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JOHlPS WIFE.
JOHlPS WIFE. A young wife stood with her head on her broom, And looked around the little room; Nothing but toil for ever," she said, From early morn till the light has fled. If you only were a merchant now, We need not live by the sweat of our brow! Pegging away, spake shoemaker John, -11 Wo ne'er see w 11 what we're standing on." A lady stood by her husband's chair, And quietly passed her hand o'er his hair, You never have time for me now," she said, And a tear-drop fell on his low-bent head. If we were only rich, my dear, 'With nothing to do from year to year, But amuse each other-O dear me, What a happy woman I should be I' Looking up from his ledger spake Merchant John, We ne'er see well what we're standing on," A stately form, in velvet dressed, A diamond gleaming on her breast; Nothing but toil for fashion," she said, Till I sometimes wish that I were dead. 0 could I but fling thi3 wealth aside, And once more be the poor man's bride From his easy chair spake gentleman John, We ne'er see well what we're standing on."
THE STRANGE CLAIMANT; OR,…
THE STRANGE CLAIMANT; OR, TWICE WED. CHAPTER XL. HUSBAND AND WIFE. :80 they are together once more-husband and wife, as of old; the lost found, the mourned-for restored unto life. How should I describe the felicity of that meeting, dashed as it was, too, by self reproach on both sides! And though the meeting with his child has cleared him of the last fearful doubt, it was scarce possible but that some shade should temper the sunshine of that blessed heur of reconciliation. Nelly's hurt was but slight; she had suffered more from fright; and they were almost fearful how she might receive the still more sudden shock of the wondrous news which awaited her. But jsy rarely kills, and the following morning that hotel held a happier group than it had e ver, in all probability, con- tained since it was built. Ida's happiness and delight W!ü1, perhaps, the most pure and unmixed of all; for to her came no painful reminiscences of the past, no Belf-accusing voice that, despite all present joy, would not cellse to whisper of the lost time, the long, long years of doubt and misery which could never be re- called. Her father, whose memory she had been taught to worship-he was alive the dreary page of her dear mother's history was to be turned they had a protector, a friend, an adviser; one, too, so won- drously ahd mysteriously recognised, to whose cruel fate she bad been, as it were, the living index. He found them, too, not in obscurity er want, but ful- filling an honourable destiny worthy of him, even at the altitude at which in her innermost heart she had been trained to set his memory, in the heroic light in which it had been ordained that he should be restored to them. Oh, the long talk, the divine peace and joy of that hallowed day of re- union how much to tell, yet how incapable ta speak it they were; how anxious to veil each the sufferings and trials they had undergone how eager to avoid aught which could reflect upon or wound one another! How many sentences begun, to end but in abrupt silence, gizing into each other's features, pity- iDg each other's griefs,.thanking God voicelessly for his crowning mercy after the weary probation. Ni^liy had begged to be spared all visits that day. She was, indeed, unequal to it; but, not to speak of the less worthy inducement of curiosity, which vague, floating rumours had aroused, there were, of course, many eager to offer congratulations on her providential €scape, and Ida was fully occupied in seeing them, and answering their kind inquiries. She bad looked anxiously for Tom, who bad dis- appeared the previous nigbt the moment he heard that 3io unfavourable results were to be anticipated from the accident; but the day pissed on, and evening had began to fall, when, sitting alone in the soft twilight, trying not to feel, amid all the tumult of her full de- light, a faint admixture of regret or uncertainty, she started, as the door, opened by a servant, admitted the preserver of her mother—the old playfellow of her early days. Meanwhile, explanations had at length been entered upon; briefly as might be, yet to the full, probing, with brave hand, each his share in that festering wound which had cankered so large a portion of husband's and wifb's best days. GOI, d forgive me," Franklen went on, for the base suspicions I dared give ear to against you, Nelly; I resolved from that day I would be dead to you. Early in the next day's dawn I fluns: away my outer clothing into the