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Royal School of ART NEEDLE-WoRk.

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To: wife of the new Secretary of the Treasury was Miss Helen Lincklaen, of Cazenovia, New York. She is still young, and her husband was only forty-five the last of April of this year. She is a high-bred-looking woman of medium height, well formed, having a plump figure and graceful outlines. She would be observed even in a group of notable women, for united to a clear fair skin of a healthy natural hue she has large gray eyes full of expression, and features almost perfectly regular in their classic beauty. Her hair is neither blond nor dark, but of a shade of brown which perfectly harmonizes with her coloring. Her voice is especially sweet in its soft cadences, and adds to the pleasing impressions made by her conversation, for Mrs. Fairchild is one of those well-bred women whose voice is not heard beyond the circle in which she happens to be chatting. In manners Mrs. Fairchild would serve as a model for young girls who are seeking for the highest type of what constitutes a lady. She is easy, self-possessed, and dignified. She comes of good stock, being a niece of the wife of the late ex-Governor Seymour, of New York. All the Seymour family, as well as the Lincklaens, were celebrated for personal beauty, graceful bearing, and high intellectual attainments. When it was known that Mr. Fairchild would occupy the position of Assistant Secretary of the Treasury under the present administration, the old friends and neighbors of the family in the State of New York said that Washington society was to be congratulated upon such acquisitions as Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild would prove. Mrs. Fairchild was at once recognized as a member of the official family of the President, and commanded the same attention as was bestowed upon Mrs. Manning, the wife of the Secretary of the Treasury. Her receptions were perhaps not so formal nor as crowded as those of Mrs. Manning, but were almost too large for the courteous lady to return personally all the calls made on her. However, she did contrive to meet the requirements of politeness, for her kind, gentle nature prompted her to acts of civility which in some instances must have been a great tax upon her. It would be impossible for a woman with Mrs. Fairchild's perfect organization not to dress well. Her toilettes are elegant, but never obtrusive in color or fashion. There is a delicacy and dainti

ness about her gowns which are in striking contrast to the showy costumes often seen in Washington drawing-rooms. During the first years of Mrs. Fairchild's residence at the capital she was in mourning for her uncle and aunt—Governor and Mrs. Horatio Seymour. At official receptions at the White House she wore black illusion over black silk, with low corsage and short sleeves. This toilette, without necklace or jewelry, and with black gloves, proved that Mrs. Fairchild could look handsome and elegant in the simplest style of dress. At her first reception after her husband became Secretary Mrs. "Fairchild filled her new rôle as lady of the Cabinet with exquisite tact and grace. Dressed in a charming costume of pearl gray faille, combined with rose-color and elegant white lace, she was a picture of feminine grace and refinement. There was a quiet repose in her manner of receiving congratulations for herself and husband which fascinated all who approached her. There was an additional sparkle in her eyes and heightened color in her cheeks, but no nervousness. She was surrounded with baskets of roses sent by admiring friends, and none looked fresher or lovelier than the gracious hostess. Her mother, Mrs. Lincklaen, and some lady friends from her old home received with her, and each visitor went away favorably impressed. Both Secretary and Mrs. Fairchild are wealthy, and not many weeks ago purchased two pieces of property for which they paid $50,000 each. One of the houses they will occupy next winter, and doubtless will entertain hospitably. Up to this time they have occupied a pretty and quaint Dutch house, but its size is not adequate to the social requirements of the Secretary of the Treasury. Mr. Fairchild, who was appointed to the office on the retirement of Mr. Manning in April last, was born at Cazenovia, New York, in 1842, and received his early education in his native town. He is a graduate of Harvard College and Harward Law School, and was admitted to the bar in 1865, after which he became connected with one of the largest and most successful law firms in the State of New York. In 1875 he was elected Attorney-General, and served in that office for two years, after which he visited Europe, returning to practise his profession in New York city until he was called to Washington. He is a man of clear and practical views upon public questions; a firm believer in civil service reform, and in every way eminently qualified for his present position.

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who had no faith in failures.

