Rensselaer Union, Volume 8, Number 17, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 13 January 1876 — Page 1

HORACE E. JAMES, Proprietor.

VQL. VIII.

HILDA'S LITTLE HOOD.

In Booth I have forgotten, for it ie long ago. And winters twelve have hid it beneath their shrouds of snow; And ’tisn’t well, the parson says, o’er bygone things to brood, But,[aure,lt was the strangest thing, this tale of Hilda’s hood. For Hilda was a merry maid, and wild as wild * could be, Among the parish maidens was none so fair as she; Her eyes they shone with willful mirth, and like a golden flood Her sunny hair rolled downward from her little 4 scarlet hood, And once I was out a fishing, and, though sturdy at the oar, My arms were growing weaker, and I was far from shore; And angry squalls swept thickly from out the lurid skies, And every landmark that I knew was hidden from mine eyes. The gull’s shrill shriek above me, the sea’s strong bass beneath, The numbness grew upon me w'ith its chilling touch of death, And blackness gathered round'me; then through the night’s dark shroud A clear young voice "(fame swiftly as an arrow cleaves the cloud. It was a voice so mellow, so bright and warm and round, As if a patch of sunshine had been melted into sound; It fell upon my frozen nerves and thawed the springs of life; I grasped the oar and strove afresh; it was a bitter strife. The breakers roared about me, but the song took bolder flight, And rose above the darkness like a beacon in the niizht; And I steered swift and safely, struck shore and, by God’s rood, Through gloom and spray I caught the gleam of Hilda's scarlet hood. The moon athwart the darkness broke a broad and misty way, The dawn grew red beyond the sea and sent abroad the day; And loud I prayed to God above to help me, if he could, For deep into my soul had pierced that gleam from Hilda’s hood. I sought her in the forest, I sought her on the strand, The pine-trees spread their dusky roof, bleqk lay the glittering sand. Until one Sabbath morning at the parish Church I stood. And aaw, amid a throng oi maids, the little scarlet hood. Then straight my heart ran riot, and wild my pulses flew; I strove in vain my flutter and my blushes to subdue; “Why, Eric!" laughed a roguish maid, “your cheeks are red as blood;’’ Another cried: “ ’Tie b.ut the shine from Hilda’s Bcarlet hood.” I answered not, for ’tis not safe to banter with-a girl; The trees, the church, the belfry danced about me in a whirl; I was ns dizzy as a moth that flutters round the flame; I turned about, and twirled my cap, but could not speak for shame. But that same Sabbath evening, as I sauntered o’er the beach, And cursed that foolish heart of mine for choking up my speech, I spied, lialf-wrapped in shadow, at the margin of the wood, The wavy mass of sunshine that broke from Hilda’s hood. With quickened breath on tiptoe across the sand X stepped: Her face was hidden in her lap, as though she mused or slept; The hood had glided backward o’er the hair that downward rolled, Like some large petal of a flower upon a stream , • of gold. ) “Fair Hilda,” so 1 whispered, as I bended to her ear; She started up and smiled at me without surprise or fear. “I love you, Hilda,” said I; then in whispers more subdued: “ Love me again, or wear no more that little scarlet hood.” “ Why. Eric,” cried she, laughing, “ how can you talk so wild? I was confirmed last Easter, half maid and half a child; But since you are so stubborn—no, no; I never could— Unless you guess what’s written in my little scarlet hood.” “But I cannot, fairest Hilda,’ quoth I, with mournful mien. While with my hand I gt-ntly, and by the maid unseen, Snatched from the clustering wavelets the brightly-flaming thing, And saw naught there but stitches small, crosswise meandering. s “ There ie nothing in vour hood, love!” ( I cried, with heedless mirth. “Well,” laughed she, '• out of nothing God made both heaven and earth. But since the earth to you and me as heritage whs given. ' , I’ll only try to make for you a little bit of heaven.” * , A —llialmur Worth , in Scribner's Magazine.

POLLY’S MISTAKE.

BY E. A. MATTIERS.