sea, that you should just believe me lost, and follow-oh, forgive me, dear wife-what I believed your desire. I travelled on foot round by the rocks when the tide was up, and none came that way, to the fort. MI T V. J N RT I I N JLnere i had my hand dressed; and there I was taken wibh a fever, that kept me three months in the hospital. I told a false tale of whom I was. Heaven knows I did not care what I did I prayed I might never get well, but the Lord knew best, Nelly. Then I began to cast about for something to do, but it was a hard matter for a poor maimed fellow like me. At last a man I'd known when I was in those parts years before, got me a berth on board an outward-bound ship as steward. It was by favour quite; but I got hardy after a bit, and did almost as well as with two hands. I was a favourite, too, with the captain, and we got like friends, the voyage out; but we parted, for I was not coming home again, and the next trip took me off to Africa. "Oh, wife! those were awful times—nights and days of such agony that I cannot but wonder I kept my senses. And with it all there was the horrid doubt-for I could not be certain that it was true, I could not bring myself to think-" "Oh, if I.Fou 4ad but come!" she sighed. I did, wife; I did. God help me I could bear it no longer, and I did return took passage in a fast sailer, too, and came to the old place with a tantalising hope at my heart Oh, Nelly, I heard you were married to him .for the story was known miles round. It didn t need I should come to Sandcombe. I learned you bad a child—they said Ids. I asked no more I was off again like a madman—wild, reckless Well, well, the Lord helped me, in His mercy, that I should do nothing disgraceful. It was a hard time but we will not talk of it." J He went on to tell her how he had again left the country, and had en ountered hardships by sea and land how, while away beyond the Atlantic, a good old friend, the captain with whom he had sailed, and who knew his history, had died in bis arms, and Aaron was deputed his messenger with various papers and business matters home; how, arrived there, he had found himself, with a distant relative of the captain, left sole inheritor of the old man's property, and had so become himself the owner of a vessel and a wealthy man. He told, too, how by a. chance falling in with one of the former comrades of the pirate, he had learned certain particulars which had again set him doubting as to the culpability of his wife, and given him a clue which he had fo'lowed np to gain an interview with Saul, with what result we have seen. Then came the meeting with Agnes through the medium of the ring, and, with no less surprise Nelly learned of the vicinity of this dear friend. The wife's relation was far more painful, more filled with self-accusation and bitter remorse. But it was made, his love and pity extenuating all; and for ever, till death, husband and wife are unittd. CHAPTER XLI. AND LAST. OLD PLAYFELLOWS. AND you are going to leave us, just as we are so happily united ? Just as we have found my father, and you have saved my mother's life, you leave us ?" I must," Tom was saying the words did not come out very easily. "Work is bad, and things have not gone well of late, and—and— There, I can't help it!" Tom suddenly broke out; "I can't help it. Miss Franklen— Ida!" He had seized both her hands there was no glove on either now, he was kissing them, clasping them to his breast, sobbing over them till his whole frame shook again. "I'm a Tool, I know," he choked out, I meant not to have d,)ne it-I meant not-I am a fool!" Tom, good, kind old Tom," Ida said, little less shaken herself; a fool for caring for me, Tom ? a fool for not sickening at the poer band! Oh, Tom!" They were crying together and sobbing all in a promiscuous sort of medley, each crying down in spasmodic language any depreciation of the other. "Tom a fool? never!" } "The dear, dear hand, he had ever worshipped it." This, with renewed caresses and cherishing of the de- formed limb, which did not always appear so horrible as we once described it. So the secret was out—the hard-handed printer and the courted prima donni knew now that the old playmates had been true, through all, to the Brst love; the self-humiliation, the jealous fears, the dread of scorn, all were over. It wa* always a puzzle to Tom how it came about; Ida always declared that he would have lost her if she had not been the braver of the two, but Tom will not hear of it—My more than would her father of her again bestowing her talents on tfee public ear, which he meant, he