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foLIERE was a mystery about the sergeant and his wife, which, like a fog, hid familiar landmarks, and magnified into significance everything concerning them. It was obvious that they were better educated and better bred than their position warranted; but as neither of them made any reference to the past, it was also obvious that they considered it nobody's business. The mystery that befogged the garrison gossips was, in fact, only an every-day occurrence—an imprudent marriage, with its oft-repeated sequence —poverty, carping friends, and pride, followed by a fallacious hope that in a city they would find a maintenance if not opulence; whereas they found the usual heritage of the over-sanguine—keen disappointment, followed by a lethargic despair. And the end of the first act of their small tragedy was at the recruiting station, where, like Esau, the sergeant sold his birthright of social position for necessary pottageothenceforth determining, since luck was against them, and they had been forced to barter their independence for bread, they would lose themselves hopelessly from all possible recognition. For losing one's self there is no better place than the army. A millionaire has been discovered in a dapper little orderly, and an earl's son (a younger one, of course) in a private who sought the captain's kitchen because of the good cheer. The lady who was startled by the apparition of her long-deceased friend in the questionable guise of a sentry, presenting arms to the officer doing the honors of the fort, was perhaps only a little more courageous than most of her sex, who would have kept their eyes on the musket, in their dread of its going off, rather than on the man who carried it. But these discovered ones are the few among the many lost ones, and serve to prove the rule. Being a born soldier, the sergeant's proclivity for arms was soon recognized by his superior of. ficers, and profited by in swift promotion. Yet it was not until he was made a sergeant that his wife joined him, nor indeed did any one guess that he was married. Having become used to the life in garrison, which he found far from intolerable, the sergeant felt the more sympathy for his young friendless wife, who led as isolated a life as if the gray walls of the fort held no one but her husband. Not that she was uncivil when her neighbors made advances toward an acquaintance, but mere civility is always repelling, and she evidently wished to be left to herself. Her pale young face had only traces of its old beauty, not enough of its fairness left to attract the notice of a casual observer, or please the coarse tastes of her neighbors; but her small white hands were the particular admiration of the men who had occasion to go to the sergeant's quarters—an admiration their wives always resented as a personal reflection upon their own much-abused members, which they averred would become as fair and delicate if they could only be kept idle. But as there was lacking the full complement of laundresses, and the sergeant's wife occupied the quarters assigned to one, extra washing left no hope of the bleaching process. Naturally the women had small patience with a drone in their busy hives, and the sergeant's wife's small white hands were synonymous with social wrongs and wilful idleness. That the laundresses were jealous of the sergeant's wife was not singular when we consider upon what shallow ground social feuds rest. The sergeant was one of theniselves, for had not their husbands the possibility—no matter about the improbability—of wearing worsted epaulettes? And they all knew that a red worsted sash did not justify a woman in putting on airs as if her husband wore one woven of silk. The material decided the rank. Luckily the antagonism of the camp women was of the weathercock sort, that could, on small provocation, veer around to friendliness. Only one of their number was of Mrs. Tam o' Shanter's mind, and considered it the proper thing to nurse her wrath for the purpose of keeping it warm. Life was hard on Mrs. McShane, and the army regulations illiberal in respect to quarters. With six small children, and as many wash-tubs in constant use, she had no more house-room allowed her than her neighbor, the sergeant's wife, who owned neither. Then, too, had she not to forego the convenient stowing away of the unsightly into corners and cupboards, as well as all makeshifts for untidiness? For that bugbear, Sunday inspection, was sure to reveal all such secrets. And now summer was come, and a change of uniform, thereby doubling the washing; and the company was short of a laundress, whilst idle folks lived where they shouldn't. A spark will send off a rocket, but where the stick will fall, who can guess? The spark that set Mrs. McShane's hasty temper in a blaze made a dismal failure of a certain basket of linen she had to take to the colonel. If she could have left her basket and retreated, she was coward enough to have done so. But the colonel was unique—an old bachelor with set ways, a man; It was Mrs. McShane's habit to carry over to head-quarters her basket of linen every Saturday, and it was the colonel's habit to inspect every article before he paid her. And habit, we know, is second na-. ture, and must be given in to. “Mrs. McShane, do you remember that the reg-, ulations require me to wear white pantaloons at . this season?” asked the colonel, blandly, ironically holding up before her eyes the article above mentioned, that should have been white, but missed being so. “They do look kind of jaundiced. But it's the nature of linen to take several washings to whiten it,” Mrs. McShane explained. “Jaundiced!” catching at the admission, and

