THE MAIDS.
Watch her walking down the street, '
Ever;, hair ia sleek and neat;
Cheeks aglow and head held high.
Glossy boot and mannish tie;
Gown severe, gloves perfect shade
She's the typical "tailor maid."
Up at morning with the sun.
By breakfast time her duties .done;
On the links she plays with lest.
Rides, wheels, and dances with the best.
In for anything, she's not staid
She's the typical "ready maid."
Hours there are hat those who know
Say she sweeter graces shows
When she puts aside the whirl
And becomes just mother's girl;
This the picture that does not fade,
Showing her beat , when she's plain
"home-maid."-1
New Orleans Picayune.
'H"H"H H-H4-H4 H"M"H i
An Old Maid's Love Affair I
k-t' i'MiH"",H""H"H"i"H' nil i
CHILD crvinfir flown In th
Rwnmn what cnuld It mpnnV
Miss Abigail Drew stopped, and
eet down the heavy basket of lunch she
was carrying to the men In the hayfield.
It surely was a child's cry and a baby's,
too! How it stirred the chords of her
lonely, longing heart. Miss Abigail
loved children with a passionate, yearn
ing love, and yet It had been years since
she had even heard a baby cry. Living
alone with her brother and his occa
sional help, on that remote farm, all
social relationship, all neighborly amen
ities and delights were almost entirely
denied her. And above all things she
missed and longed for the sunny pres
ence of children. She felt that, If she
only had a child to care for, her barren,
empty life would overflow with joy and
purpose. The duys now so sari and
meaningless would be so rich and bless
ed then! Ah! there la nothing like the
Infinite aching of the mother heart In a
childless breast.
Therefore, that child cry, floating up
front the swamp, was heavenly music
to the heart of Miss Abigail Drew. She
clasped her bunds and listened, her
whole being absorbed In the associa
tions connected with the sound. Sud
denly her heart surged Into her throat,
and she caught her breath with the
thought that rushed across her mind
what If a baby had been left in the
swamp deserted! And what If she
ehould be the one to find It and take it
home, and oh! what If nobody should
come to claim It! The wistful face of
the woman paled and flushed, and
flushed and paled, In swift succession,
as her heart brooded upon this wonder
ful possibility. At length, with a little
cry that was all a prayer, she sprang
toward the swamp, leaving the busket
of lunch under the blaze of the July
sun.
When she emerged from the thick,
low woods at the bottom of the pasture
her dress was torn and her face scratch
ed and streaming with perspiration, but
the rupture and triumph that shone in
her eyes, as she looked down upon a
bundle strained to her breast, showed
that life, for her, had suddenly been
lifted above all ordinary conditions and
-considerations, and she was conscious
of walking upon such roseate air as the
old painters limned beneath the feet of
their exalted Madonnas. A little face
peeped out from the ragged shawl that
wrapped Miss Abigail's precious bur
den, but the plaintive cry had ceased,
and the blue eyes of the little foundling
were gazing up Into those "two springs
of limpid love" that shone above them.
Nathan Drew and his two hired men
were waiting Impatiently under the
shadow of a big elm tree, when their
breathless provider finally arrived with
the basket of lunch and that strange
bundle upon her left arm. It was long
after noon, and Nathan Drew was fret
ting and fuming at his sister's unac
countable delay.
"What In 'tarnel kept you so long?.'
be demanded, as the panting woman
dropped the basket under the shadow
of the eim. "And for goodness' sake,
what ye got In yer arms?"
"A baby, Nathan!" replied his sister,
In a voice full of soft, reverential Joy.
"A poor little baby that was left In the
swamp. I heard It crying and went to
find It, and that's what made me so
late."
"Humph!" said Nathan Drew, taking
the covering from the basket and In
specting Its contents. "What be ye
oin' to do with It?"
A cloud swept across the radiant face
of the woman. There was something
strictly forbidding In her brother's tone
and manner. Evidently, the only ques
tion that bad entered his mind was
how to get rid of the unwelcome en
cumbrance that had been left upon his
land. Their thoughts were traveling In
diametrically opposite directions the
woman's toward retaining the child;
the man toward disposing of It!
There was something of the protect
ive cunning of love In Abigail's eva
sive answer to her brother.