said, especially for his own private gratification, and that of her husband. He had enough and to spire forall. Even if, at the eleventh hour, Ida should resolve on single blessedness, Tom Grejous should still have the bsuefit of all the cap. tal embarked in the printing concern, in which he was to be fairly launched one twelvemonth btftre the marriage. That was the first arrangement; but somehow the plausible young man found means to convince his future father in-law of the desirability @f getting all straight, and certain things off his mind; and Mr. Franklen became a convert to the idea that, possibly, business would be better attended to when the first illusions of married bliss were fairly dispelled by solid realioy. So they were married, and, by way of insuring a happy termination to our acquaintance with the old playmates, suppose we leave them in the honeymoon. It was no small addition to her happiness that Nelly owed it in some degree to the intervention of her former acquaintance, Agnes Ohaunce. She welcomed her warmly to her home—how dif- ferent to the one where last they had met!—and Ida, though her recollection of Agnes was but slight, was earnest in her return of the poor woman's warm ex- pressions of affection. "Did I not always tell you it was no ghost?" she said, when they had talked together over all the wondrous chances of the past. Reluctantly, rather, she told of th3 reason which had occasioned her quilting home so suddenly. "It was while my father lay dying," she said, "that I met the man of whom I told you—my first false lover, He knew me, and evidently, for some reason, had made up his mind to have me again in his power, for he spared no means to get to speak to me he followed me, lay in wair, sant me notes. "You may think me very wrong. I knew you would, and I never told you then. But ha h d been the father of my child. I could not forget; I still loved him. Had he been freo, I fear I should have been induced to become his. But he was a married man. He lived, I knew, very unhappily with his wife. Alas! I feared mv own weaknasa—the painful longing at my heart for something to love! While the poor old man, my father, lived, I had at least cn interest in the world but when I lost him I could bear it no longer. I knew, I feared, that I should fail; and I fled. "I hid myself far away in an obscure country place, where I travelled on foot; there I kept myself as best I could by needlework. But, oh, my life has been a weary one Often I have prayed that the trial might pass from m?, but in vain. Then I heard that he was dead. I c&me to Lon- don. I tried to find you, far I often felt I had been ungrateful in leaving you as I did. But I believe my brain was crazed. "You were not to be found, and again I left the great town, where I had not a friend. I cannot tell you all I have gone through, nor how my blighted life has been often so sad a burden I have been tempted to fling it from me. But I thank God I ke)-t myself sin- less. I thank Hun, too, that I have been permitted to see you, at least, happy in this life. Oh, my friend," she said in an earnest voice, while her deep eyes were suffused with the tears of contrition, "how many there are who, in this life, will suffer to the end the consequents of the 4 one error' THE END.
WHO WINS?
WHO WINS? --+- MARY WINKLEY sat by her mother's window sing- ing. In all the village of Cranston there was not so pretty a voice as hers. People said it was like a bird's, it was so full, rich, and clear. Just outside of the white lattice, covered over thickly with honey- suckles, the cage of a canary hung. While Mary sang the bird tuned up his voice to sing with her. It was a beautiful concert, the two singing together. Mary's mother put her head-a finely shaped head, richly- silvered over with age-out of the parlour-door to listen and a young man, passing close along by the windows, stopped a moment in the cool shade of the old maples, smiling all the while at the delicious sounds he heard. Pretty Mary Winkley, like the bird, was pouring out the melody of a happy, thankful heart, and who- ever listened felt the purer tides of their being moved bv her sweet thanksgiving. While she sang she worked briskly. Upon her blue gingham apron rested a basket of green peas which her busy fingers were making ready for the noonday meal. But by- ard by the basket slipped from her Ifp to tha floor, and her hands fell listlessly by her sides, while she cast frequent, longing glances out across the dewy lawn, and farther along to a bright new cottage with its clear roef shining in the