ignoring the information. “Why, they are bronzecolored 1 besides speckled and streaked like Jacob's cattle. I ask you, Mrs. McShane, shall I obey the regulation if I appear at inspection tomorrow in such pantaloons? They may do for a clown, but will they conform to the regulation which distinctly says, “From the 1st of May to the 30th of September the trousers must be of white linen or cotton without the stripe,' and these, Mrs. McShane, are striped.” Mrs. McShane's knowledge of both regulations and laundrying exceeded her Biblical lore, so that the stripes had more advantage in the colonel's argument than the speckles and streaks. Her practical mind at once took a common-sense view of the situation. “If the colonel has any better done-up articles, I'd advise him to wear them. But if it's a question of trousers or no trousers, he'll be nearer to the regulation in these, and bad luck to the flatiron that smutted them " “And how many pairs am I expected to own 2 At least you can compute how many pairs are to be injured weekly in the laundrying,” replied the colonel, ignoring the wisdom of the advice. “I’d never injure a thread of the colonel's willingly,” said Mrs. McShane, tearfully. “It’s overwork that's at the bottom of the trouble. Our company is short of a laundress, and that not from want of quarters—leastways if some folks didn't take up the room they've no title to.” This being enigmatical, the colonel pressed for an explanation. So the history of the sergeant's would-be-lady-wife living in quarters that a more useful person was entitled to was told, with such additions as Mrs. McShane's imagination could give on the spur of the moment. Certainly she had no further fault-finding, and could empty her basket at her leisure without criticism. It was the stirring tale of “the old woman and her pig” told backward. The colonel sent for the orderly, and the orderly went for the captain, and the captain for the lieutenant, and the lieutenant for the sergeant, the catastrophe being an order for the sergeant's wife to leave the garriSOil. In ante bellum days there was, a mile or more from the fort, a row of dingy frame houses fronting on Mill Creek. The creek owns a tide, and tide-water is supposed to be conducive to health. But at low-water the creek possessed a dismal mud flat, from which the hot sun distilled miasma, some seasons turning typhoid into a fever akin to typhus. It was in Mill Creek village that the sergeant found a home for his wife, and it was no wonder that every visit he made her increased his fear that loneliness and malaria were undermining both her spirits and her health. And all the while their old quarters in the fort were empty, and Mrs. McShane's labor was not lessened. It was rumored in the garrison that the sergeant's wife was ill, and the men in the company confirmed it by reporting that the sergeant looked worn and anxious. His captain discovered his trouble, and gave him as much liberty to be absent as possible. The concise, “How is your wife to-day, sergeant?” and the formal salute with, “Just the same, thank the captain,” were as full of sympathy and gratitude as if time had been expended in inquiries, and a minute statement of the case given. One day the sergeant added to his stereotyped answer, “I fear she'll never get well in that hole.” And the captain said: “I am sorry to hear it. And your old quarters are still vacant.” “Does the captain think that the colonel would let her return ?” “I can't see why not, since she is ill, and the casemate empty. I will say a word for you.” It was most injudicious, but to cheer his wife the sergeant told her of the captain's promise. The colonel was hasty and violent, but placable, so there was good hope that he would give the permission she so longed for. A convalescent, especially from a low fever, is apt to be fanciful and not over-wise, and the sergeant became uneasy, then frightened for the consequences if he thwarted his wife in her one great desire. So he took her quietly back to her old home, hoping day by day to receive the desired permission, and feeling tolerably sure that the colonel would be kept in ignorance of his move, at least until the last of the month—until inspection day. His wife's quick response both in health and cheerfulness, after the coveted return, lulled all fears of coming events, which unhappily cast no shadows before. Then, too, the sergeant's wife had suddenly become popular with her neighbors,

partly because of her illness and evident weak.

mess, and also from her having learned, in her sick, weary days, the need of sympathy and help. She was anxious to give both liberally to the sick and sorrowful amongst her compeers, and they received them gladly. Only Mrs. McShane was bullet-proof against the kindnesses of the sergeant's wife. Her own rude health needed no “cockering,” she was proud to say. And as to the six young McShanes, no physical ills ever befell them greater than the perhaps well-merited pain occasioned by the strap their mother kept convenient for necessary discipline-a leather torture, the neighbors said, of which Mike himself had felt the pain. Other women might swallow their own words, and eat humble-pie along with the mild dainties the sergeant's wife prepared. If folks' stomachs turned at the sight of good pork and beans, they'd better let themselves starve, unless they could live on the airs they gave themselves, was Mrs. McShane's theory. Besides, what right had the Sergeant's wife to be where she was 2

manding officer's quarters, she'd not be fool enough to go. She was convinced that every one in this world had a place, but it took a wise one to find it – a foregone conclusion that Mrs. McShane was amongst the wise ones, and filled her legitimate position. But, with all her wrath

If Mike told her—Mrs. McShane—to move into the com

and vituperations, Mrs. McShane made no overt attack on the sergeant's wife until one morning, after a brilliant display of her touch-and-go temper—a display by no means amusing to the six small McShanes—Mike, like a fool, heaped fuel on the flames by stupidly remarking upon the prettiness and quiet of the sergeant's quarters, where he had lately been on a message. He never suspected that he had made inischief until he saw Mrs. McShane put on her bonnet. Mrs. McShane's bonnet meant business, not ornament, and was rarely worn except on her weekly visit to the colonel. To catch even a glimpse of her face around the corners of the bonnet was an impossible feat, for only a candid turn of the head could reveal her countenance—a revelation she did not vouchsafe Mike, whose only hope was that the basket of clothes she carried was the real, not the ostensible, reason of her departure. The drum was beating for guard-mounting as Mrs. McShane walked amongst the live-oaks which gave the great parade-ground the appearance of a vast apple orchard. Her basket of fair linen, blinking like a snow-drift in the sunshine, pronounced her errand to be a harmless one. Perhaps she thought so herself. Surely she had no premonition of what the end would be. Yet she was so far intent upon her grievance

