Ahad rainy after- noons she had madg.a pint of putting on a bit of bright ribbon, or a flower, or ;preagtpin, as if @ gay apron, or her t some pleasant thing’ ren |. But she minped into her b now, say- ing nothing to any @ue. If it had been cloth of gold and ith jewels it would have been less precious, for to her it was the symbot-ofsomething she’ was doing for Will. But, na ane .on all the shore, except perha 3 Lavendar, an idea that Miss was Days cnd nights, afway at ‘her work, she felt that her house ‘Weld: cn ‘something: now. To was to the aan sacred sometimes, béfore imeeting— if to mornings communien Sunday z i i [ ; ; i H g | ALL . PARIS AWHEEL Tradeamen Now Ride Where Est Thoy Went Afpot. MILLINER GIRLS AND BOTCHER BOYS They Flit Along Carrying Their Bundles on Their Heads. SOLDIERS ON BICYCLES Spectal Correspondence of The Evening Star. PARIS, January 21, 1898. ¥ 'M NOT OUT ON my wheel the feet. The roads could not be better.” ‘This is the way of the Paris winter. There is seldom a day in which out- door exercise is not Pleasant. When the rain falls steadily the mud may discourage the fervent wheelmen, as cold feet may on the days when skating is in order. But days of either of these kinds are rare. So far there has been only a single day when the ponds in the Bois du Boulogne were frozen over, and the frequent wet days of the Paris winter amount to little more than intermittent drizzles with dry spells in be- tween. Wheeling for business is quite as much followed in January as in July. For pleasure it depends partly on the superior attractions of skating and partly on the whims of the wheelman or woman. It is quite like riding horseback in the Bois. The alleys between gray, leafless trees are never gayer with trim gowned ladies and correct cavaliers than now. It is the use of the wheel for business purposes that is most interesting to the The. Butcher's Boy. foreigner at present, because it is so differ- ent from what he sees at home. It has taken on a wonderful development in Paris, to’the advantage of every one concerned. The holidays, when butcher, baker and candlestick-maker are all at their wits’ ends in supplying the needs and change- able caprices of their customers, have brought out any number of examples. How the Florist’: Man Rides. The first is the florist’s man. Every fetcher and carrier in France, when his burden will allow it, bears his freight on his hatless head. This leaves him free to put his hands in his pocket, to whistle as he goes, for want of thought, to look at the windows of the shops and linger in every crowd. Until the end of the second empire, not 30 years ago the workingwomen of Paris were always bareheaded, as they often are even now. This may have given to the race the heads of hair which justify the top-heavy, beribboned, feathered and flow- ered hats which the Parisienne is so apt to Wear as a crown of the great mass of hair which she wears byished up, back afd frent, in massive colls. But the French- woman is growing fashionable, even among the poor; and they cover their heads with cheap hets, to which their tasteful fingers give chic and grace with a few cheap rib- Bons and flowers. The men still cling to their comfort, and the first act ef the florist’s man, before he Carries Messages of Love War. sets out with his basket of gifts which he has to deliver, is to put on his head the round, stuffed ‘ring which will balance his basket in its place. Then he mounts his wheel, the basket 1s lifted on to his head— and he is off. Some of these baskets are veritable gar- dens, a yard and more long. They are put lengthwise, for fear of collisions with pro- jecting wagon tops in the crowded streets. ‘With what address the man spins along the Champs Elysees, in and out of the long line of equipages going to or returning from the Bois! I have never seen an accident—but I have Test and shirt soeves. in HF if F if i it I 20 i i i | i i i Florist Delivers His Goods Awheel. When the sword is a part of the make-up, es is the case of certain branches of the guards, it is not dispensed with for so sim- ple a reason as its inconvenience on the wheel. It is the business of the soldier to selve the problem. Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die! Dangerous to Hearts. Those who die on the wheel in Paris are chiefly done to death by the coachmen, who seem to have sworn to exterminate bicy- cles, although, so far, they fear the au- temobiles. Owing to the frequent acci- dents, an attempt has been made to ex- clude cyclists from the more crowded streets of tke city. It is not likely to prove successful, for France is a democracy, and every male Frenchman is a soldier, and the soldier is a cyclist—which was to be dem- onstrated. Soon every Frenchwoman will also mount her wheel and away—and not for pleasure only. Pleasure trips on the bicycle have already destroyed the old-time amusement of canoeing in rivef resorts near the city. » In the last few months a sight has been seen along the Paris streets which presages death to another Parisian institution. This is the “trottin’—the milliner's and dress- maker's girl, who “trots” along the street with her white pasteboard box, containing the goods which she is charged with de- livering to the customer. She has always been the delight of the music halls, in whose songs, a la Yvette Guilbert, she was supposed to be followed by the “‘vieux monsi¢ur,” as who should say by the bald head of the first row before the ballet. The naughty old chap will now have to learn tke wheel, with danger from gout and varicose and all the other ailments of his age. For the shop girl has been seen in the land, with her box safely tied on her back, her bloomers well astride the saddle, and her taunting feet gayly pedaling away in the Paris winter to the fine ladies who would fain ee the admiration of mei ung and oe STERLING HEILIG. gees ART AND ARTISTS. The striking study head that Mr. Howard Helmick has recently finished of Mr. Wil- Mam Saunders is full of character and ex- pression and is painted in a direct, simple way in which every stroke of the brush tells. The face is seen in profile, and a strong effect of light and shade accentuates the strongly marked features. In color it is notably good, and the same is true of a small full-length portrait of Mrs. Catlin, though this canvas is painted with a very different palette. The flesh tints are es- pecially interesting in this likeness, as the artist has set down those subtle and deli- cate shades which many painters ignore, but which are essential in giving the bloom of youth and health. The figure is placed almost in the center of the canvas, and the erect pose gives a certain formal severity to the arrangement which detracts slight- ly from the pleasure that one takes in the modeling and color. « * x On her return from New York Miss Aline Solomons resumed work in her studio, and a number of partly finished studies testify to her industry. Her study of a woman with a heavy mass of jet black hair prom- ses most successful results, but visitors to the studio may look with more favor upon the small study head that she is now work- ing uvon. It is a of Peixotto, the skilful modeling and sub- dued charm of color of which make it one of the most completely satisfying pastels Miss Solomons’ hand. » * * Among the works of art belonging to pri- vate collections in Washington the tapes- tries owned by Mr. Charles M. Ffoulke eas- ily take a foremost place, as well on account of their historic and artistic value as by reason of the unique character of the col- lection. Mr. Ffoulke has made a special study of old tapestries and has gained pos- session of many valuable specimens, those illustrating the story of Eneas and Dido be- ing among the most notable. This series, which occupies nearly all the wall space in Mr. Ffoulke’s large tapestry gallery, came into his hands through the Barberini family, in whose possession it had been for two centuries and a half. They were woven in the looms established in the Barberini palace, the cartoons having been painted most light and shade are, as a rule, fmpossible, and the beauty of a tapestry must lie largely in the ar- rangement, the strength and simplicity of drawing, the richness and harmony of coler and the lifelikeness and spirit with which the scene is reproduced. * eg é fe f i i | i | | i i ii E 3 i | BE t : l | | f f | iil i went i iF } if Wl f § i i it t F i f f i i i H F x fit a 9 given up his studio a few days for Chi- commissions await He expects to stay there about two menths, and he will then return to Wash- ington for a short stay before going abroad te continue his studies. While in Vir- 484 j Bi each subject. His poses are almost always natural and unaffected, as he simply chooses some attitude that he finds by ob- | servation to be most characteristic of the sitter. The large full-length portrait that he has been painting of Mrs. Washington McLean is the most seriously studied can- vas that he has yet done, and the hand- some accessories in the painting render it more than usually interesting from th pictorial standpoint. The high-backed tap- estry-covered Maximilian chair in which Mrs. McLean is seated makes a taking bit of detail in the composition. The figure is treated with simple dignity, and is painted with a skill that shows what the artist can do when at his best. * x * A collection of water colors by five or six different artists is now to be seen at Veerhoff's. Some of these have compara- tively little interest, being subjects of a rather conventional sort treated with vary- ing degrees of skill, but one or two of the marines by Neil Mitchell lend attractive- ness to the