sunlight, and its white side3 half-burled in soft, dark evergreen. It seemed as if her blue eyes would never tire of looking at the pic- ture th .t the new house presented, built. upon the velvety grass, with honeysuckles climbing over it, and the shade of the trees dropping upon its roof. After awhile she went for her bonnet, forgetful of the half-shelled peas, or the pile of pods lying upon the floor beside them-and in a few moments was dancing over the lawn, blushing and smiling at every one who heeded whither her footsteps were tending. O, such a d(ar house as this is!" she said, as she unlocked the porch door and stood in the dainty little kitchen. "Everything is so handy, so nice, and so perfect She stopped to admire the cunning little cooking stove, which was as yet innocent of a fire; looked under the sink where Harry had arrayed their store of pots and kettles; peeped into the cupboard brimful of new white dishes, and then sat down for just one little moment in a low rocking chair by the window, trying to think how it would be to sit there on mornings when everything was put to rights and Harry was away to h;s work. Then she sprang to the sitting, room and threw open the blinds and looped back the soft white curtains, to see how pleasant the sunlight would look streaming over the brightly-tinted home- made carpet. As she did so she caught sight of the pillows of the patch-covered lounge, dented and tumbled. With a pretty show of importance she re- arranged them, smiling the while, to think whose- brown head bad first been pressed against them. Next she went to the parlour. On that there was a pretty English carpet and a nice, smart looking sofa. Oil the walls were three pictures, fastened by dainty cords and tassels. These pictures were Mary's pride. She never wearied of look log at tbim. But this morning, before she could bestow her usual praise upon them, something caught her eye in another direction. With a cry of joy she sprang across the room, har faca brilliant with smiles and blushes. Oh, what a happy surprise that was for her, the handsome, richly toned seraphine! Of all things in the world j;ust what she wanted most! What could she say, what should she do, to ht Harry know how much she thanked him for his kindness ? It was so unexpected, so—" she began, but while she spoke her voice grew choked with tears, and sink- ing down upon the carpet and leaning her head against the white keys. of the instrument, she cried for very joy. While she sat there, Harry came softly into the room, and startled her by resting his hand upon her head. Orjing, Mary, for what ?" he said, kneeling beside her, and attempting to draw her hands away from her face. Because you are so kind to me. Oh, Harry, Harry! what can I do to repay you for this?" she answisred, nestling her face al!ainst his shoulder. I'll tell you what you may do, my little-I almost said it-wife-don't blush so, wifey. When I come home sometimps weary, fretful, and out of temper, you may lead ras in here, and sing and play to me. With music, Mary, you can lead me as though I were a little child. I never eould grow very wicked," and his full hazel eyes grew soft and reverent in their expression, "never forgetful of the dear God that loves 113, while that one chord of my heart vibrate3 with such a holy thrill to the sound of music. C.)uip, Mary dear, let us sing that old Scotch melody together. You may plav; or I will. Ob, how oeautiful it was, that old song, floating ou on the rich melody of their voices-the sweet, birdt like treble of Mary, and the rich basso of ILirry. As they sang, how sweet and pure the expression of their faces! As it' every unholy pulse of sin was deadened within them—every unholy thought struck dead before the face of God's great gift. Oh, my Fan, isn't that a handsome cottage Who owns it ?"' "Young Harry Roberts, the nicest fellow in all Oranston." Married?" L o but very near it. He's engaged to MiTY Winkh-y, the pretty girl that you noticed at church yesterday." Pshaw!" Miss Bell Wooster curled her lip con- temptuously. <• What is it, Bell ?" "Nothing now. Will you intr-oduce me to Mr. Roberts? I'd like to know him." Introduce you! Most certainly, dear. He calls to see little Willie every evening, and I shall have plenty of chances. But yonr arts and charms will all be lost upon him. Mary Winkley has his heart, and the cottage is for hfr," Will you wager anything ? Mis3 Bell gave one glar.Ct) of her suparb eyes into her cousin's face. "Not a pin's worth while you wear that assured look. But, nevertheless, let me tell you, that Harry Roberts is all ready to be married. Why, they've even got their carpets down and their dishss arranged in the clipboards." So much the better," was the answer. "Idoiit care for that. Introduce mc, if you please." 