that she did not give, as usual, a friendly word to

the sentry lounging at the sally-port opposite the colonel's gate. If she had, he might have warned her that the colonel was under his own fig bushes, flushed to fever heat at finding they had been robbed the night before. If Mrs. McShane had known of her commanding officer's proximity, she would have prevented a collision, and the wreck of her basket of clean linen. “Why, bless my soul! woman, where are you running to ?” called out the colonel, with irritation, whilst Mrs. McShane, dumb with horror, stooped to pick up the tumbled articles and her own equanimity. “It's all Mike's fault,” she whimpered, inconsequently returning to first causes. “Has Mike been drinking?” asked the colonel, severely, that being the one military breach of conjugal duty on a soldier's part. “Mike's sober enough,” Mrs. McShane hastened to say, not wishing to have her worse half shut up in the guard-house when she could give him employment at home. “It’s a civil tongue that Mike is wanting.” “Tut! tut! woman; men will be hasty, and no doubt you provoke him;” and the colonel turned to leave his plundered fig bushes. “I never intended to trouble the colonel with Mike's impudence,” said Mrs. McShane, with dignity. “It’s a question about our sergeant's wife I'd make free to ask your honor.” “I know nothing about the sergeant's wife,” answered the colonel. “I sent her out of the garrison, but I am not commanding officer of Mill Creek. If you are jealous of Mike—” “I jealous of Mike!” interrupted Mrs. McShane, forgetting her manners in her supreme contempt of the accusation. “I can manage that sort of thing without bothering the colonel. Mike knows better than to make a fool of me. What I laid out to ask is whether the sergeant's wife is back in her old quarters by the colonel's permission ?” Mrs. McShane said afterward that the colonel's face as she dropped her petard was a picture, but she never described the sort of picture. Indeed, she hastily lifted her basket of linen, and walked toward the gate rather than to the house, until commanded to return. Then she was obliged to stop and explain her meaning. The new guard was marching on, and the old one off, to the gay music of a quickstep, but Mrs. McShane's tongue ran faster than the music. She was not one to be frightened at a burst of passion, especially if she was not the offender. She felt an inward contempt for the choleric colonel, and deemed the orderly chicken-hearted because

he appeared flustered at the colonel's peremptory.

summons. When she turned her face homeward

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window, listening to the band, and watching for

her husband, who had marched off guard, when Mrs. McShane went by. Her “good-morning” brought no response, for just then a corporal's guard came up the brick path. The tread of feet brought all the available women and children out-of-doors, curious to know what the guard had come for. If Mrs. McShane had any suspicions, she did not wait to strengthen them, but went into her casemate, closing the door after her with an emphasized bang. “Men are fools, and bad luck to them " was Mrs. McShane's pronounced opinion, as she untied her bonnet-strings, which had suddenly tightened as if to choke her. The six small McShanes were not present to see the insignia of business fall in ignominy on the floor, for they were all agog to see what the corporal's guard was “up to.” The only person who felt no curiosity about the guard was the sergeant's wife. When she opened her door in answer to the corporal’s rap

she did not understand what he came for. He

had to explain that he was to see her off government property. “You will wait until my husband comes!—surely you can wait for him,” she pleaded, her eyes growing big with fright. But the colonel's orders permitted no delay. So, forced to go, she caught up a black shawl, wrapping it around her head so as to conceal her

face, holding it close with her left hand, on which gleamed her wedding-ring. Many in the group of spectators could have identified the small fair hand as certainly as the pale scared face under the shawl. The knot of women, indignant at the affront put on one of their own class, asserted the privilege of their sex, and expressed freely their opinion, not only of the order, but of its originator. Rank could not shield the colonel from their censure. “Shame on him,” they said, “for disgracing a decent woman. If a sergeant's wife can be so put upon, not one of us is safe from a like treatment.” Finding but slight satisfaction in abusing an absent man, they inconsequently turned upon the corporal, who was simply obeying orders, and anxious to get over the disagreeable duty. But hurry as he would, it was impossible to escape the high, shrill voices. “And if that's your duty, I'm sure you should be proud of it. Bearing your bayonet against a woman, and she never did you a hand's turn of harm, unless to save your child from choking with the croup.” “Maybe it's myself you'll march out next,” cried his wife to the shamefaced corporal. So the small procession hurried by the guardroom. A prisoner, taking the air after a night's debauch, and feeling a special grudge against the Sergeant, who had quelled the drunken devil in him, recognized the figure muffled in the shawl and so strangely guarded, and laughed insolently and loudly—so loudly the granite walls of the Sally-port caught up the scoff and-eahoed it. It seemed never-ending, that mocking laugh, thrown back and back again by the gray stone walls. All time might be full of the sound, it was so continued. There was yet more than a mile to walk. Would her strength hold out? Already her steps were slow and uncertain. So, not willing to seem to hurry her, the corporal fell back some paces. A careless looker-on might have thought that the guard had nothing to do with the woman, who, when she reached the middle of the bridge, stopped to look over into the water. Suddenly there came a cry of horror—a man's cry, and the corporal ran forward, dropping his musket, and struggling to unbutton his stiff military coat, which held him as in a vise. Before he had freed himself, the small beautiful hand that clutched the railing of the bridge let go its hold and disappeared. In a few minutes the bridge was swarming with eager faces peering over the railing. But in the clear water beneath only a few fish darted about, and rugged oysters held close hold to the sides and bottom of the great stone ditch. The sergeant's wife's prayer to be hidden from the gaze of all men was granted, for no one ever looked on her scared white face. That night the sergeant deserted, and neither the colonel nor his captain used strenuous means to capture him. .