“I always thought you liked me, Polly!” ‘ * J ' So I do, John; I’m very fond of you,, but not irn that way.” ‘‘Not in what way, Polly? I only know'one way of being found of people.’! ‘Only one way! Why, there are doz- . ens of ways.” ‘‘Well, Polly, just say you’ll marry me, and you may hq fond of me in your own w’ay or in a dozen ways. I’m not particular.” But that was just what Polly would not do. All John’s eloquence could not induce her to utter that simple little word “ yes.” At last John’s stock of patience, never v£ry large, gave out, and he told Polly that she was a flinty-hearted little flirt, to pretend to be fond of him in any way, when it was plain to be seen she did not care a button for him. That was too much, to be called a flirt and a flintyhearted flirt, and by John! Polly’s" eyes sparkled and a sharp retort was on the tip of hiir tongue, when the kitchen door opendd and Uncle Silas entered. “ Be you two holdin’ Quaker meetin’?” said he, as he was going out after filling and lighting.his pipe at Polly’s ironingplace, “or be you savin’ up for the singin’ to-night? Don’t over-do it, tho’, Polly, or maybe your tongue ’ll git stift in the jints. Queer things is women’s tongues.” And Uncle Silas went oft chuckling over his little joke. Of course after that Polly was not going to be in any hurry to speak. Perhaps John thinks she can’t hold her tongue, too! She will show him! And Polly bites her lips very hard and tries to look very resolute indeed. But John had been busy repenting for ten minutes; he got up as Ms father shut the door and said, quite gently: “I'm sorry, Polly, for what

THE RENSSELAER UNION.

I ’ said a while ago. I didn’t mean it, dear.” No answer—unless a; big tear that dropped on Polly’s iron just then might be taken for one. “Well, Polly, never mind, I’ll try to get over being fond of you if it makes you so unhappy; you need not cry about it; I hope it is not so bad as that.” And with that John went out to his woodchopping and Polly finished ironing and nobody was any the wiser. That is, nobody but Paul Pry, the parrot, who had heard every word and startled Polly dreadfully that same evening by calling out suddenly at the supper-table: “ Hillo! Polly, never mind! never mind! never mind! Poor Polly! pretty polly! don’t -cry!” However, neither Uncle Silas nor Aunt Debby paid the least regard to Paul Pry’s rather personal and slightly impertinent remarks; but they made Polly so nervous with dread of what he might say next that she could not eat, and thereby attracted Aunt Debby’s attention to herself. “Be you sick, child ? You don’t seem ! to have no appetite and your face is red as a beet this minute. Ido hope to goodness you ain’t going to be took down with fever. Simon’ Brown says it’s dretlul bad over 1o Rockaway.” “ Polly’s cheeks is alius like pink hollyhocks,'” said Uncle Silas, with a glance of affectionateiadmiratiou in Polly’s digction. “ Some folks admire to see red cheeks, and then 'again some doesn’t. There’s Alice Brown, now; she ain’t got no more color nor a stattoo; but mos’ folks ’lows she’s drefful hansum; that young painter chap from ork was alius a drawin’ of her picter. For my part, I think red cheeks is healthy;” and Aunt Debby stirred her tea meditatiqely.

RENSSELAER, JASPER COUNTY, INDIANA, JANUARY 13, 1876.

