Saturday Evening Mail, Volume 25, Number 47, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 18 May 1895 — Page 3

*_J

THE PASTSLLETTE.

"Th« pastello lsSx strong," said b«k "Lol I will moke it fainter yet!" And ho yrrought with tepid «»t«8T ," A "pastellette. A touch, a word, a tono half caught— He softly felt and handled them Flavor tit feeling, scent of thooght*

Shimmer of gem—

That we may read and feel as he VThat vague, pale pleasure we can get From this mild, witless myatery.

The pastellette.

-Impnm

AUTHOR AND GIRL.

"And yon really write books? Fancy I How do you do it?" "Oh, I don't know. How do yon invent anew frock?" "I git—aud think—and frown—and scold my maid." "My process is just the same." "Fancy! I wonder if I'vo read any of your books. No, I don't think I have. Yon see, I don't read much." "Your eyes were made for something better," observed the author politely. "Oh, now, that's out of one of them. Isn't it? Yes, I shall read them if they're like that. Are they like that?" "Well, I don't always get such an inspiration," the author admitted. "If. I always could"—"I might come and sit by you," suggested the Butterfly thoughtfully. "Not in working hours, thanks," said the author hastily. "That's very horrid of yon I I shouldn't get in the way." "Oh, yes, you would." "But I'd—shut them." "What would happen then?" asked the author, smiling. "Oh, please be sensible," implored the Butterfly. "I was told you were so clever, you know." "It's a term of abuse nowadays," observed the author resignedly. "I'm not clever, you know. My sister Mildred is, though. "But then"— began the author. "Why, *she's a sweet looking girl," interrupted the Butterfly in apparent indignation. "They always are," said the author. "Mamma's looking this way," remarked the Butterfly after a pause. "All right. She thinks I'm a publisher, and he smiled at the Butterfly's caution. "Did you tell her so?" "Well, I live by telling them," protested the author. "Are your books ever about—about love, you know?" "Always,'' ho answered, with a touch of molancholy. "Don't you get rather tired of it?" "Of writing about it," said the author. "And are your heroines nice?*' "No." "They're not! Nor your heroes either?" "Beasts," said the author gloomily.

The Butterfly looked at him sympathetically. "Ishould have a nice hero anyhow," she remarked. "Heroines don't matter so much. Why don't you make them nice?" "I can only draw from what I see.** "But you know some nice men surely?" "All the men I know," said the author, with emphasis, "are"— t"But I know a lot of men you do, and"— "They're all in love with you," concluded the nuthor. "That's why"— "They're horrid." "Yes, and why I wanted to know you."

The Buttorfly glanced again toward mamma. "You're sure she thinks"— she began. "Certain," tho author assured her, with another smile. "Why did you want to know me? Do you want to put me in a book?" "Would you read yourself if I did?" "Why, of course I would. You'd give me a copy, wouldn't you?" "In return for"— "My help," put in the Butterfly hastily. "I wonder if I should recognize myself, though?" "I don't expect you would," said the author. "What should you make me do?" "I should make you break a poor man's heart" "Only one?" naked tho Butterfly. "Itdoesn't do,"said the author apologetically, "to divide the interest. But for that I'd make it a score." "Oh, it's not nscore," murmured the Buttorfly as she p!ayed with her fan. "And then you'd marry a rich man." "Yes, yes that's very good. Go on." "A lord, I think." "I'm not particular about that." "And then"— The author seemed to hesitate. "Well, and then?" "Then you'd be very sorry you'd done it," said the author.

Tho Butterfly looked up at him, then down on her lap. then up at. him again. "Think so?" asked the Butterfly, and a smile appeared on her lips. "You would be—in the book," said the author firmly. "Oh, in the book!" murmured the Butterfly, with a kind of amusement "Isee," observed the author, "that you wouldn't recognize the picture."

Tho Butterfly paused before she made any further rem ark. Then she asked: "Should you be in the book yourself?'' "Yes." "Who would you be?** "Sorely you can guess that," said the author. "You mean that you'd be"— "Poor and broken hearted, of couw»

The Butterfly considered this for a moment "And wheai I was very sorry what happened?" "Nothing," said the author. "That doesn't sound very amusing," observed the Butterfly. "No. It's a realistic booV author. "Who was the rich man in the book?*

SB®

asked the Butterfly almost in a whiSfter. The author oovertly pointed as he answered, "That man talking to your mother.*' "Ohl" said the Buttorfly as she blushed. Then she added, "Books aren't a bit like life, are they?" "This one is," insisted the author. "It will be a horrid book," said the Butterfly. H| "Abominable," assented the author.