Some years afterward another regiment garrisoned the fort, and the tragic death of the sergeant's wife was forgotten. Mill Creek village, with its dram-shops, proved luring to men long exiles to such delights in the Florida Everglades. In vain were stringent orders and swift punishment. Stone walls could not hold an old soldier eager for a night of frolic. To creep down the parapet to the coping-stone over the sally-port, thence down to the bridge by a rope, was not only hazardous to life and limb, but also to liberty, the guard-room being perilously near. Yet for some time this egress from the fort was not discovered, though the condition of many of the men at reveille was perplexing to the sergeants. At last an acrobat was discovered dangling between earth and sky, and so a sentinel was posted on the bridge, to prevent henceforth adventures on a flying trapeze. One night, when the bridge lay without a shadow under the light of a full-moon, the sentry, who was Sauntering, careless of danger, suddenly stopped. Evidently he had seen something— something that caused him to cross quickly to the other side of the bridge. . There he halted, and stood looking over into the ditch. Then loud vociferations for the sergeant of the guard were heard. The sergeant came quickly, followed by others of the guard, sure that a man had been caught in mid-air. Instead they found the sentry staring into the ditch. His story they considered decidedly lame. He had seen a small white hand grasping a rail of the bridge. Hoping to rescue a woman from drowning, he ran forward, but before he could reach the spot the fingers relaxed their hold, and the hand slowly disappeared. And when he looked over into the water there was not even a ripple on its smooth surface. His comrades railed on him for a superstitious donkey, disturbing their much-needed sleep to tell silly ghost stories. But he held stoutly to his adventure, declaring he had seen the white hand so plainly that he had noticed that it wore a wedding-ring. Some months afterward the wife of one of the officers was detained outside the fort. It was a bright moonlight night, and tattoo had not beaten, so she ran no risk of being challenged by the guard; but as it was unusual for the ladies of the garrison to be out alone so late, she naturally walked quickly. Crossing the bridge, she saw, a . short distance before her, a woman's hand holding by the railing. So distinctly did she see it that she not only remarked it was small and white, but also that it was the left hand, for a wedding-ring gleamed in the moonbeams. She did not lose her presence of mind, but ran forward, intending to seize hold of the hand be. fore she gave the alarm, and so save the poor creature bent on self-destruction. But as she ran she saw the fingers slowly relax their hold, and before she reached the rail the hand had dis.

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appeared. Greatly startled, she looked over the side of the bridge into the water, only to see a full-moon on its unruffled surface—a moon as round and calm and cold as the moon in the blue sky above. Thankful that she had given no alarm, she hurried home. That evening at a supper party she told her next neighbor of her strange delusion; and he, being an old resident, recalled the sad story of the sergeant's wife's suicide.

Whether the din of war or the manifold changes of fickle time have loosened altogether the hold of that woman's hand on the bridge rail I can not say, for for many years I have lost sight of the old gray walls and their histories. Once they were alive with personal interest; now they belong to the dead past.

Yet I am very sure that if any one crossing the bridge that leads into the fort should see on a moonlight night a woman's hand, wearing a wedding-ring, clasping one of the rails, he may be certain that he has looked on the ghost hand of the sergeant's wife, who in her shame and weakness drowned herself in the water below.


HILDREN'S parties are too often artificial and formal repetitions of those of their elders, late hours, rich viands, and dancing making up the sum and substance of the entertainment. A wise mother who had seen enough of blasé

childhood to make her heart ache, in planning a birthday party for her golden-haired daughter of

six years bravely decided to draw the lines that common-sense would dictate, not alone for her own child, but as a quiet suggestion others might adopt. The first step was to send invitations neatly written on tiny cards, limiting the hours from four until eight. It was an innovation, but she relied upon her own brightness and originality in the way of games and entertainments to make the occasion a charming success. All the old games of her childhood, new to the little ones of to-day, and those the dear old grandmother could remember from her own past, were brought forward, delighting the little lads and lasses from their very newness and quaintIneSS. - It was summer-time and pleasant weather, and

at one corner of the lawn were arranged the low tables for supper, six in number, to correspond with the birthdays. Little chairs were hired from a neighboring kindergarten, for half the charm was to be in the child element pervading it all. Chairs, tables, and pretty tea-sets, even the forks and spoons, were under-size. If chairs cannot be obtained, even “ten miles from a lemon” will fur

mish boxes and boards over which bright covers

and brilliant-hued cushions can be adjusted. Six tables, and as many children at each, seated the thirty-six that had been invited. At one end of each table a little girl sat behind the cups and saucers, while on the table of the youthful hostess was the birthday cake, with its six tiny candles rising in their snowy whiteness from rose-colored sockets of pink tissue-paper, long strips of which, fringed and slightly curled over the Scissors, were closely wrapped around the base of each candle. There was the fun, before the cake was cut, of each little one, even down to the baby, giving one blow to snuff out a light; that the wish, no matter if it were pearls and diamonds, would be a reality if the candle went out at a blow, every child more than half believed.