"Probably somebody will come along
and claim it In a little while," she said.
Nathan Drew laughed derisively.
Then he Jook a huge bite out of one of
Abigail's delicious chicken sandwiches
and washed it down with a gulp of
coffee from the warm can. . .A
"Very likely," he replied at length;
"very likely!" Then he laughed again.
"Somebody dropped it accidentally In
the swamp, eh, boys? Somebody'll be
comln'iback, 'most crazy to find It, by
V by." w
The hired men laughed servilely,
though It was plain that their mind
were chiefly absorbed by the lunch bas
ket which their employer held between
bis legs, and was steadily plundering.
"Well, come on, boys. Hitch up here
and have something to eat!", cried the
farmer. Mw can't bother about a
baby all day. There's work to be
done."
The tongues of the hired men were
loosed as their anxiety disappeared,
and one of them, a smart little French
Canadian, exclaimed:
"Ah, guess ah know were dat bebby
come from, me! Dat mans leev In lum
ber shanty on Coon Hill; be gone, n'
heez ol' hooiuan have free, four, five
bebby prob'ly two. Ah bet dat mans
left dat bebby, sell!"
"I shouldn't wonder." replied Nathan
Drew. "Shiftless cuss! Camping down
on my property, without even asking
permission, and using my lumber shan
ty, stove and wood! I'm glad he's gone,
but I wish he'd taken his hull dern
brood with him. The young un ll prob'ly
grow up Jest like the rest o! 'em, lazy
and wuthless!"
"I heard say," continued the little
Frenchman, "dat man's Hingllshman.
good fambly, but not ver" strong for
work. Los' heez health an' 'bilged to
take to de woods. No money no
health big fambly. Ah guess ah'll do
'bout same t'lng as him, Dab gosh, If ah
get too much bebby!"
"Don't doubt It, Alphonse," rejoined
the farmer. "Thai's jest Jhe sort of a
fellow you be, and yer hull Canuck
tribe."
Alpbone grinned appreciatively and
took no offense. Then silence fell upon
the three men until the last drop of
their noonday lunch had disappeared.
Abigail tenderly laid the baby down
In the grass, while she gathered to
gether the dishes and nupklns and re
packed them In the basket. Her broth
er stood over her, watching. He was a
npnre, hard faced, Iron gray man, who
ihowed by every line and feature, the
absence of sentiment In his make-up.
The woman's hands trembled "as she
worked. She knew he was about to say
something concerning the child. Pres
ently he spoke:
"You kin keep that young un jest two
days, Abigail. Then, if there don't no
body come to claim It, I am going to
take It to the Foundling Hospital"
Having thus delivered himself, he
shouldered his pitchfork and walked
determinedly away.
Tears obscured the homeward path
of the little woman as she struggled
through the shimmering sunlight with
the Infant on her arm. She knew that
her brother would be turned from his
purpose neither by argument nor by en
treaty. He had spoken, and that was
an end of it the Inflexible ultimatum
of that old Puritan bred tyranny that
survives In so mnny beads of New En
gland households.
But though the path was blurred. It
took her home the only home she had
ever known, the roof under which she
had been born and reared, and which
had descended toher elder brother when
their parents died. Hastening to the
pantry she took milk and warmed It for
the babe, half stupefied by starvation.
Then clumsily, yet with a woman's ln
Btinct, she sparingly fed the child with
a spoon, a few drops at a time. As life
came back to the little body with nour
ishment, the baby cried weakly, and
Abigail strained It to her bosom, while
tears of mingled joy and pity rained
down upon the little head. What a
pretty child It was, despite suffering!
What a clear, white skin; what blue,
blue eyes; what breadth of forehead
and fullness of temple; what dainty
little hands; what a soft, sweet neck
for nestling a mother's lips!
For two days Abigail Drew lived In
the awful joy of one who drains the
nectar from a cup which, when emp
tied, must be dashed to earth. She
tried to put away the thought that she
and that little buby girl must part. She
tried to make those two precious days
heaven enough for all of life. She
tried, with all the dutlfulness and rev
erence of her nature, to bow to her
brother's will and be content. But
every hour the whisper In her heart
grew stronger and more Insistent:
"Cleave to the child! Keep her, cher
ish her. She Is yours, a gift of God,
the answer to your life long prayer."