“Alice Brown ain’t no more to be compared to our Polly for looks nor them bleached potato-sprouts down cellar is fit to be put in a posey along o’ pinks and gillyflowers,” said Uncle Silas, indignantly. “ Well, father, I dunno; last Sabbath to church when I look up in the core and see Alice in her white frock and with all them yellow curls hangin’ round her face and singin’ so sweet-like, why, I couldn’t help thinkin’of the angels.” “Polly ain’t no angel, sure-ly. But don’t you be downhearted, Polly; pretty gals ain’t goin’ out of fashion this year. No, nor next year nuther.” “La! father, how you do talk! As if Polly didn’t know better nor to set store by her good looks. Why, there was Clarissy Hunter, when I was a girl; all perfect wax doll, all pink and white, and hair the color o’ sunshine. Well, she went down to Falbridge to visit her mother’s relations, and took small-pox, and that was the last of her good looks. But that wa’n’t the wust of it; she was promised to Hiram Barber, and when he sees she wa’n’t a bit like herself, he up and married Kitty Gibson. If it had a’ been me I’d a’ ruther had Clarissy, if she was humbly, for she was a sweet-tempered critter and a mighty- neat housekeeper; but Kitty Barber—lvitty Gibson that was —was a Tartar and a slattern to boot; which ain’t common. For you’ll mostly see a slack, easy-goin’ woman ain’t got no more snap in her nor a dish-clout; while a woman that’s sutliin’ ;>f a spitfire is apt to be mortal spry and generally has two cleanin’ days to a week.” Polly, who had begun to clear off the supper-table, stopped midway to the pantry to hear the last of Aunt Debby’s reminiscences, and she could not help wondering if it would make any difference to John if she should lose her good looks; that is, supposing they had been engaged like Clarissa and Hiram. Of course as things were John would not care if her eyes should suddenly turn crooked in her head or if her pretty little nose were to assume gigantic proportions on the instant.

John was what women call “handy” about the house and often helped Polly wash dishes and peel potatoes; and on wash days in very cold weather he had even been known to hangout the clothes; all of which his mother and the neigli--bor women put down to the score of John’s kind heart, and they were all agreed that he would make a model husband. Perhaps it was all abstract goodness on John’s part; but if so, why was it that nobody had ever known him to show the least concern about old Mrs. Moss’ rheumatic hands when she took Polly’s place at the washtub; though he has been seen to hold Polly’s rosy digits for five minutes just to warm them, you know, and then send her indoors while he battled manfully with wet, flapping sheets and stringy towels. As time went on, however, he seemed to lose all his little helpful ways about the house; the water-bucket 3 might stand empty half the day without his perceiving it—Polly might reduce her fingers to pink jelly driving nails to train her roses— John never seemed to know it or to imagine that any assistance was needed or expected from him. He was not actually unkind, but there was a difference; he did not appropriate Polly as he used to do; he always gave way when Simeon Brown or Hall Burton or any other of the young men came about. He was away a good deal in the evenings, and when lie did remain at home was usually absorbed in the newspapers or a book; or else he was busy with accounts and must not be disturbed. Polly wonders sometimes if John has forgotten all about that little scene in the old kitchen, one spring morning, not so very long ago. She does not wonder if he. nas gotten over being fond of her—as he said he would endeavor to do —she is quite sure that he has. Though why she should cry about it is not quite so clear to Polly; but she does, nevertheless, and the briny drops fall slowly and mournfully into the dish-pan. When she has “done up” the dishes and wept her “little weep, she bathes her face ' in cool spring water, and without even one tiny peep into the little cracked looking-glass goes into the sitting-room. Uncle Silas was enjoying his pine and the newspaper together, and Aunt Debby was counting off the loops on her knitting needles preparatory to “setting-up” the heel in a gray yarn stocking, whose dimensions proclaimed that it was intended to warm and comfort, during the storms of the coming winter, one of a pair of feet

at present reposing inside of Uncle Silas’ far-from Liliputian slippers. John is not present, so the room is very still; it is worse even than the great empty kitchen, for the crickets keep that from being utterly dreary, but the ticking of the tall clock in its dim corner only makes the sitting-room seem more lonesome. Polly takes her work and sits down in her little sewing-chair, and wonders what ails herself and everybody and everything. She longs to throw her work into the fire and herself on the floor and cry her ayes out; but what would Aunt Debby say to such doings? Ah, if the Aunt Deb by s could but look beneath the surlace, oftentimes, what an uplifting of hands and eyes would take place, to be sure! But Aunt Debby “set-up” her heel undisturbed, and, getting into plain sailing, she remarked how quiet everyone was. This eliciting no response, she next supposed it would be late before John got home; then Polly asked where John was? “ He’s gone to Deacon Brown’s to core meetin’; Simeon cum along this afternoon and gin him notice. I think you’d a better went too, Polly; you don’t seem pert; thereinnuthin’ like a bit o’ company to ’liven young folks up, or old one's either.”