Bright-colored favors were distributed at the .

cutting of the birthday cake, and the snap of the cracker, which is the “open sesame” to the paper conceit within, added vastly to the delight of the children as they decked themselves in apron, cap, and frill, presenting a fascinating and charming picture of rosy-cheeked, happy childhood. - It was grandma's game of “Comical Concert”. that happily threw the children together, and left no room for the shyness and stiffness that appeared at the beginning. Chairs, a table or two, and drumsticks, or short broom-handles, are the only properties needed. The children stood in a circle, with mamma in the centre as leader of the orchestra. Each one is to imitate some instrument of music, and selects in turn which it shall be. It is wise for the leader to have a list in her. mind of the different instruments, and how to imitate them, in order to suggest when the players are not able to either choose a part or imitate the sound of that taken. The violin is given by . holding out one arm and hand for the instru-o ment, and moving the other as if drawing a bow across it; doubling up the two hands and putting them to the mouth imitates a horn; the table will serve for a piano, and the sticks provided will leave no question as to the drum; a chair makes a capital hand-organ, and it is easy for the voice to give the sound of the very worst grind that ever vexed a nervous ear. If the players outnumber the instruments that can be chosen, two players may select the same. A chime of bells will include several players, who should be grouped as closely as possible. The leader raises her baton as a signal to commence, and the more ridiculously the time is beaten, the greater the merriment. Suddenly, in the midst of the playing, the leader must stop, and looking at one of the performers, ask, “Why don't you play better?” The one addressed must instantly reply with an answer characteristic of her instrument; if not, she pays a forfeit. The one at the piano can say that one of the keys makes a discord, the harper, that the strings are loose, and so on. All rest while the reply is given or the forfeit paid, and then the playing is repeated. The question, to keep the game lively, should come suddenly and quickly. “Ruth and Jacob” were next in order.


this the children form a circle by taking each the hand of its neighbor on either side, stretching and widening a little, then dropping hands and keeping the circle. One of the boys is blindfolded and placed in the centre; he represents Jacob, and Ruth, not blinded, is selected from the girls and placed near him. When all is ready, Jacob calls “Where art thou, Ruth ?” and she, disguising her voice as much as possible, replies, “Here I am, Jacob.” The question and answer are repeated, until Ruth is caught and her name guessed, when Jacob retires, and Ruth takes his place, while another child is brought in, who in

turn disguises her voice and runs out and in the

circle until captured. “French Roll” is another amusing game from the days of our grandmothers, and it proved very attractive to the children at the birthday party. Mamma led the game by taking the place of purchaser, while the children formed in line, one behind the other, the right hand of each grasping the sleeve of the one in front. The head of the line is the baker, and it matters little who it may be, as the position is a constantly changing one. Down at the other end is the roll, those between representing the oven. The purchaser, who stands a little apart, comes to the baker when all is ready and says, “Give me, please, my roll”; and the baker answers, “It is behind the oven.” When the purchaser goes in search of it, the roll, dropping her hold of the child in front, runs up the opposite side of the line calling out, “Who runs ? who runs ?” and making the best time she can to get in front of the baker before the purchaser can catch her. If she succeeds, then she becomes baker, and the next in line the roll; if she is caught, however, she takes the place of purchaser, the latter becoming baker. The “Fate Lady,” which had been prepared to amuse the children between the active games, now made her appearance. To make a “fate lady” cut a circle about two feet in diameter from pasteboard, and cover it with white paper upon which to write the mottoes. Mark the centre, and rule lines from it to the outer edge, using red and black ink alternately. The mottoes must be clearly written in the spaces. The edge of the circle may be prettily ornamented with a frill of colored tissue-paper cut in figures. Through the centre insert a wire, to which fasten a small jointed doll with a long slender wand in her hand. Steady the wire by running it through a large spool, which may be concealed by the doll's skirts. The doll must be arranged to turn freely, and when twirled rapidly she will slowly stop, the wand pointing to one of the written In Ottoes. When the “fate lady” had told her tale, came a scramble for bonbons. A stout large paper bag was nearly filled with them, and hung on a tree just out of reach. Each child in turn was blindfolded and given a stick with which, after being turned around three times, it was to hit the bag and free the candies, the others securing them as they fell. This happy birthday party was finished in-doors with “Lupin”—a game so infectious that the older ones who had dropped in as lookers-on helped to swell the circles in the parlors. The game goes to piano music. Each child holds the hand of the ones right and left, and dancing around in a circle all sing,

“Here we dance Lupin, Lupin, Lupin, Here we dance Lupin, Lupin, Lupin, All of a Saturday uight.”

Then turning half round, with the right hand ex

tended toward the centre, varying the action with

the words, but remaining in one place, the song


“I put my right hand in,
I put my right hand out,
I shake my right hand one, two, three,
And turn myself about.”

