261
CHARACTER IN FURNITURE
Mrs. Peattie Tells How Human Nature Crops Out in House Arrangements.
A Woman Can Be Told by Her Carpet or Her Curtains - A Dissertation for Faminine Readers.
You can tell a woman by her carpet. That is to say, when you enter a house and see yourself in the drawing room-the room in which a person is apt to place whatever she has most carefully selected, you will be able to determine with comparative accuracy whether she is a person of culture, artistic tastes, loves of luxury, simple in taste, fond of color or a lover of form, gay or melancholy. inclined to letters or to society, and when you develop your sense of discrimination, you can even tell whether she is vivacious or reticent. There are skillful canvassers of books who can so well prepare themselves by a hasty investigation of the furniture of a room, as to greet with absolute propriety of speech the lady of the house as she protestingly enters her invaded drawing room. And without doubt most of us women in making our "first calls" base our estimation of our new acquaintance to no little degree upon what we see about us and which we recognize as the selection of the lady, and as an expression of her taste. The rule must not be made too general. For there are circumstances which interfere with the perfect application of it. And some unhappy women are forced to live in rooms which are in no way an expression of themselves and against which they consistently revoil But all things being equal, you know a woman by her carpet, as I said to begin with. Therefore, the interior of rooms furnish a study only second in interest to that of humanity itself, and I permit muself the luxury this week of describing certain Omaha drawing rooms, knowing that many will recognize them, and those who do not may find some amusement in reading of them. This, then, is the drawing room of an elderly gentlewoman. No matter from what province of the orient the rug comes which lies upon the polished floor It has a border as indicate, as splendid as the cashmere shawl. The center is a royal blue, like a neither heaven. The furniture is of mahogany old fashioned, with that air of repose that comes of age. Above the mantle hangs a circular mirror framed in gold. The prints on the wall are of the romantic type, before the truth seekers invented impressionism, or learned to obtrude the egoism of the artist above that of the subject. In the cabinet are some curious old trifles-a vase of wedgewood, a jar from Egypt some Bohemian glass, trifles in Dresden, Indian curios and a statnette or two. Above the cabinet are some bronzes. The curtains at the window are of point d'esprit and of silk with warm colors in them. On the table are a few books, a fan in red with which the mistress shades her face, a vase with the flower of the season, whatever it may be - violet, rose, chrysanthemum or holly. A little dish of bonbons, perhaps. The gentlewoman herself likes bonbins. She likes the flowers, the color of the rug, the chins, the soft cushions of the sofa. She likes the red fan which she holds up when the fire burns too brightly in the grate. Her hair is white, but her dimples still play. She talks about what is most amusing She had had trouble but she does not speak of it. She laughs like a girl. And she would rather make a joke than a sigh any day. She is vivacious and she always has something to show you. Or she has discovered a new genius, in music, or literature, or act, and makes you think you are in Paris instead of Omaha by the way she talks of them and of the accession they will be to artistic circles You always cave this drawing room with a feeling of gayety. There has been an informal elegance about it. You have been anxious to make yourself agreeable. And you have been entertained. This room is, perhaps, quainter in its way than almost any other room in Omaha. The lares seem to have been placed there so long ago. They are at once venerable and beautiful They did not drift into their places, they were put there. It is not an accidental arrangement. It is deliberate, yet gradualo; selected, yet unforced. There is one room, however, which haunts me It is the drawing room of a genius, which sees so many viciasiudus of fortune, of emotion, and of famel. The floor is bare. There is a rented piano in one corner-sometimes there has not been bread, but there has always been a piano. The odd bay window has ragged. Nottingham curtains at it, not necessarily clean. The shades hang rather dejectedly. Some of them have lost the sticks out. There is an exquisite portrait of Angelica Kaufman, done by herself hanging over the drawing table one leg of which is gone, and he propped , up another article of furniture There is an old fashioned book case full of books as worn as a beggars coat. The books are the classics purchased in other days. The walls are dotted with sketches in pen and ink, water color, or in charcoal, done by the genius. Among these original sketches is the face of a woman old in sin-hideous-and