collection, because of the nice effect of light on the water and good movement of the waves to be found in his work. He has given the reflection of the light upon the surface of the waves par- ticularly well in one moonlight scene, though in this the surf has perhaps not’ been painted with the same skill, = x In place of the usual Saturday evening sketch class at the Art League, the even- ing was given up last week to Mr. Moser, who talked to the students about his ex- periences in Germany, where he spent con- siderable time year before last. He also showed them a number of his German sketches, which were much enjoyed and appreciated by his audience. * x & The sketch exhibition at the new gallery of the Society of Washington Artists, 1027 Ccnnecticut avenue, was to have closed to- day, but it is probable that it will be kept open another week, in order to give a still larger number an opportunity of viewing the collection. The attendance has been lerge in spite of bad weather, but there have been very few sales. * x & An art loan exhibition of much more than ordinary interest and attractiveness is one projected for the benefit of the Home for Incurables ir. this city, to be held in the old Corcoran Gallery building, for a period of two weeks, in April next. Pre- liminary arrangements were made at a meeting recently held at the residence of Mr. Archibald Hopkins, and a permanent organization was effected by the election of Mrs. A. C. Barney, president; Miss Ernst, secretary, and Percy Morgan, treas- urer. It is intended that the exhibit shall include high-class examples not only of the graphic and plastic arts, but also the best products attainable in the more attrac- tive lines of industrial art. With these ends in view, standing committees on the several sections were appointed, as foliows: Executive: Ralph Cross Johnson, Caideron Carlisle, Charies Poor, Jeffry Parsons, John E. Lodge and the officers ex officio. Paintings, Statuary and Bronzes: F. B. McGuire, Robert Hinckley, V. G. Fischer and Archibald Hopkins. Building and Hanging: F. 8. Barbarin, Mrs. James Lowndes, Charles Poor, W. H. Veerhoff and Max Weyl. Decoration: J. C, Horn- blower, James R. Marshall, Thomas Nei- son Page, Mrs. E. F. Andrews and F. 8. Barbarin. Laces and Fans: Mrs. Hobson, Mrs. Percy Morgan and Miss Williams. Textiles and Hangings: C. M. Ffoulke and J. B. Henderson. Miniatures: Mrs. James Lowndes, Mrs Edward O. Woicott and Mr. Fischer. Entertainment: Mrs. Hopkins, Mrs. Boar¢man and Mrs. Arnold Hague. Contributions for the neveral departments will be sought not only from the best pri- vate collections in this city, but from other cities and artistic centers, and it is under- stood that enough favorable assurances to ingure the success of the affair have al- ready been received, so that it may safely be looked forward to as one of the notable events of the year, considered from any point of view. = ded The question having been asked of the editor of that paper which of two paint- ings of “The Horse Fair” is the original picture, a correspondent of the Boston Transcript throws the following light on the subject: “Rosa Bonkeur’s great paint- img of ‘The Horse Fair’ 1s in the Metro- politan Museum in New York. It was bought for $53,000 at the sale of the A. T. Stewart collection in New York in April, 1887, by Cornelius Vanderbilt, who after- ward presented it to the museum, for which special destination it was, indeed, pur- chased. This is the original painting that made the artist famous, and is the one that ts always thought and spoken of as her The size of the canvas is -xteen feet eight inches. The representation of the same subject in Lon- don is very’much smaller, only three feet eleven inches by eight feet two and a half inches in size, and is a replica; that is, it was repeated by the artist from the large Picture, on a reduced scale, mainly, it was understood, for the purpose of being repre- sented by. steel engravings, lithography, ete. Landseer engraved a steel plate on a large scale from it.” To this it may be added that on the occasion of the Stew: vale above referred to the trustees of the Corcoran Gallery concluded to acquire the painting, and a member of the committee on works of art attended the sale with that object in view. The bidding was spirited between him and another gentleman, and the gallery representative carried the com- petition up to $52,500, when it came to his knowledge that his opponent was author- ized and instructed to obtain the canvas at any price, whereupon he withdrew from the contest, and the prize was knocked down to Mr. Vanderbilt's representative, as stat- ed above, for $53,000. Rete RTL STs Net Just as He Meant. From the In@tinapolis Journal. “Johnson wants to borrow some money 01 me. D> you know anything about him?” “I know him as well as I do you. I ee ane