Polly did not say anything, but a pang shot through her heart and she wanted to cry worse tlrnn ever—what could ail her ? Uncle Silas laid his paper down and cast a shrewd glance at Polly ; fover his f lasses, then hemmed and said: “ Mother, o you think it’s the singin’ and nutliin’ else that takes our John to Deacon Brown’s so oft’n of an evenin’?” “Why, what should it be? You don’t think lie’s under ‘ conviction,’ do you ? I shouldn’t wonder, though, now that you mention it, if he was. Them’s powerful sarmons Parson Hammond’s been preachin’ lately, most enough to wake the dead, ’specially in the grave's under the meetin’house winders. Well, if it’s the Lord’s will to call him, it would be a ’mazin’ comfort to me to see him brought into the fold before I die. Not but what John’s alius been a good son as things is—tho’ .rather fond o’ fiddlin’ and dancin’, maybe, and carin’ less for prayer-meetin’s than I could wish, still I dunno as he’s much differ’nt to most young folks in that way; I used to be ruther chipper myself when I was a gal.” “You’re on. the wrong track, motligr, entirely. How would you like the Deacon’s Alice for a darter?” “La, suz!” and Aunt Debby dropped her knitting and stared at Uncle Silas with wide-distended eyes for the space of thirty seconds; but nothing short of paralysis could longer deprive that excellent woman of the use of her tongue.

“Deary me! Well, to be sure! But why not? Alice is a good, sensible gal as well as a hansum one, and not a bit spilt with bein’ an only darter, as gals is apt to be; and then the Deacon’s forehanded, and his medder jines ourn. , Well, father, considerin’ everythin’, John might go further and fare wus.” “Sol think, mother; not that Alice would be my cli’ice—she’s too still and white; but then it’s not me that’s goin’ to marry her; if John fancies her it’s all right—l shan’t ask him to look at her thro’ my glasses. No, no; let him please himself and he’ll please me.” Polly tried to say something to keep her silence from being observed; but if her life had depended on the articulation of a dozen syllables she could not have spokfti them. Poor Polly! she had found out at last what ailed her; she loved John with her whole warm little heart, and now he would go and marry Alice Brown and—a lump got into Polly’s throat just here and threatened to choke her, and before she knew it a sob escaped and Polly took refuge in a deceitful fit of coughing, which, jike all falseness, carried its own punishment with it—for it distracted Aunt Debby’s attention from her future daugh-ter-in-law and concentrated it on Polly’s self.

“Why,child, you’ve caught adrefful hard cold all to onct! y«u must take a tablespoonful of lioarhound balsam right away. 1 never hear a , drier cough nor that of yourn—it sounds just like Cynthy Besom’s did the winter she took the gallopin’ consumption, and was dead and buried all inside of six months.” And Aunt Debby bustled about and got out the big bottle from the chimney-cupboard, aud measured out a dose of the* hoarhound balsam. Polly knew that remonstrance would be worse than useless, so she swallowed the bitter-sweet mixture without protest. Then she was sent to bed with directions to go to sleep right away, and with the comforting assurance' that if the cough aid not succumb to balsam before morning John should go for old Dr. Drugen first thing alter breakfast. Polly’s mistake was one that is often made by young girls who are too much taken up with the pleasant story of tlieir own lives to stop to think or ask questions of their hearts. We are none of us much given to introspection in our “salad days;” and when at last we do take to soul-probing it is usually too late to benefit by our discoveries. Polly—the orphan child of a far-away cousin—had been adopted by Uncle Silas and Aunt Debby when very small, so she and John had grown up together like brother and sister, and she had really nevpr once thought of John as a lover, or a possible husband, until his rather abrupt proposal had startled her into the declaration that she did not love him, when the truth was she had been loving him every day of her life without in the least suspecting it. Polly did not go off in a galloping consumption like Cynthia Besom, nor uid she pine away and die of a broken heart—healthy people never, do either—she just lived on from day to day, as we all do and must in spite of disappointment and heartbreak. She did not even droop, but held tip her head like a brave, little fiower that will not heed the rude' winds, but smiles through all their buffeting. Perhaps hope was not yet plucked up by the roots; for hope is a sturdy plant that flourishes in sterile soils, and will sustain life for a very long time on very scant nourishment. It was December now, aud the young folks of Sleepy Hollow were met in Uncle Silas Briggs’ woodsfora skating frolic on the woodland pond. When the nierri ment was at at its height, and me waters .flying in all directions, every ear was startled by thel»ud cracking of the frozen