They both sighed. "Nothing at all happened?" she asked again. "He was not killed in the hunting field," said the author. "Not even after ever so many years —three or four, I mean?" "No, never. He lived on."

The Butterfly was looking attentively at the man who was talking mother. "It will be a horrid book," she said, with a little shudder. "But you couldn't help yourself. He was so splendidly rioh, you see." "Was it—very awful?" Jt?"Dull as ditch water. You'd never cared for him, you see." "Hadn't I?" asked the Butterfly,

There was a pause. Then the Butterfly, with yet another glance across the room, added in a whisper: "Why do you write it if it's horrid?" "Why do you?" asked the author.

The Butterfly unbuttoned her glove and buttoned it again. "Were you always broken hearted?" she asked.

'To the very end." "And were you always poor?" The author smiled. "I-made a most wonderful suooess," said 'he dreamily, "with a book that came out exactly one week after the wedding." "Then you were an author in the book too?" "The portrait of me is exaot in every particular," said ha "And of me—is it?" asked the Butterfly, still engaged with her glove. "Well, is it?" asked the author. "Are you mercenary?" "A little," said the Butterfly, with a pout ., "Worldly?" "1 like nice things," Baid the Butterfly, with a sigh.

"Shallow hearted?" asked the author, bending down to her. "Well, can you see to the bottom of it?" she asked. "I'm trying. There's something right at the bottom"— "Is there?'' she asked, and she opened her fan. "I wonder if I could dive in and gel it!" "I shouldn't do that. I should letsjti stay," said the Butterfly. "Really?" asked the author. "Perhaps," said the Butterfly. "And the book?" "Don'twrite it," whispered the Butterfly.

At this moment' the mother of the Butterfly and the man opposite rose. "I must go," said the Butterfly. "It's funny I met you. I—I ve seen you about so often." "I've seen you about, too," said the author.

The mother of the Butterfly and tho man were close now. "If I write the book, may I send you a copy?" asked the author. "The book, "said the Butterfly, "is not to be written," and she turned most graciously to the man as he approached.

Tho author bowed and escaped. "I've been telling your mother who that/fellow is,said the man. ^'Yes said the Butterfly's mother, witfcrw significant air "I was mistaken about hiatn. He's just a—writer"— "Of very stupid books," said the man.

The Butterfly looked at him for an instant. Then she observed in a distant manner, "Well, I've just prevented him writing a stupider one still." "What about?" he asked. "Curiously enough—you," returned the Butterfly. 'Confound him! What would he have said about me?" "Nothing." said the Butterfly, with marked emphasis, "that is in the very lest likely to be true. So I told him to leave you out But I said he might write about me if he liked.*' "Does he want to?" asked her mother. "Why, yes, I think so," smiled the Butterfly. "It won't be a bit more true," growled the man.

"I don't know about that," said the Butterfly, and she smiled again.—Anthony Hope in National Observer.

Two Able Women.

Miss Helen Morris Lewis and Miss E. U. Yates called out high commendations from tho local press when they lectured for equal suffrage recently in the courthouse at Asheville, N. C. There was & large audience, and the mayor was among the speakers. The Asheville Register says "Miss Lewis, representing the ideal southern woman, being a native of South Carolina, and Miss Yates, a fine model of Now England womanhood, are one i» the ctrnm tjhey so ably and worthily •••••-^nt These two uovoted women should be called to speak in every town and city in the state. Those who he»Td their logical addresses certainly withdrew many of their inherited objections to equal rights for women.

Th« Effect.

When women get to voting at all elections and for all candidates, the problem of street cleaning and proper sanitary care of cities will be solved, in addition to the causing of a decided improvement in th-4 morals of candidates. —Mansfield (O.) News.

What a Pity fr

that so many otherwise attractive, polite and particular people afflict their friend* by the foul and disagreeable odor of their breath it is mainly caused by dis ordered digestion, and oan be corrected by removing the cause, by using that pure medicine, Sulphur Bitters.— Health Magazine. *A

FOlt LiT'iijU) 1'ULKS.

THE BIRDS' OIL CANS,

How tho Feathered Tribe Protect Themselves In Italny Weather# Ted's eyes opened wide with surprise. "Oh!"