11 He's perfectly charming, Fan Miss Bell Wooster whispered the words into her cousin's ear after an hour's steady chat with Mr. Roberts the fol- lowing evenisg. And Harry ? At first he was not pleased with the gay, dashing beauty. lie did not like the bold, rapid glances of her dark eyes. He compared her black curls with Mary's brown braids; her dress of rich silk, fashionably and elegantly made, with Mary's simple, modest robes, and the comparison was in Mary's favour. But after awhile the contrast was less vivid. While Miss Wooster conversed he forgot everything else. There was certainly a charm in everything she said—a grace in every expression. Did she sing ? he asked at last. "A little—not much," she acswered, drooping her 'o deeply fringed lids before him. Would she favour him with a song ? He was a great, lover of music." She should be most happy to, if he would look leniently upon her faults of execution." ITHry bowed smilingly, and Miss Bell took her seat at the piano. It was a wild Italian song that she broke into, for which her passionate voice was peculiarly well adapted. She threw her whole soul into the piece. While the sang, her (yes grew strangely lustrous and bright. Her cheeks flushed crimson, and about her mouth a passionate earnest- ness was visible. Harry thought he had never seen anyone so beautiful before. He had certainly never before listened to such singing It was not like Mary's. Hers was titder, sweet, and soothing. This was stirring and exciting. To him it was like drinkirg deeply of rich old wine. He bscl not words to tlnck her when she ceased, but he begged her to sing again. She sang, and still he said again, until the village cloak struck the hour of tan. He started up suddenly, then, remembering that he had agreed to see Mary that evening, he went away, promising to call often while Miss Wooster remained at Oranston. There was little need of a promise, however. He said he always called to see little Willie Wooster every evening: he had over since he had been ill. "Who wins, Fanny?" asked Bell, drawing her curls from her cheeks, as Harry's footsteps died away in the street, "Heavens! I little thought to take such an interest in the gamo. Look at my checks, tbfy are like crimson and my heart beats —— Fan, tell me who wins, little Mary or I ? The beautiful girl pieed rapidly across th? parlour as she smoke. She was like a proud, splendid dahlia Mary Winktey like a white, stainless lily. So thought Fanny Wooster ns ahe looked at her cousin, before answering'. Then she said "Ob, BÛ!, Bell, Bdl Conam, child, rouse up See, little Willie Wooster has sent you a peach. Don't look so broken-hearted, Mary!" Good Mrs. Winkley's blue eyes filled with tears as she spoke, and her kind voice was trembling with emotion. It was dreadful to see her darling growing so pale before her eyes day by day, while she had no power to aid her—ns> word of cheer to offer. Your mother is true to you, dear," she said, wiping her eyes Oh, I know it! I know it exclaimed Mary, her blue eyes brightening. "Bat—but this is dreadful to bear! And I loved him so, too, mother! Sometimes I wish I was as near home !1.3 dear little Willie." "Don't child—don't talk so. It is sinful. You must not give up Everything because he has treated you badly." But oh, mother, I loved him so Why, I could have died for him—oh, I cannot tell you how will ingly!—he was so very dear to me. And then for him to do so!' It won't always be so, mydear. This can't always last. Harry Roberta will live to see the day when he willrepen t of this." Do you think so, mother ?-do you think so ?"she asked, eagerly, her face growing brighter. Bat in a moment the very worst came back to her, and she forgot to hope. Her mother did not know everything tha.t she k«ew—did not know half how she had been neglected. She had never complained Ii had grown to be a common sight now for Harry to wr.lk leisurely at any hour cf the day with the beauti ful Miss Bell Wooster. Only the night before, Mary had been very near them as they sauntered along in the gathering twilight, Miss Wooster leaning his arm, and his head bent low, to catch the bewitching tones of her voice—the tones that were so fast st al ing away his senses. Every evening he spent with her, seldom thinking or caring for Mary's loneliness. Ho used to. come every morning and every even- ing," Mary