surface; then came a crash—a heavy cry—and in a few moments later John Briggs lay at Polly’s feet, dead! At least so it seemed to Polly; then the sun went down and night came in a moment, and there lay Polly in a swoon on the dead man’s breast! But John*was not dead, or even much hurt, only chilled to insensibility, and consciousness returned before anyone had recovered presence of mind to remove Polly from her resting place on his bosom. “ Good gracious! Polly’s fainted!” cried Susy Brown; “ run quick, somebody, and fetch some water.” The girls nad rallied by this time and crowded round Polly like bees round a crocus bed in spring, and she was in danger of being killed by kindness, when Simeon Brown rushed up with his cap full of icy water and dashed it slap in Polly’s face. That waked her up in a hurry—she gasped, opened her eyes, and seeing the group of frightened faces about her asked: “ What’s the mater ?” Poor Polly! she knew' immediately what the matter was—she had made a fool of herself—and now everybody would know that she w r as in love with John —with Alice Brown’s lover! Oh, dear! and to mend matters Polly began to cry. But where is John ? Polly cannot see him anywhere. Polly’s senses had not come back fully, it seemed, for she did not know that she w r as reposing quite comfortably in John’s arms. “ Don’t cry, Polly,” said that audacious youth himself as he kissed her on the mouth as bold as brass, or, as Susy Brown said, afterward, “Just as if Polly had been a baby and John had been her mother;” then turning to the skaters: “See here, I’nj going to take Polly home now, and you’d best be spry if you mean to keep Christmas in my style this year.” And with that he gathered Polly up and carried her off. I suppose that Polly’s mistake w r as rectified on the way home, for there was a w'edding at Uncle Silas Briggs’ on Christmas Eve, on which occasion Aunt Debby w*as heard to deliver herself after the following characteristic manner: “ You never kin tell till arterward how a weddin’s goin’ to turn out, ’specially these days when things is gp oncertain, and married folks don’t think no more o’ cuttin’ loose from each other nor men does o’ quittin’ the grocery business. Why, divorce bills is getting to be about as common as peddlers’ licenses and as easy to be got. For my part I don’t think much o’ sfech folks. I say it’s pesky mean not to stick to a bargain when it’s made and signed and sealed, even if it wa’n’t a wicked sin and flat agin’ Scripter. Thank goodness! 1 ain’t afeared o’ John and Polly never wantin’ no bill.” — N. Y. Graphic.

A Man in Tennessee Who Has Never Stopped Growing.

