Rensselaer Journal, Volume 10, Number 36, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 14 February 1901 — SOME VAGARIES OE THE DAY [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

SOME VAGARIES OE THE DAY

GLIMPSES OF CITY LIFE

Mr. and Mrs. Wood have been marvied only a few weeks and consequent-

ly Mrs. Wood was " V '*'T7r& decidedly ruffled at 11 11 11 H the note 1119 me ’" 11 1 1 jy | sender boy brought j I [fi I her about 2 o’clock I ) M ■ In the afternoon. \Z uIkT It was from her fl'/SpU,. ' JUBband , a nd it ran: ][F J “Caroline: A m bringing Mr. Boyce home, to dinner tonight. Get a ehloken. Henry.” She bought the chicken, but her tears besprinkled the clammy foul as she pr pared it for the oven. Six weeks married and he could write a horrid note like that! He ordered her to do things, did he? When their dinner guest departed the storm burst. The unfortunate Mr. Wood explained that when he dashed off his message to her he had about sixteen seconds to dp it In, three men were waiting Impatiently to see him and stocks were at the moment going down. AU of which to Mrs. Wood had about as much bearing on the case as though he had tried to excuse his abruptness by stating that there had been a volcanic eruption in Mars. Her feelings were decidedly hurt. He could not care for her else he would have been kinder. It was next week when Mr. Wood discovered he had carried downtown the key to the basement and he • remembered a load of coal was coming that afternoon. He put the key in an envelope and with it this epistle: “My Own Darling ' Little Wlfle: Here’s that blamed key I forgot. With love and a million kisses, your adoring husband, Harry.” Bhe wouldn’t speak to him when he came home that night. He says some women are awfully hard to suit.

“I had the queerest dream the other night,” said the girl who was making

a round of calls. “I thought I was about to take a steamer somewhere across the lake and that Tom Silsbee was going along. The boat didn’t come and finally Tom said: ‘Oh, pshaw, let’s walk out and meet it!’ I said, ‘All right,’ just as though he had asked me to dance the next twostep with him, and we started. The lake seemed not exactly frozen, but kind of rough and snowy, and we

walked on miles. Finally we came to a huge mountain of what looked for all the world like a meringue. It was not smooth, but all bulges and holes and little peaks and looked bo fragile that I knew If we stepped on it we would break through. But Tom said it was all right, so we began to climb it. We were still looking for the boat all this time. Tom insisted we should find it on top the meringue and it seemed quite likely to me, so I clambered up with good grace. But when we got to the very top Tom broke through. As he disappeared I shrieked, 'What on earth are you doing?’ indignantly, and he answered —he was falling very slowly—'it’s shorter going this way. Besides, my last bowling ■core was only 191.’ "That seemed to satisfy me, so I ■at down on the flattest peak of the meringue and began to polish up kitchen knives. And just as the meringue suddenly melted away I woke up.; I wish I knew where I was going

when I started out in the first place.” “H’m!” said her hostess, tartly. “You were on the road to Kankakee, so far as I can make out!” Henrietta recently bought a massage roller to use on her face. She hasn’t any wrinkles, but she is afraid she may have, and decided to begin the fight for beauty in time. The roller had little rubber wheels and reminded her of an old-fashioned fluting iron, but the accompanying Instructions said If it were used with a firm and gentle pressure it would restore the bloom of youth to a mummy, so she knew it must be all right. The first time she used it she left furrows a quarter of an inch deep in her cheeks and people inquired where she was when the wagon rolled over her face. She thought one eye was gone the next time she essayed to handle the machine, for it slipped and did a little excavating act. She 'bruised her nose after that and then she read the instructions again. “This dainty toilet

accessory,” said the circular, “should be on every dressing table.” Henrietta thought that advice and put hers there, where it stayed Uudisturbed. She came home the other afternoon and found her younger brother using it to “squeegee” photographic prints into his camera book. “This is a funny sort of photo roller,” he remarked, “but I’ve lost mine, and I guess I can make yours do.” Henrietta says she is rejoiced to find out what the complexion roller is really good for.—Chicago News.

one morning holding Hattie’s dainty