wreatbed with roses. The genius is a Greek for contrasts such as these. There are cartoons showing her to be of the new faith the follower of the People in the industrial struggle. A populist, she calls herself. In reality she is anything which most appeals to the emotions A rosary hangs there. ico-symbol of a faith still passionately loved because it brings with it hours of spiritual ectasy. this room is never prim-no more than if the genius herself. As in her mind fragments of great emotions-ambition,love, eloquence, hate, hope, mystery, fear, devotion, lust of life, arrogance, vanity and vast white dreams of beautiful power lie scattered in hopeless confusion so about the room she inhabits is a confusion of papers, books, pictures, gloves, scarfs, flowers, music-whatever has for a moment appealed to her passionate and capricious fancy Now for prayer and now for coquetry now for poem and now for song, now for picture and now for conversation more full of art than all her other accomplishments, this young woman magnetic and peculiar, weaves the fabric of her life in warp and woof of startling contrast. Many sitting in that strange poor room leave found hours of rucher intellectual piquancy than ever they found in furnished and elegant parlor They have left the room wrapped in an atmosphere of mental intoxication, which filled the spirit with mysterious dreams. Poor genius! Your room is throaged with angry fates And they men ace you. But it is best to leave an atmosphere so disturbing and enjoy the drawing-room of a beautiful lady. She is very young. and her face is as fair as those sculptured by I'hedeas, and carved to stand for youth. Her gowns are fair too and all she has is dainty and delightful to the eye. The drawing room seems made of fairy fabrics. Nothing old here-nothing with a history. The pictured tapestry, the delicate brocades, the fine grained, polished woods, the laces, slight as frost work on the window panes, the pictures of flowers, of sweet faces, the white and gold of the finishings the ferns and putted flowers, the cabinet, with its Dresden and English pottery, all as new, ad delicate of tint as soothing to the eye as a clear dawn in winter Here the beautiful lady lives like another flower As yet she has no more history than her furniture. She is as fresh as the pink brocade of her fautuell. Her life has been decorated with roses as bright as those which decorate her Royal Worcester vase. No dirt dares come near this lovely room, any more than villeness dare come near the lovely mistress. The rest of the world may be full of wrangling and wrong, and all uncleanness. But here is beauty-young, fresh, spotless, beauty. And it seems as if even time could not make those colors dim. The next picture will lack placidity. What it lacks in that quality it will make up for room in famillarity. It is the drawing room of a common woman. There are a number of worn chairs in it which are occupied by grown people There are some other chairs very much scratched, where the little folks sit. The wall has pencil marks on it. There is a "wheel" in the front hall. and a rocking horse in the dining room just visible from the parlor and a baby jumber between the two rooms in the door way. A doll lies on top the piano and there are three pairs of small overshoes before the hat rack. A number of the books on the table appear to be devoted to the history of important, but dead persons like 'Robinson Crusoe," 'Jack the Giant Killer," "Little Lord Fauntleroy," Sinbad the Sarlor" and 'Little Women" The curtains are asked. A cat sleeps on the sofa. there are pieces of chalk, strings, leather sling shots, cogs of old clocks, doll dresses, marbles, architectural blocks, and tops, lying about in a careless but not artistic manner. Conversation is apt to be interrupted by cries of "Mamma!" Nobody seems to be particularly given up to the cultivation of elegance, the arts or the letters-expecting the inculcation of the English alphabet, Wagner and Quethe are sob nearly so much spoken of as Santa Claus Potted plants appear to have given place to other flowers-flowers of the human sort, who have soft red lips to be klasped and feet which run all day with infinite pattering. There are spots on the carpet, and sometimes there is even a ring for marbles marked with chalk on the hall floor. The sofa is not so remarkable for its upholstering as for its spring which are highly regarded by certain members of the family, who play they are riding on the ocean and who bounce up and down on them. The pictures have to have men and women in them, or animals in order that stories may be told about them. The grate is not a place to dream by, but one at which to warm cold toes. No-repose about this room, certainly - no elegance-not even the display of good taste The people in it have never traveled. They have not collected anything-except human souls. And these they cannot keep in a cabinet. They are instead in a ray trying in that room to prepare them for a victory in the battle of