John Horner is % citizen of Perry County, Tenn., one of a family of eight children, none of whom had exhibited any unusual traits. At eighteen years he was a well-grown man, six feet high, and weighed 180 pounds. At twenty-one he was six inches taller, and weighed 210 pounds. He ceased to notice any growth after that until he was twenty-four years old; and then only by the smallness of his clothes, ana ie then measured in his stockings six feet nine inches. Since then—he is now thirty-one years of age—he has attained the height of seven feet nine inches, and is still growing, this being an increase of about two inches annually. Some years he grew more and some less, but this is his average. A correspondent who visited this giant says: “ After greeting, the object of our visit was stated, and the. giant seemed rather flattered that we had come to visit him. He was evidently good-natured, and was, I afterward learned, quite a favorite in the neighborhood. He showed us a place on the wall where his various measurements had been marked with chalk, and the date of each measure was opposite, rudely but plainly marked. The first and lowest was when at eighteen years of age it was six feet, and the to at twenty-one it was as before stated. The marks were from a half inch to an inch apart, the last having been taken about two months previous. At my request he stood up, and I accurately measured him, and found within the two months past he had increased his height just one half inch, which I noted on the wall in pencil, with the date July 24, 1875. He rolled up his pantaloons, and his shanks were simply immense, and hjs knee joints were extremely large and bulging. 1 took a careful measurement of his various lengths. His head to top of shoulders, was eight inches; from shoulders to the hip joint, two feet three inches; thence to center of knees, two feet tw o and one half inches; thence to the floor, two feet and eight inches, making the enormous aggregate of seven feet nine and one-half inches. From the shoulders to the tip of his fingers was four feet six inches! What a magnificent specimen of humanity he would have been had he been proportionally large. But truth compels me to a different version. In fact he was as if made of india-rubber, stretched out to a huge length. He ought to have weighed at least 300 pounds, but lie weighed only 233 pounds. In consequence of this want of conformity he was excessively awkward, lank and gatvky. Only one quality did he possess in a large degree, and that was his ability to walk. lie could stoop forward at a heavy angle and start off in his awkward, shuffling gait, that rivaled any horse, lie thought nothing of walking to Linden, twelve miles, and back to dinner. “He is, .as before stated, thirty-one years and a few months old, and is still f rowing. He has never been out of ’errv County. I suggested the idea of an exhibition to him, but- he seemed averse to publicity.”.

—The Treasurer ot the Boston RubberShoe Company found this among his correspondence the other day: “Sir—Conscientiously, as a Roman Catholic, having complied with the ardent religious duties which we are commanded to by our mother, the church, on the occasion of the calamity which befell your factor}- I took an article thcrefroip which deprives me from approaching the table of the Lord until I remit this as restitm tion, $1.25.”

Chalk Marks.

The most wretched poverty I can think of is to want what we are too stingy to buy. Money is oftener a master than a servant. * Everybody seems dissatisfied with their lot, but if they should sw r op places with the first man that they met they would all be willing to give something to boot to trade back to-morrpub \ Take the laziness all out of this world and you would take most of the sin with it. It ain’t the man who can live well on the least, but the man who can live well on the most, who is the wisest and happiest. j All temporal things are common Droperty, and what is mine to-day may be another’s to-morrow. It ain’t the fast nor the slow that oftenest win the race, but the middle-gaited. The man whose aim is only to make others laugh is one whom it won’t do to trust; he is as uncertain as a monkey. Idleness -weakens a man’s soul as much as it does nis body until the devil and disease divide the premises between them. How few there are who can tell even the name of their great-great-grandfather, or know who owned the farm a hundred years ago that they own to-day. 1 notice one thing, that those persons who have an utter disregard for money have a disregard for most everything else. Without curiosity man would be but one peg higher than the bugs and fishes.. It requires much wisdom to distinguish between truth and falsehood, and some honesty to adopt the truth after we nave found it.

You can make money with one hand, but it takes both to hang on to it. Young man, don’t work for nothing; you can’t make money nor even any reputation by it. Fortune loves to be assaulted; she never gave a whining cuss much of anything yet. Truth can wait, but a lie is always in a great hurry. It is very difficult to find a man that is above his condition in life. . A man ain’t entitled to any more credit for having a great pedigree than he is for having caught the measles—he can’t tell why. If a man really deserves fame he needn’t hunt for it; it will hunt for him. It ain’t so much the lack of ability as it is the lack of grip that ails mankind. Adversity maty ruin a man, but it gives him a chance to die game. There are some people who are the lords and masters of their money, but most people are the servants of it. Young man, don’t ask any favors of anybody; it is better to have the world owe-you ten dollars than to owe them one —c Tosh Billings , in N. Y. Weekly.