At last she went to her brother and
poured out her heart with an Intensity
of passion be had never suspected in
that quiet, reserved, meekly subservi
ent sister of his. But, although sur
prised and disturbed, Nathan Drew
was not moved. His heart remained
obdurate. To him, the thought of a
foundling child In the house was unen
durable. . Never a lover of children, al
ways convinced In his own heart that
childlessness was the more blessed
state, bow could he be expected to look
with favor upon an adopted baby, a
child concerning whose antecedents
and propensities one knew absolutely
nothing? No! he would not hear to It.
To the Foundling Hospital at Mayfield
the little waif must go.
Toward evening of the last day of
her probation, Abigail Drew began to
gather together certain little treasures
of her own heirlooms. Her mother's
Bible; the laces left her by her Aunt
Judith; an old-fashioned watch and
chain; six silver spoons worn thin as
paper these and a few other things
she wrapped In a bundle and then, tak
ing baby In her arms, she went out,
closing the kitchen door reverently and
softly behind her. Down the road,
through the haze of the late afternoon,
he walked, as one in a dream, leaving
behind her all that she had ever known
and loved hitherto.
From the distant meadow came the
Bound of whetstone on scythe-blade
what a cheery, cheery ring. How could
Nathan beat such music, with banish
ment for the babe for both of them,
did he but know It! in his heart?
Beyond the bridge Abigail turned Into
the woods and followed the stream
westward, for the road ran too near the
meadow, where Nathan and his men
were baying. The child fell to crying,
but she nestled It and kept on. Just be
fore sunset she came out of the woods
upon another road and followed It
southward. The summer dnsk began
to deepen, yet she met no traveler and
passed no house. What a lonely couo-
I try It was. that New Hampshire moun
j tain valley! The great hills looked
down over the woods like stern faced
giants. The night air smelled of
swamps and plney glens, and deep
buried solitudes. The voices were all
those of wild creatures, mysterious and
hidden, now the weary, heart-sick
woman longed for the sight of a roof,
a chimney, an open door especially for
the face of one of her own sex. ' Only
the heart of a woman understands a
woman's heart!
At last when the fireflies 'began to
drift across her path like sparks from
the crumbling embers of the sunset,
Abigail, turning a bend In the road,
came suddenly upon the welcome glow
of a farmhouse window. She hastened
forward, and, turning Into the little
path between the lilac bushes, ap
proached the open door. A man sat
upon the doorstep, smoking, and as he
saw the approaching figure he rose and
called his wife.
A buxom, sweet faced woman came
hustling tp the door, skewer in band.
The moment Abigail's eyes rested upon
her face, she cried:
"Luclnda Jones!"
The skewer fell clattering upon the
floor, and the two women rushed to
gether, like amicable battering-rams
the arms of the larger embracing friend
and child In their expansive embrace.
"Abigail Drew! Be you still living In
these parts? I heard, away out In York
State, where we just moved from, that
you and your brother had gone West
twenty years ago. My! and you've
been and married and got a baby! Come
In come In! Lorenzo, fetch the rocker
out of the settln' room. How glad I
am to see you again, Abigail. I thought
you and me was parted forever."
How straight love had led her wan
dering feet! Abigail sank down In the
cushioned rocker and marveled at the
cheerful firelight playing on the face
of the sleeping babe. Welcome ref
uge sympathy! Ah! she had not obey
ed the Inward voice In vain.
t
Six weeks was Nathan Drew a-search-lng
for the treasure he had lost He
drove east, west, north and south, stop;
ping at every mountain farmhouse to
seek news of his sister. Nobody had
seen her going or coming. The yawn
ing earth could not have swallowed her
more completely.
But at last he found her. She was
sitting with her baby on a low chair
under the lilac bushes, and he spied
her before he had reached the house.
She saw him at the same moment, aud,
springing up like a hunted creature,
made as if she would have fled. But
he stopped her with a pleading gesture,
and a look on his face such as she had
not seen since they were children to
gether. "You don't know how I've missed
you, Abigail," he said, simply, drawing
rein In front of the lilac bushes.
The man looked haggard and worn,
and there was a pathetic tone In his
voice.