Two birds were sitting on the hedge in the yard, enjoying the rain hugely— if one oould judge from their merry "Ohe-e I ohe-e! che-che!" "They don't mind the rain," laughofl grandpa, "for their little oil onus have done them a good service today." "Whoever heard of a bird having an oil can? Birds don't have lamps, do they?" And Ted moved away from the window with an air qf positive unbelief. "They don't have any lamps, for they use their oil for something else," laughed grandpa, more heartily than before. "Didn't you ever see the hens use their oil cans?"

No!" replied Ted shortly. "Well," continued grandpa, "every bird hfis a little oil can—some call it an oil gland, but it means just the same thing. This tiny oil can or gland is placpd at the base of the tail. It is of great value to birds, for they don't always have a home to shelter them, and it would be very disagreeable to them to be drenched to the skin every time it rains. To prevent this they have their little oil cans. They dip their little bills into their tiny oans amj cover them with oil, and then they ru^he oil over their feathers, and it thus makes their feathers waterproof—in fact, Ted, they all have a gossamer for i*ainy weather." "Do they all have an oil can?" inquired Ted, with delight "The hens too?" "Yes, indeed," answered grandpa. "Now, Ted, get the umbrella, and we .will go down to the barn, and who knows but that we shall find the heas using their oil cans, so they can go but for a worm!"

Sure enough! When Ted reached the barn Old Speckle and Bright Eyes were just putting on their gossamers! "See, grandpa!" And Ted laughed outright at the novel sight "Grandpa, you must Icnow lots of funny things! I never knew that before —'bout the birds'oil cans!" And Ted took hold of grandpa's hand lovingly as hespoka 'Tis rather queer, I'll admit," laughed grandpa.—Young Idea.

The Contented Fisherman and the Swordfish.*

TERRE HAUTifi 8ATURDAY EVENING MAIL, MAY 18,189S.

St Nicholas.

"3®(jjifctSWWsV-

fci. f«

The Secret of Hii Snooeu.

A lady once crossed a street where a little boy was busily sweeping the crossing. She noticed with pleasure the care with which he did his work arid smiled as she said to him, "Yours is the olean*est eroding I pass." He lifted his oap With a gallant air and quickly said, "I am doing my best"

All day the words rang in her ears, and for many days afterward, and when a friend, a rich, influential man, inquired for a boy to do errands and general work for him, she told him of the little fellow at the crossing. "A boy who would do his best at a street crossing is worth a trial with me," said the man, and he found the boy, engaged him for a month, and at the end of that time was so pleased with him that he sent him to school aud fitted him for a high position, which he filled with honor. "Doing my best at the street crossing made a successfnl man of me," he waa wont to say in after years.—Home. lifPslfii

Model Child. f\

Her temper's always mrany her hair is ever neat 8be doesn't care for candy-~abe says it is too sweet! She loves to study lessons—her rams are alwaysright. And eho gladly goes to bed at eight every single night! Her apron's never tumbled her hands are always clean With Ira Items misfting from her shoe she sever has been seen. She remembers to say ""Thank yott," and "TcSt isa*an», if yon please," And she nertr cries, nor frets, nor whine* &e*s ne'er been known to tease. Each night upon the cloael shelf she pints away hertoyi »y Cbe never alans the parlor door, nor makxfi the slightest noise. ftnt aire km* to ran on errands and to play with littte brother. And she's nwer in her life been known to disobey her mother. "Who Is this charming little maid? 1 long to grasp her hand!"

She's the danghier of Mr. Nobody, And she live* in KowhereJand! —Helen Hopkins in tit. Nicholas.

SIX O'CLOCK.

WEARY WOMEN WATCH FOE THAT BLESSED HOUR.

Help for onr Worklng-Glrls and Women Near at Hand.

CmotAi.

mjj*

iMunnu.)

N the stroke of six ends the day's work at stores, offices, factories, mills, where women are employed.

But their necea:ary work at home, sewing, mending, etc,, I must be done after that time, and "thelrwork never done." AH women work some for ambition, some for economy In the household, but the great mass of women work for their daily bread. All are subject to the same physical laws all suffer alike from the same physical disturbances, and the nature of their duties often quickly

drifts them into the horrors of all kinds of female complaints, ovarian troubles, inflammation, ulceration, falling and displacement of the womb, leucorrhoea, and perhaps irregular or suppressed "monthly periods," causing severe backache, loss of appetite, nervousness, irritability and weakness.