The Latest Modes.

White felt bonnets are becoming more popular. They are made with a somewhat high crown, which is encircled with a tulle and Valenciennes lace scarf. A tuft of white flowers and a bow of white gauze are added at the side, and a ruche of Valenciennes bepeath the brim. In Paris tulle bonnets to match the dress in color are very generally to be seen at the theater, pale pink or blue being worn with both black and gray silk dresses. For dressy afternoon bonnets brown velvet, made in the bebe form, are very fashionable. They are trimmed with a bow of velvet in the center and a small aigrette of a bird of paradise at the side. The curtain and strings are of ecru Duchesse lace. Bebe bonnets made of plush are also worn, and particularly of navy-blue plush. The • most becoming for a walking costume are the black velvet bonnets. They are often covered with feathers, and thin lines of silver or gold braid round the edge. Flesh-colored roses are much worn on brown felt hats, and never were shaded velvet leaves and small berries so exquisitely made as at the present season.

“ La Boiteuse” (thecripple) is the name French dressmakers give to the new tunic or overskirt, which is made to look onesided by draping it higher on the right side than on the left. As yet it is not widely patronized, the more favorite pattern being a very de§p tablier that reaches almost to the feet and has large- folds that meet in the middle of the apron, and are held there by bows; the folds then slope up to the sides and are lost in the drapery of the back. The front oi costumes is certainly the objective point of trimming. This season all putts and bouffant effects arc abandoned and the ornamentation is massed either in front or on the sides; but, as the pull-back suit remains, the fullness is gathered behind. There seems to be a marked intention to re'store the polonaise to favor: it only reappears under a new name—the Princess overdress. It is! long-waisted, very slightly draped, and made of velvet, damask, fish-scale brocade, camel’s hair and Sicilienne. They look well in blueplum brocade with velvet collar, velvet sleeves, and three rows of small passementerie buttons down the front-and a large reticule-pocket at the side. The underskirt is faille of the same shade, trimmed with broad bands of cross-cut velvet. Black velvet polonaises are made in great variety. Some are extremely elaborate and others very simple in the way of binding. The latter style are perfectly plain at the edges, with merely buttons. silk collar, silk cutis and some silk bows on the tournures, while the former are loaded with Chantilly lace mounted with fringe, and headed with the netted passementerie that is as costly as lace. Velvet polonaises that are slightly out of date can be easily modernized at small cost by mounting a row of silk bows on the back, making deep cuffs and Byron collar of small silk folds and a cord in each fold, adding a single large full pocket on each side and a triple row of buttons in front. The ladies’ Ulsters are gradually gain ing favor. They are fastened with 6 double row of very large gimp or silver buttons; the sleeves are wide enough to slip on easily, and the square pockets are sufficiently large to contain a book, a handkerchief and, a fan. They are

SUBSCRIPTION; 92.00 a Tear, In Advance.

trimmed either with wide velvet or with fur. The most styli&h Ulsters reach to the feet. Large circular cloaks and long jackets lined with fur are also in- vogue. They are made of heaw Antwerp silks, which are double in width, also of Sicilienne and ordinary gro»-grains; they are linqd with squirrel fur ana bordered with black fox or with Alaska sable. Evening dresses still continue to/be much the same, bright colors being in great favor. The hertha io usually made of the same material a* the overskirt. Valenciennes lace is a favorite trimming and velvet scarf sashes are lined with silk of a paler color. They are not making the trains extremely long, but the overskirts reach to the feet. Pearl trimming on tulle flowers, worked on tulle with floss, silk and passementerie of small colored beads, are among the-fashionable trimmings. Skirts are now so narrow that pockets outside and separate from the skirt only are possible. They are fastened to the waistband with an agraffe like a chatelaine. Black satin is often used for these pockets. It ia gathered, and there is a bow on it, the ends of which descend to the feet; for evening wear, double white Swiss and white- faille are used.—iV. Y. Evening Mail.