"I can't go home with you, Nathan,"
said Abigail, firmly; and she pressed
the rosy child closer to her bosom. Yet
there was a yearning look In her eyes
that her brother was not slow to inter
pret. "I've thought It all over since you
left, Abigail," he said, "and it's be'n
borne In upon me that per'aps, I was
wrong about the child. Come home,
and you shall keep it as long as you
live. I won't say another word. It's
the only love affair you ever hed, Abi
gail, and I ain't a-goin' to stand any
longer between you and your heart."
The tears welled to Abigail's eyes as
she came out Into the road with her
chlld-
"Put your hand on bet head, Nathan,"
she said, "and swear to me that you
will never part us. Then I will go
home with you."
Nathan Drew hesitated a moment.
Then he touched the child's head with
the tips of his horny fingers, and said:
"I swear It, Abigail."
So the two and the child went home
together. Waverley.
Virtues of Stale Bread.
New bread Is well known to be less
digestible than stale bread, although it
need not be so. - There can be no ques
tion, however, of the vastly superior
flavor of the former, and hence the
preference of many people for hot rolls
for breakfast So far the palate would
appear not to be a safe guide to di
gestion. Hot rolls, however, when mas
ticated properly should not offer any
difficulty to the digestive organs. A
slice of stale bread on being broken
with the teeth resolves Into more or
less hard, gritty particles, which, un
less they were softened by the saliva,
would be almost Impossible to swallow.
The particles would Irritate the throat
and "the gullet The fact Is, therefore,
that man Is compelled thoroughly to
masticate and to Impregnate stale
bread with saliva before he swallows
It This act, of course, partially di
gests the bread and thus makes it In
a fit state for digestion and absorption
farther on in the alimentary tract This
Is why stale bread appears to be more
digestible than new bread.
' New bread, on the contrary, Is soft
doughy or plastic, and there appears to
be no necessity to soften It with saliva,
hence It escapes the preliminary di
gestive action of the ptyalln of the
saliva. New bread. In other words, la
In reality "bolted" and "bolting" ac
counts for many of the ills arising from
dyspepsia. London Lancet
A hearty laugh Is more desirable for
mental health than any exercise of the
reasoning faculties.
Beware of the man who carries Us
small change in a pocXet fceek.
COLLAR OP IlIS OWN.
PRESIDENT ROOSEVELT'S MUST
BE MADE TO ORDiR.
Not to Be Obtained in the -hop A Lit
tle Dmquieitiou on the ttyles of Neck
wear Affected by uur l'reiident ef
Recent Years.
"President Roosevelt is liable to rev
olutionize the collar business if he
dot-Mi t change his style," taid a Broad
way babciuusuer the other uay. "aiuce
he became Prcsiueut e have hud a
number ot cails for the Rooseveit col
lar. Of course, there is no such collar
in the market eltuer as to uuiue or
style. It is my opintou that the Presi
dent baa his collars made to order. Un
questionably there is more couuort In
the klud he wears than in most others,
but they are not becoming to every
body auy more than the high turn
overs would be becoming to 1't'esldeut
Roosevelt. The Roosevelt collar, if
you care to get at Its geuesls, came lu
Presidential favor when Grunt was
elected the first time. But Grant wore
a bowkuot tie, which gave the c611ar
a different appearance troui that woru
by President Roosevelt.
"Lincoln was the first of our Presi
dents to discard the old-fashioned
stock, which, If woru now, would make
a man look as If he hud a sore throat.
Lincoln's collars when he became Pres
ident were part and parcel of his
shirt 'sewed on,' as a wornau would
say. I um toid that Lincoln was not
noticeably tidy In his collars. They
had a willed look always. His favor
ite neckwear was black silk tied lu a
careless way quite becoming to him.
Wheu Andrew Johnson succeeded to
the Presidency the old stock returned
to the White House. He wore the
wide stand-up collar, which was encir
cled by a black satin stock with a
short, stiff bow.
"Mr. Hayes' collar was a broad, turn
down with long points, but It was not
high. It didu't make much difference
wbut sort of tie he wore, as his shirt
front was covered by his beard. Gar
field's collar was rather tasteful, a
turn-down with square points, ills tie
was black satin with a square bow.