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NE of the features of corsages for the winter season will be the yokes which have met with so much favor for some time past, and which will continue to be used with various modifications. Made of embroidery, lace, or brocade, with sleeves of the same, the yoke generally takes the shape of a high guimpe. With a dress of plain silk the guimpe and sleeves will sometimes be of brocaded silk of the same or a contrasting color, perhaps brocade of gold or of velvet, or something equally sumptuous. The skirt of such a toilette may have a panel of the same rich fabric, simulating an under-skirt, just as the guimpe is intended to convey the idea of a high corsage worn underneath a low one. Evening toilettes have a guimpe and sleeves of tulle or gauze embroidered with gold, or beaded. Gold will be one of the ornaments most generally employed next winter. It will be used on bonnets as well as on dresses, and even the slippers of an evening toilette will be embroidered in gold. Certain pretenders to elegance, always in search of something eccentric and unusual, are even having their handkerchiefs embroidered in gold. Another fashion in handkerchiefs, adopted by a few who desire something different from the multitude, is to make choice of a favorite flower —the one a carnation, another a rose, another the lily-of-the-valley or forget-me-not—and have it embroidered on their handkerchiefs; if the flower is white, on a handkerchief of delicately tinted cambric. Wrappings may still be classified into the very

long and the very short. For the one as well as the other there is a revolt against black. Black will still doubtless remain the choice of the great majority, since it is the most serviceable and convenient of colors; but there is an important minority who have declared for colors, and wear dark colors for long cloaks, and medium or light tints for short wraps, which are worn less in the street than in drawing-rooms; the latter are frequently embroidered in gold or trimmed with gold passementerie. Long cloaks are similar in shape to those made familiar to us last winter, curved in at the waist in the back, with fronts usually like those of a princesse dress. The variations are in the sleeves, which are sometimes very long, very wide, and slashed from top to bottom to display a close-fitting sleeve underneath, which is the true one, while many others preserve the rolled sleeve, made somewhat wider than last year, and still others have large pelerine sleeves. As regards short wraps, they are so extremely varied and composite in their construction that it is quite impossible to reduce them to anything like a definite classification. A fashionable short wrap is neither a jacket, nor a cape, nor a mantle, but partakes of all three in varying proportions. It may be made of silks, velvet, or plush; sometimes parts of it are made of lace, with or without gold in the pattern, and sometimes entire forms are of passementerie with or without an admixture of metallic threads and gold or steel beads. Lace has completely emerged from the obscurity to which it had been unjustly banished for Some years. Not only are lace dresses maintaining their position, but another of the handSome old laces—guipure—has returned to the front and become fashionable again. Dresses are veiled with it, arranged in flounces around the bottom of the skirt, with paniers on the hips, and bretelles or fichu drapery on the corsage; sometimes it is the fichu prolonged which forms the paniers and the pouf at the back. White lace is used for dinner and evening toilettes, with knots and bows of ribbon cunningly disposed here and there about the toilette. Very pretty short wraps for autumn are made of deep black lace. A point of velvet at the front and another at the back serve to unite the two deep flounces of lace which cover the shoulders and part of the arm. This makes charming mantles, which will be worn even in winter, for visiting, under a long cloak that is removed in-doors. For such occasions the velvet in the front and back is sometimes elaborately embroidered in gold. Ilace is also much used for handsome robes-de-chambre. Flounces of lace are joined and formed into wide and long spirals, or into a Watteau pleat which extends from the neck to the lower edge of the back, a similar pleat being placed at each side of the front and on the edge of the sleeve; very deep lace is gathered around the neck, and supported by fine gilt wire, forms a sort of Valois ruff. The dress of little girls from seven to fifteen years is becoming more and more conventional and masculine. The skirt is still worn, of course, but the corsage, or upper part of the dress, is made very much after the fashion of their brothers' jackets, and frequently opens on a white or mastic-colored piqué vest. For girls of seven to twelve years there is a new cloak, pleated throughout. The lower part, from the belt down, is pleated in rounded perpendicular pleats; the large cape is sufficiently long to meet the lower part, and is pleated in the same fashion. These cloaks, which are belted in with a ribbon or a cord, are usually made of shaggy or rough woollens, and the pleats are given the rounded form by lining them with flannel of bright color. For their handsome dresses little girls have a skirt composed of three flounces placed one above the other, attached to a corsage which is extremely long—as extravagantly long, in fact, as the skirt is short. The bodice is shirred on the shoulders, and trimmed with revers, which open on a chemisette to match that may be either pleated flat or puffed. The characteristic feature of little girls' dresses is in the contrast between the bodice, which is longer than one would believe it possible to make it, and the skirt, which is much shorter than need be—so short, indeed, that it might be mistaken for only the trimming of the bodice to which it is attached. Other dresses for little girls are cut straight, and pleated perpendicularly from the neck down all around; over these is a Louis XV. casaque, open widely at the front, and shorter than the pleated under part, usually made of silk of a bright color. There is always much ribbon, disposed in bretelles, belts, bows, knots, and rosettes of many loops. A fanciful but very pretty in-door toilette which I have recently seen has a skirt of réséda green velvet, not short, but yet not long enough to form a train. The velvet corsage opens very widely at the front, where there is a draped plastron made of old rose crêpe de Chine, embroidered with large sprays of several shades of réséda silk. The plastron is extended to fall straight down the front of the skirt and form a tablier, on each side of which is a half-breadth of the same crêpe de Chine. The sleeves are somewhat full, and quite short, of velvet for the lower part, and crêpe de Chine for the upper, which is pleated. A feature which promises to be a favorite for elaborate reception toilettes at home is that of jackets of all styles, principally the Louis XV., made of the old-patterned silk of that period, literally strewn with spangles of old-gold, or red gold, almost copper-colored. These are worn with various skirts, and are ornamented with an enormous jabot of russet or tawny lace abundantly gathered. Wraps made of India shawls are no longer worn in daytime, but have become, instead, the standard elegant wrap for evening, a sortie for , the theatre or ball. If one is not content with siuple unadorned elegance, but desires to satisfy