would say, but now he does not come at all." So the time (September) appointed for their mar- riage drew nigh, and people said that it would be Bell Wooater instead of Mary Winkley, after all, that would live in Harry's beautiful cottage. And Mary sat by her window and wondered if Hr.rry would come to her before the time anil tell her of the great change in his feelings, or if be would still avoid her. She wondered what he would do with her things at the cottago; how he would send them back to her. Her great sorrow was crushing out all the light and joy of her heart. She never sang now. All day long she would sit at her work without a note escspicg h; r poor grieved lips. She couldn't sing, she said. Her songs would grow to wails now if she tried to sing them. She hoped when she sang again it would be where her voice could never be broken by grief. She was tired-tired; so tired To the very dregs she was draining the cup of sorrow that Harry Roberts's faithlessness had filled for her. Oould she win him back now with a song ? Had he, indeed, ever loved her ? God pity her, for in her great grief there was no light. Don't cry so, Willie dear. Tell me what grieves you." Harry Roberts was bend ing over the couch of littlj Willie Wooster, and while he spoke to him his voice was as tender and soft as a woman's. Oh dear, Mr. Roberts, I can't bear to have it so," sobbed the child. I must tell you Tell me what, Willie ? I will listen "to whatever you wish to say." Oh, Mr. Roberts, you have been very kind to me. S) has Mary, too. I think Mary's face is an angel's, but cousin Bell's face is Is the door shut ?' Yes, Willie." Cousin Bell's face is terribly wicked. Drar lliP, Mr. Roberts, I ought to tell you when Mary is getting paler everyday. I think you lik* Mary best ef any- body in the world. Dou't you ? Hsrry turned his face away without answering. Sjeinar that be did not spaak to him, Willie went on. I'll tell you what it is, Mr. Roberts. Bell meant to do this all the timp. She said so." Do what, child ? Make a fuss. When she first came here she said she wanted your cottage, and that she would have it in spite of Mary. Ob, she's terribly wicked-she don't lovo anybocly. I shouldn't have told you of it, but I was afraid she was going to get it. I didn't think you'd believe her. Do you like her better than Marv ? Oií, I don't." "No, Willie no!" "Then what makes you talk to her? She says she's going to be your wife. She said so in this room yesterday. And she said that she would marry you if she whitened a hundred faces instead of one. Oh, dou't let her, Mr. Roberts. God won't love you if you do." "Don't be afraid, Willie." be answered, trying to soothe the child. I doubt if God will ever love or forgive me." But you won't marry Bell, will you ? No, as I live I will not! he answerfd, looking the boy full in the face with bis clear hazel eyes. "And you will go and see Mary nON at once. Mother says you don't ever go there notv. Will you go?" Harry hesitated a moment. Yes, he would go, lie said ah lapt. and as he spoke he started for the door. In the ball Bell Wooster stepped playfully in his way. Without speaking, he moved her gently, but firmly, aside. Her face darkened in a moment. She felt that the tide of treachery was turning. Mary, Mary Look up, darling, and give me my doom!" Harry Roberts knelt at the feet of Mary Winkley as he spoke. Oh, Harry, Hirry was all that poor Mary could say. "Mary, tell me if you can love me ngain-tell me if you can be what you used to me-if you can love me." Can love you, Harry I have always loved you." The soft eyes were raining tears upon his face as she spoke. But you, H trry—you——" "I was blinded, fooled, infatuated, darling but, thank God, it is all over new. If my life is spared, I will atone for this wrong I have done you. Tell me that you forgive me-that you trust me Ho held her in his arms as though she was but a babe; and all the while he sued for forgiveness, her sweet face was nestling closer and closer to his own. The next morning they sang the old Scotch melody again in their little home, and Mary's voice was sweeter than ever, with a faint quiver of grief running through it. A week later they were married in the little stone church at Oranston, and it was a day bf rf joicing all through the village. Little Willie Wooster was carried on a litter to sea the ceremonv, and then from the church was moved gently to Harry's new cottage. It was the happiest moment of the little invalid's life. Poor, shattered life, it went out sweetly with the autumn time! In heaven he found no winter.
OJSLY.