"Mr. Arthur was the most correct
dresser of recent Presidents. He wore
a high collar with points slightly turn
ed out. The fit was always perfect.
He was the first President to wear a
fancy scarf, which was always set off
by a handsome but never loud scarf
pin. He hud, so I am told, the biggest
stock of neckwear of any of the Presi
dents. He was rather partial to black
with white dots.
"Mr. Cleveland's collars and style of
neckwear looked as If they had been
made from the same patterns as those
worn by Andrew Johnson. However,
Mr. Cleveland never confined himself
to one kind of collar. I saw him at his
second inaugural ball, when he wore a
pluin, wide, turndown, under which
was a white string tie. v
"President Harrison wore a turn
down collar, broad and simple, and a
plain black tie, except on state occa
sions, when his ueckwear was conven
tion aL
"President McKinley usually wore a
standup collar with slight flare points.
He liked to be at ease, and that's the
sort of collar for a man to wear If he
wants to feel comfortable la a stand
up. Mr. McKlnley's neckwear was In
keeping with his character, simple and
unaffected.
"There have been a good many
changes In Presidential neckwear since
1825, when John Q. Adams wore the
high collar which was completely en
veloped by the great bundle of material
that was the fashion of the statesmen
of the early period. I think be was the
last President to appear In that style.
But for plain, common-sense, uncon
ventional style, the Roosevelt collar Is,
like Its wearer, a style of its own."
New York Sun.
ABOUT WOMEN'S CLUBS.
The Work They Are Deia- ana What
They Mean to Vo.
It any one should doubt the desire of
the small remote town to make Itself
Intellectually worthy, let him read the
program prepared for the winter work
of a club which occupied a prominent
social position on the prairies' of the
Middle West. Here are some of the
topics for papers, all to be prepared
without the advantages of a library,
either public or private, and with no
educational advantages beyond a local
newspaper: "Was the Victory of Wel
lington at Waterloo a Triumph of Medi
evalism or of Democracy?" "Is the
French Republic or Ours the Best Il
lustration of the Political Ideas of
Rousseau?" 'The Race Problem of
Southeastern Europe," "The Pessimism
of the Russian Novel," "Will the Com
mon Hatred of the Japanese and Chi
nese for the European Form a Bond
Strong Enough to Hold China for the
Yellow Man?" "Will Christian Ethi
cal Ideas Be More Easily Grafted on
the Cold Selfishness of Confucianism
or on the Self-Respectlng Ideals of
tsuaauismr
Does not this illustrate the idea that
when an American woman determines
to do a thing she does it, without stop
ping to inquire If it is among the possi
bilities? How well she does It u m.
other matter. My recollection suggests,
says Helen Churchill Candee In the
Century, that In this case she lauahln?-
ly evaded most of the questions, and
made up by general cordiality and light
refreshments by no means a poor sub
stitute in a border town barren of so
cial life.
Of two hundred clubs in New York
State half are literary. This soark from
the log of statistics shows the nnnn.
urity or the self -culture club. There
undoubtedly Is something in It whlcV
appeals to the vanity which shapes on
euds. It Is gratifying to be considered
erudite, to kuow a little more than
your neighbors kuow. It Is like a more
sumptuous edition of the teacher's
mandate In baby days: "You may step
up to the head of the class."
And yet, notwithstanding Its popu
larity, an unquiet longing possesses, to
some extent, the club which bungs out
Its banner for self-culture bearing the
name of literature, art music, or cur
rent tcpli s. And this longing Illustrates
the treud of the day lu women's clubs;
It Is a longing toward practicality. Al
truism being the watchword of the day,
and brotherly love an Increasing pas
sion, women are uot long content to
serve only themselves. And so the
clubs for self-culture are feeling rest
less stirrings of wishing to do some
thing for the community. Fortunately,
there are appropriate objects for them
all, and perhaps they will advance to
ward these.
HEIRESS, SHE DIED A PAUPER.
Woman in a Poorhoute K.loht Years,
with a ionnne Awaltina- Her,
To die a pauper In the poorhouse was
Mrs. Mary Mlulch's lot. Yet fo,r eight
years, all the time she was au aim
house charge, she was heir to $10,000,
while a firm of New York bankers were
scouring the United States for her.