The Washington correspondent of the Cincinnati Gazette writes: “I will warn any youth beforehand, who may feel impelled by this advice to wend their way to our cosmopolis, that they must eome armed to the teeth with moral courage, and be prepared to vigorously use the broadsword of resolution against getting spoiled. I have seen many a goodly ship go down to the fathomless depths of remorse which must attend the retrospective thoughts of one who has lived for no object but to be considered an elegant carpetknight, an accomplished beau and an ornament to a society salon. The temptation is great to drift on the current of fashionable frivolity, and to take ho thought except for the pleasures of the moment. But the drifting frequently lands one on the desert of nowhere, with nothing for a rudder to guide one in the future. And there is nothing more despicable, in my estimation, than a worn-out society beau. A woman who has all her life thrown herself before the juggernaut of fashion—who apes Mrs. Skewton in her efforts to be always young and fascinating, bones and wrinkles to the contrary—is a pitiable object, indeed, but not so utterly inexcusable and unpardonable as a man grown gray and dyed in the service of fashionable Mammon. I know of one man who never for a moment entertains the thought that he has left his prime many years behind hint.' He uses the most approved ‘ hairrestoratives,’ assiduously endeavors to make everyone think his teeth were not vouchsafed him from the dentist, dresses in the height of the style, invariably wears a burtsn-hole bouquet, and quite frequently a scarlet tie daintily tied so as only to give a dash of coloring to his tqilet; and this youthful Methuselah may always be fount! among the train of admirers which follows in the wake of a debutante , the younger the better. He always speaks of himself in connection with the fieriest and gayest of the ‘ young bloods,’ and each year picks out the cream of the girls as his future bride, when he shall make up his mind to quit the comforts and delights of bachelor life. He has continued in this senseless round of unvarying idiocy ever since I have known him, and he will probably ‘ trip the light fantastic” and talk his flippant nonsense until death treads on his toes and puts his chilling hand ever his garrulous tongue.”

How an Actress’ Antecedents Were Betrayed.

Some years ago the manager of a wellregulated theater, somewhere along the line of the Erie Canal, engaged a young lady as a supernumerary. It so happened that the young lady officiated as a “ hand” on board a canal-boat, a tact which she was anxious to conceal. She evinced much anxiety to master the details of her newly-chosen profession, and exhibited more than ordinary talent. She was duly promoted and, in due time, became a general favorite with both manager and the public. One night, when she was to appear in a favorite part, a couple of boatmen found their way into the pit, near the footlights, anxious to see the famous comedienne. The house was crowded and, after the subsidence of the applause which greeted her appearance, one of the boatmen slapped his companion on the shoulder and exclaimed, loud enough to be heard over half the house: “ Bill, I know that gal!” “Pshaw!” said Bill; “ shut up.” “ But I’m sure I do, Bill. It’s Sal Flukins, as sure as you’re born. She’s old Flukms’ daughter, that used to run the Injured Polly, and she used to sail with him.” “ Tom,” said Bill, “you’re a fool, and if you don’t stop your infernal clack you’ll get put out. Sal Flukins! You must know a sight, if you think that’s her.” Tom was silenced, but not convinced. He watched the actress in all her motions with intense interest, and ere long broke out again: “I tell ye, Bill, that’s her; I know ’tis. You can’t fool me—l knoW' her too well. You just wait; I’ll fix her. Keep jour eye on me.” Sure enough he did fix her. Watching his opportunity, when the actress was deeply absorbed in her part, he sang out, in a voice which rang through the galleries : “ Low bridge!” From the force of habit the actress instantly and involuntarily ducked her head to avoid the anticipated collision. Down came the house with a perfect thunder of applause at the “palpable hit,” high above which Tom’s voice could be heard: “Didn’t I tell je, old boj', ’twas her? You couldn’t fool me.” —A nice point for casuists has jusi been raised in Montreal. Two men were quarreling on St. Francis Xavier street and A knocked B down, whereupon a horse, alarmed at the struggle, kicked B on the • head and killed him. What is A guilty off ’

NO. IT.

A Warning to Men.