a craving for the sumptuous as well, the Oriental design of the cashmere may be enriched with embroidery in silks of many colors and metal threads. The black lace mantillas, which have entirely usurped the place of the ancient hood for enveloping the head in the evening, are sometimes made of lace in which the pattern is wrought with gold thread in all its outlines, instead of the plain black lace. Gloves of Suede (undressed) kid are still universally worn at all times; however, dressed kid gloves are being revived for evening to some extent, but only in light gray. Men may scarcely be said to wear gloves any longer. When they do wear them in the evening they are of light gray kid. It is said that their waistcoats are to open very widely, almost to the belt, their sleeves to be very narrow, and trousers very wide, next EMMELINE RAYMOND.


LORA. McFLIMSEY'S trouble of “nothing to wear” is not to be compared with the greater misery of not knowing what to wear on certain occasions when comfort is the first consideration. Something of this misery has expressed itself of late in long newspaper discussions as to what is the proper cycling costume for a woman. Having seen my name referred to by one or two writers on the subject, I am encouraged to add a few words to the many that have already been said in various places. I re. alize that my advice, whatever may be thought of it, has at least this merit: it is based on knowledge, gradually and sometimes painfully acquired on the roads of England and the Contiment. Let me, however, say, by way of preface, that the dress best adapted to cycling is the most suitable for all out-of-door amusement and healthy exercise. Therefore I am not addressing myself to cyclers only, but to every sensible woman who believes in rational dress; that is, using the term in its real sense, and not merely in its narrowest acceptation, when it means a divided skirt or other like abominations. To begin at the beginning. ing should be made of wool: linen and muslin are as uncomfortable as they are dangerous. I can heartily recommend the gray woollen combination made in Scotland, which is neither clumsy nor complicated. By wearing one of these, a chemise can be dispensed with, and on a long journey the less one wears, the greater the luxury. Corsets made of wool are now to be had, and very sensible corsets they are, with but few bones and little stiffness. Indeed, one kind which is sold at dress-reforming establishments is nothing more than a knit bodice with corset steels in front and straps over the shoulders. If you must have a petticoat, let it too be made of wool. With a well-cut, well-hanging skirt, however, it can readily be dispensed with, and this means if you are tricycling, so much less weight on the machine; if you are walking, so much more freedom for your feet and legs. It is much more sensible to have all these things made of gray rather than of white wool. Of course my reason for recommending woollen under-clothing is understood. I have seen it somewhere asserted that women never perspire; but my experience is that they do, and that, after much physical exercise, they, as well as men, are better off for having next the skin a garment that will absorb the perspiration, instead of damp clinging muslin or linen which, if not changed the minute the exercise is over, become a source of colds, chills, and rheumatism. On this point I feel especially competent to speak, for I shall not soon forget the discomfort of my first long ride in the days when I had not yet discovered the virtues of wool. I do not wish it to be thought that combinations are the indispensable basis of natural dress. A friend of mine, who has ridden as much as s have, if not more, and who has reduced comfort in dress to a fine art, wears a thin gauze shirt, racing tights, almost boneless corsets, and a cloth dress made very much like a short riding-habit. Before I speak of the dress I have one more word to say. Nothing could be worse for riding or walking than tight garters. There is no reason to wear them nowadays, when so many varieties of stocking suspenders are to be had. I have found that for tricycling the dress that best answers the purpose is a good strong tailormade tweed. The cloth of the Cyclists' Touring Club is excellent. But I see no reason why one should make one's self conspicuous by wearing a uniform. Neither do I see the necessity of having a cycling dress made in any marked or peculiar way. There is an ingenious device by which a few pleats let in the front width of a skirt hang over the feet when one sits on the machine, and then fall back again into folds when one stands up. But a good rider who knows how to sit on her machine needs no such devices; her position is almost vertical, and I, for my part, do not see the objection to a woman's feet showing when on a tricycle to the same extent in which she must expose them in walking. A kilted skirt —the one most in favor with Cyclists' Touring Club tailors—is another mistake. The first shower destroys it, taking out all the kilting and

All under-cloth

reducing it to a limp, shapeless mass of cloth. I ~

have always found that I could be comfortable on the tricycle, and presentable when I came to a town through which I wished to wander on foot, by wearing an ordinary tweed travelling dress—the skirt rather plain, the drapery simple, with no ends or loops to catch in the machinery, and a Norfolk jacket neither too loose nor too tight. As for your hat, get a felt, by all means, with a brim to shade your face, and trimming that will defy sun and rain alike. ElizaBETH Robins PENNELL.

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