Only to-day did their representative
learn about her, and then she had beeu
In her grave at the poorhouse a twelve
mouth. The $40,000 was left by Rudolph
Bach, a wealthy oookbindcr of Brook
lyn. He died Nov. 27, 1S1M, without
having made a will. Ludcnburg, Thai
man & Co., of 40 Wall street, were
made administrators, with orders to
turn the money over to Bach's uext of
kin, his niece, Miss Mary Bach thut
was.
All the bankers knew was that years
ago Mary Bach had been a belle In
Wilkes-Barre. She. was the daughter
of Rudolph Bach's only brother. Her
marriage was a fashionable one. She
plighted her troth to Dr. William Mln
Ich, Wllkes-Rurre's foremost physician.
He died thirty years ago, and Instead
of a fortune, as oil thought bo had, ho
left his widow only a legacy of debt.
Reared In luxury, Mrs. Mlulch found
herself without a penny, and there was
nothing for the one-time belle to do but
earn her own living. She found em
ployment with Jacob Matthias, who
kept a roadhouse up In the mountains
"Seven-Mile Jake's" it was called.
For years Mrs. Mlulch lived on the
mountain-top. One day Matthias was
found murdered in his bed. The mys
tery was never solved. The womau
who had kept house so long for him de
clared she was his widow, and put In
a claim for a third of his estate. The
legal battle that followed wasUong aud
wordy and she lost.
Sinking lower and lower In poverty's
scale, the woman lu 181)3 she was then
70 was sent to the poorhouse Just at
the time that Rudolph Bach died In
testate. The bankers sought strenu
ously for Mrs. Mlulch, but she was
then known as Mrs. Matthias, and her
Identity was swallowed up.
So It was that year after year the old
woman lived on at the poorhouse, just
outside of Wilkes-Barre, not knowing
that $40,000 was only waiting to be
claimed to be hers.
To-day Poor Director TIsch, says a
Wilkes-Barre special to the New York
World. led the bankers' representative
to the lonely grave on the hillside.
"She has been lying there since last
autumn," said she. "She died at the
age of 80, never knowfug of this good
fortune."
He furnished legal proof of the death,
and now the $40,000, unclaimed for
eight years, will go to some cousins of
the name of Bach, who live here.
SEVEN WAS HIS FATE.
Mystic Flsure Pursued Franklin Jehu-Throne-h
Life and to Death.
In the long life of Franklin Johnson,
who died, after a week's Illness of pneu
monia, at his residence, CI West 4lMh
street, New York, recently, the figure
7 or a combination of 7s occurred so
surprisingly In connection with every
event of Importance that befell him
that It was only fulfilling a presenti
ment be bad frequently expressed when
his death occurred In his 77th year.
Mr. Johnson was born lu 1825, which,
by a process of subtraction aud addi
tion, easily resolves luself Into a com
bination of 7s. Ills wife was born on
the 7th of a month and their marriage
also occurred on a 7th. Their only
child, a daughter, was born on a 14th
and died on the 21st of a month, In her
14th year.
Previous to living at 61 West 40th
street Mr. Johnson had resided at 77
West 52d street and finally, yesterday
was the seventh day since he was1 taken
with a chill, which developed into
pneumonia and caused bis death.
At ote time. Mr. Johnson feared that
he would die In bis 67th year, but when
he passed that period In bis life he bad
the utmost confidence that be would
live until he reached bis 77th year.
Beyond that period, however, be bad no
expectation of living.
Mr. Johnson was the last of one of
New York's oldest families, says the
New York Herald. His grandfather
served under Gen. Washington, and his
father was for many years one of the
best-known contractors In the city. His
mother was a cousin of Ethan Allen.
Of his ten brothers aud sisters there
are no male descendants known to the
family here, and Mr. Johnson leaves no
children, bis wife alone surviving him.
He had not been in active business for
many years.
"These big guys of the company don't
know much," a brakeman said to-day;
"all they know is that they own the
road.'
WHAT IT COSTS-TO MARRY.
Only a S3 Bill 1 Nee led to Pefra the
NinMurr lnenw.