OJSLY. Only a baby, Kissed and caressed, Gently held to mother's breast. Oiily a child, Toddling alone, Brightening now its happy home. Ooly a boy, Trudging to school, Governed now by sterner rule. OJy a youth, Living in dreams Full of promise life now seems. Oijly a man, Battling with life, Shared in now by loving wife. Only a father, Burdened with care, Silver threads in dark brown hair, Oiilv a grey beard, Toddling again, Growing old and full of pain. Only a mound, O'ergrown with grass, Dreams unrealized-rest at last. — Chicago Tribune. f1 EVERY scheme of happiness must needs be imper- fect that does not embrace the three incidents of wife, home, and children. QUIt swctteat experiences of affection are meant to DO suggestions of that realm which is the home of the heart. WIIAT sunshine is to flowers, smiles are to humanity. Scattered along life's pathway, the good they do is in- conceivable. A smile, accompanied by a kind word, has been known to reclaim a poor outcast, a,-d change the whole current of a human life. "MAKE the face the mirror of the soul,"says Dr. Holland. It is very unwise advice. If it were fol- lowed, there would be so many dreadful counte- nances that all the horses would get frightened and run away.
LADIES' COLUMN.
LADIES' COLUMN. TIIE FASHIONS. White muslin dresses ara once more to be seen at evening rhinwns where there is no dancing, writes Eliane de Marsy in the Queen, but they are so elabor- ately trimmed with Valenciennes and Mechlin laces that the muslin is all but invisible. Fine Swiss muslin and ovgandy are both used, and f;re made up breadth for breadth over pink or blue sitk the trimmingsaro insertions and frit's of embroidery, finished off either with Mecbiin or ihe new patterns of Valenciennes le-ce. The latest fancy is to add clusters of upturned loops of narrow satin ribbon folded so as to show the contrasting or reversible sides, and in these loops there are us wavy as tight colours dif-played, forming quite a bright bouquet of pisk, cardinal red, pale blue, olive, navy blue, myrtle, cream, and black. These clusters of 10n1)S are studded in the lace that heads the em- broidered flounce round the train. In front there is a short wrinkled tablier. The bodice is a close barque, with embroidered back, square front, belted and lined with siik. Thi sleeves are unlmed, and are almost entirely of embroidery, coloured loops of ribbon fasten- iDg up the lace ruffles, with which they terminate at the elbow. While lace mittens, worked with the same colour as the filk slip or lining, are usually worn with these muslin toilettes. Black veils, spangled with gold, have been worn during the past season. Now white tulle veils are dotted with chenille and with pearls, and some are fringed with chenille. Real butterflies, with all their varied tints preserved and mounted on silver filagree or gilt, likewise feathers tipped with gold eeed beads, are charming on headdresses. The new combs shew a single row of jet, silver, or pearl beads, and are worn close to the coils of hair or curls. Some of the new fans are very unique in design, represent- ing a man with lead pencil, or a bottle of per- fume, or a riding whip. Other chatelaine fans have bird handles, a small red tanager or an oriole being mounted on the hollow stem, in which is concealed a painted silk fan, drawn out by a tassel at one end, while at the other end there is a hook to at- tach the fan to the belt. On my visit to the Exhibition I was charmed fo see the growing popularity of short skirts. It would be impossible to carry a train and examine curiosities, the weariness of holding it up would be unendurable for any length of time; and indeed a short costume is the most appropriate for walking, whether in the streets or on the Champs de Mars. I met the ex- Q iceD of Spain wearing a very pretty costume of admiral blue faille, and a Tuscan bonnet trimmed with dark cerise sweet peas-the contrast of the two colours looked well. One of our eUgantes, the Mar- quise de L was at the Exhibition the same day in a Frincesse dress of dark blue silk, the front plaited so finely that it might have been crimped, and the train looped up with ribbon looking as though it bad been a shsrt skirt. The large bow at the throat was cardinal red. sit-in ribbon; the Marie S'u»rt bonnet was sur- rounded with a wreath of sc&rlet berries, a l&rge red Alsatian bow ornamented the top, and the gourmttte or bridle strings beneath the chin m-stched the bow. Thi.se short costumes demand extra care with boots and shoes, and I remark that the best- dressed women wear lee-d shots with low heels the Louis XV. heels are impossible at the Ex- hibition they are too fatiguing, whatever their admirers may say to the contrary. Buttoned black kid boots