Lydia & Pinkham't

Spill

Vege

table Compound is the unfailing cure for all these troubles. It strengthens the proper muscles, and cures displacement.

Backache, dizziness, fainting, bearing-down, disordered stomach, moodiness, dislike Of friends and society—all symptoms of the one cause —will be quickly dispelled. Write Mrs. Pinkham about your trouble.

You can tell the story of your pain to a woman, and get the help that only woman can give. Mrs. Pinkham'a address is Lynn, Mass.

Mme. M. R-inn's New Discovery. Thousands of ladies are being relieved of blemishes detrimental to the beauty of face and form by Mme M. Re ma. the author and creator of "Beauty Culture." Ladies can be seen at her parlors every day who are under treatment and are happily surprised, and overjoyed aw the wonderful improvement in their personal appearance. All say Mme. M. Rema does the work. Wrinkles and lines removed, bust and form developed sunken cheeks made plump superfluous hair destroyed excessive redness and birthmarks removed your complexion made naturally beautiful without the use of cosmetics, paints or enamels gray hair restored to its natural color and youthful appearance without the use of dyes your skin cleared of all discolorations, freckles, tan, moth patch es, liver spots, excessive redness, olliness, shine, red nose and the various forms of eczema, acne, pimples. black heads,* roughness, and in fact everything detrimental to beauty.

Ladies can be treated at a distance by sending this advertisement and 6 cents postage and receive free the madame's valuable book, "Beauty Culture." Address Mme. M. Rema, 415 south Ninth street.Terre Haute, Ind.

Fred J. Stineman,

Fine Staple

money.

SIB

t-i

CHINA.

v^-/

636, Wabash Aye. •Si ifia ._?£*?*

LAMPS. "X/ ~X-' 1#\ gee

•".

S. W. Cor. Third and Poplar Sts.,

DBAMCR IIt

"HI

Fancy Groceries,

Provisions, Smoked Heats, Canned Goods, Etc.

We buy close, have reasonable rents, and therefore sell at close margin, giving our patrons the beniflt of reasonable prices on first-class goods. We give prompt attention to all orders, deliver goods when desired, and respectfully solicit your patronage, because ». «it. you y|«

iV'' x"

Traps, Phaetons, Carriages, Ice Wagons, Low Down Milk Wagons, Delivery Wagons, Harness and IIors«' Goods. I

Special Ruled ledgers. Patent Flat-Opening Books. Lowest Prices, /S.

660-662

We Repair your Carriage or Buggy While You Wait

We will Set Your Tire on Any Vehicle.

Carts, Buggies, Phaetons, Road Wagons, Platform Trucks, Harness And Horse Goods.

Bother us often, bother us hard. 1 W a a a

Oar Dinner Sets at 16.00 and $6 88 Cannot be Excelled. Our Chamber Sets at $5.50 and 88.75 Are Sellers.

Theo.5tahl

our

ZBI^ZtSTK: BOOKS

East Window.

The most complete stock of\*

Blank Boots

Of every description in the state.

A\ 1'

iiSK/f* A- %ii

*. ..WO

J. R. Duncan & Co.,

Wabash Ave. VV

MERRITT,

The Merchant Tailor and Hatter,

645 Main Street

An elegant stock of Woolens for Fall Wear. All the new shapes in Fall Hats.

C. I. FLEMING, M. D. C.,T

VETERINARIAN.

i.' •,

Open until 11 o'clock Saturday evening.

GLASS.

Always Reliable.

7 1 5 A I Sr 8 E 1

5c Brands.

Lanra B. Invincible Merry Chimes Velvet

Special attention given to diseases of horses, QdtuG and dogs. Oui&6 811 Main

Opened This, Saturdaf Morniiigi'May l8th, 1895.

,^No fire or smoke entered our store room. VA11 Clothing slightly damaged by water will be placed on tables by themselves and will be sold regardless of former values. Everybody will have an opportunity to save money.. First come will get first choice.'

'"fi

ART GOODS.

Maurice Hegarty

Manufacturer of Fine

iff

10c Brands.

Belina Jackson Club American Standard Irma

TSAAO BALL & SON,

FUNERAL DIRECTORS.

Corner Third and Cherry streets, Terre Haute, Ind., are prepared to execute all orders In their line with neatness and dispatch.

Embalming a Specialty.

T)B. L. a BARTHOLOMEW,

DENTIST.

Removed to 071 Main g- T^rre Haute, Ind

& CO S

,f1