Marriage Is one of the chenpest ot
luxuries If one reckons only the out
lay required for the payment of the
preacher or magistrate who perform
the ceremony and the cost of the II
ceuse lu such StHtes as require li
censes. Any minister, priest or preach
er of the gospel In the I'nlted Slates
ifiay solemnize marriage, and In many
States Judges for one or more classes
of courts may otllclate. In all save
half a dozen States, too. Justices of the
peace hnve the privilege of otllclatlng
at the highly Important function.
In some parts of the fulled Slate
the person performing a marriage cere
mony must have personal knowledge
of the Identity, names aud residence of
the parties, and Inasmuch as sui-b laws
are enforced lu some of the Western
States where young people frequently
drive long distances to be married, the
stipulation bus on occasion caused
more or less Inconvenience. In most of
the States two witnesses are required
to be present at the solemnization of a
marriage, although In some States a
single witness Is Hiitllcleut. There Is
still In force In Pennsylvania an old
law which proscribe that twelve wit
nesses shall be present, but this ex
octlon Is seldom If ever enforced. Per
haps the strangest stipulation of all Is
that which appears In the laws of Ten
nessee, and Is to the effect that the
validity of a marriage shall be iu no
wise affected -by the omission of the
baptismal name of either party lu the
license aud 'he use of a nickname In
stead, provided the parties can be Iden
tified. Any person conversant with the
conditions prcyalllug In the mountain
districts of Tetiiiesseee will appreciate
the wisdom of this unique proviso.
Common supposition Is to the effect
that the fee for performing the mar
riage ceremony Is depeudent entirely
upon the generosity of the bridegroom.
nnd It will doubtless, therefore, sur
prise' many persons to learn (hat lu
several States the law has a hand lu
the matter. In the old dominion, for
Instance, there Is a statute which pro
vides that the person solemnizing a
marriage Is entitled to a fee of ono
dollur, and that "any person exacting
a greater fee shall forfeit to the party
aggrieved $50." In West Virginia It Is
stipulated that the fee be "nt least ono
dollar," and the Idaho law says that
"the fee shall be $5. or any other
greater sum voluntarily given by the
purtles to such marriage." lu sixteen
States of the I'nlon a wedded cnuplo
may obtain a more or less eluborate cer
tificate of their marriage,
MISS COULD AN OITICIAl.
OF THE ST. LOUIS EXPOSITION.
MISS IlKLEIf COULD.
Miss Helen Gould, who has accepted
her appointment as member of the
Board of I-udy Managers of the St
Louis World's Fair, Is the most distin
guished member of the family of the
late Jay Gould.
People Who Wear the Kilt.
The wearing of the kilt Is a cus
tom religiously observed In the smart
est socletr lu Scotland. Many peers
and soins wealthy commoners who are
chiefs of cluus take special pride In
the national costume. The Duke of
Sutherland and bis sons, the Duke of
Argyll, aud his brother. Lord Archi
bald Campbell, Lord Klnnoull, and en
titled chieftains, such as Cameron of
Lochlel or The Mackintosh-all these
and many more wear the Highland
dress wheu In Scotlund. A gentleman
of high degree dons a kilt of a plainer
tartan for morning wear aud for
shooting, and In the evening, when he
dresses for dinner, be puis on his full
dress tartan, with sporran and richly
jeweled dirk. -London M. A. P.
Hweet iteveuite.
While the British matron moans as
each successive British youth Is led
captive to the altar by American girls,
her Cauadian niece Is avenging the
English cousin. She has swept across
the boundary line aud descended upon
the professloual young woman of the
United States. While the Canadlun-
glrl is now prominent In all professions
In the States, her greatest distinction.
has been won In trained nursing. In
the most noted training schools and the
finest hospitals the Cauadian trained
nurse is In places of responsibility.
Newcastle (Eng.) Chronicle.
. State of Portugal. ,
Among European nations Portugal
ranks most decidedly aa one which
has fallen from power and high estate
and conspicuously degenerated. Emi
gration at an alarming rate robs the
country of Its best and strongest young
men. Whole districts In Portugal are
deserted and stand In need of coloni
sation, while the peasants who remain
In the land are Illiterate to the extent
of 80 per cent
No man ever arrived suddenly at th
summit of pure cussedness.
0Ph