are also worn, likewise gaiter boots, the gaiter being of a cheeked material-the tiniest checks possible. Open boots strapped across the instep with several narrow bands are excellent for summer wear, as the foot stands less chance of bang overheated in them, and when these of Charles IX. shoes are worn, the stock- ings should match tbe toiiette. Tha fashionable stockists this season are striped horizontally. They are titbe-r silk or thread striped with silk, and the generality have embroidered clocks- Black silk stockings, with coloured floral clocks, are much worn. For full evening dress they are em- broidered with gold; and turquoise blue silk, worked with silver, are specially pretty. Those ladies who Cannot reconcile themselves to a short dress carry their trains in a variety of ways—some over their arm, like a riding habit, others sport a silver dress-holder, but the most practical have a loop of ribbon sewn to the back of their skirt, and through this they piss a hand when walking. j Toe fashion of Wearing natural flowers increases in Palis, and there is a special florist, Mme. Vaiilan: Bozeau, who daily renews the bonnet trimmings that are confided to her; and she also sells natural wreaths ready mounted, such as trails of Marshal Niel roses, and cordons of leaves and blossoms for skirts. At evening parties, where there is no dancics, at the opera, and at large dinner parties, natural flowers are always worn now in preference to artifich.1 ones. Small bouquets are fastened to the bodice, and larger bouquets are occasionally carried. At the last rases I remarked that tho most stylish bonnets were either Tuscan or the coarse gIL-temng straw called "rustic," and which is plaited so that a succession of tiny points is formed in the braid. Tne new gold feathers—thick ostrich tips but little curled, looking as though they had been dipped in a bath of gold and gracefully beDding under the weight-were to be seen on many carriage bonnets. They are costly trimmings, for sixty and seventy francs is asked for a single golden feather!
USEFUL HINTS.
USEFUL HINTS. OIIEAP PEA-SOUP.-To one gallon of water put a pint and a-half of split-peas (if the water be hard, add hair a tea-spoonful of carbonate of soda). Wash a head of celery, cut it up small, and put it into the pot. Let this cimmer without beiling, till the peas are com- pletely blended with the watpr, (jut; a few onions unto* thin slices, and put them into a frying-pan, with two ounces of beef or mutton drippings; dredge or sprinkle a table-spoonful of flour over them, add a tea-cupful of the pea liquor, and fry till the whole is nicely brown. Then pour all into the boiler season with salt and pepper to taste, stir well, and let the whole boil for about five minute?, when it will be ready for use. A little common mint, dried and powdered, may be sprinkled over it, if agreeable. To POT BUTTEP.Cut up fresh butter in pieces the size of an eeg, put them in a large basin with plenty of cold water; take each piece in the hand, and, hold- ing it in the water, Equeeza it two or three times then throw it into another basia full of cold water. When all the pieces are done repeat the operation a second time; then put the butter on a marble slab, and pat an j roll it out to the thickness of an ioeh. Do not work more thaa 21b. at a time. Cover the butter with* fine salt in the proportion of 1 cz. to each pound of butter work the butter thoroughly for half an hour then put it, well pressed down, into pots, and cover each pot with half an inch of a solution of salt in water strong enough to float an egg'. TREATMENT OF CONVULSIONS.—-This is an affection which occurs most frequently in infancy and child- hosd, and is characterised by muscular twitchings or spasms, painful distortion of the features, and squint- ing. At this period of life, convulsions are generally due to sympathetic irritation of the brain from teething, derangement of the stomach and bowels, and worms. When due to the first two causes, the most efficient re- medies are the warm bath, and either a tea-sposnful of castor oil, or from one to two grains of calomel, according to age. A strip of mustard poultice may also be placed along the whole spine, and in very severe cases the inhalation of chloroform is most useiul; but this should not be given except under medical advice. If worms are suspected, they must be gut rid of by suitable treatment. Convulsions may also occur as a symptom of certain diseases, as for example, inflammation of the brain or its membranes, &i. they also result from poisons, as strychnia, &c.; from injuries of the head, and from the bites of rabid animals lastly, convulsions, more or less painful to witness, generally mark the final struggle.—Q<lsseWs D ctionary.