life. Surely a common room, not one in which the conversation is very fluent, the laughter very joyous, the songs very original, the happiness every-day duet. The next drawing room I wish to speak of is that of an enthusiast. THis enthusiast never did anything in the usual way. That would be stupid-She always begins at the wrong end of things-and the result appears to be charming. It isn't logical appears to be charming. It isn't logical-but its charming For example, when she began her domestic settlement she was confronted by a number of facts that would have been similiarily to anybody else. For example, she had Bagdad portieres, but no cooking stove; curious from Constantloople, but no dining table, a taboret inlaid with pearl, sugestive of cibouks of perfumed cigarettes, but not a bed on whichto lay her head. There were rugs, reminders of h-rems and hardly a chair to sit in souvenirs of the Rhine the Nile, of Sicily of Rome and not a shade to the windows. It did not dismay the enthusiast in the least She liked it. It gave her something to laugh about. Besides it added to the general entertainment of life-and the enthusiast likes life so well that all she ever worries over is that she cannot get enough of it. Well, little by little, common every day things, like beds, stoves. charis and tables, got in the house. These were simple articles, economically purchased. They were not paid much attention to and are now lost sight of amid books, sketches bits of Egyptian embroidery, brik a brac from ever so many places and mementoes of friends of many lands. As for the mistress, she flies the hosue with beautiful songs. She reads great books and lives them. She welcomes whoever asks admission to that room in the name of frienship Neither color, creed sex or condition can influence her. zthe tongue is almost as apt to be Italian, German or French, as it is to be English that is spoken there. And she who enters that enchanted atmosphere loses whatever reserve or conservatism, or small judgement she may have and becomes as enthusiastic as the hostess. You may enter the room at odds with the world. disappointed, wounded in spirit, fearful of the future, distrustful of humanity and conscious of growing age. You leave it in love with life. sure of the brightness of the future and certain that you are very young. Th is the drawing room of the enthusiast. There are a few of the drawing room of Omaha all easily located by those who have the key. Elia W. Peattie.
TURKISH SCENTS. The Turks are very partial to highly scented pomatums, using a large variety of them CHief among these is a mixture composed of oil and pure wax for hair, a mustache pomatum, consisting of antimony, gum, and perfumed oil, and what are known as rouge cottons. The latter are prepared by steeping cotton in a solution of cinnibar, which is then rolled in flat pledgets and airled . Before using the cheek is dampended the cotton applied and the epidermis is quickly tinged of a soft carnation hue, but is not injured in any way, as the medium employed contains nothing that will exert a deleterious effect upon it. The Armenians and Greek use a similiarily prepared aid for beautifying their complexions. The total dividends paid by the United States national banks in 1802 were $50,400 713.93
262
SALVATION LASSES AT HOME
Mrs. Peattie Writes of the Blue Frocked Sisiterhood of the Lord.
Their Life in the Cadet School-Rules Governing Their Conduct and Actions-Room for the Barner.
Among the many commonplace sights of Omaha there is one sight which is never exactly commonplace. It is indeed almost heroic. It is the little band of men and women that in atorm and sunshine, when the pavement is slippery with mud or hot with mid summer sun. march the streets in the name of their Lord, and kneel among the secular surroundings, making a catherdral of the common street, and there make their plea with high heaven for the sould of those who so thoughtlessly pass them with smile or jest. Without doubt here in Omaha today. In the midst of the ground, that disguises fisclf as shrewdness, in the midst of nthe materialism that masks as industry. In the midst of the selfishness that governs almost all of us, the Salvation army remains an honest protest against our display, our scifism, and our pride of purchasable things Time was when this band of men and women was much persecuted People objected to having them march the streets. They did not think they had alright sing. They could find no reason for their disinterestedness and so they accused them of being immoral A number of young attorneys who had not so many prejudices as the laymen-and particularly the churchly laymen-protested that a group of religious singers had as much right to make a noise on the street as a band playing for the benefit of the baseball park or the schuetzen verein. A number of them offered to argue the case for the Salvationists in the courts, after they had been withstrained from open air meetings as a public nuisance, and one of them did this, and the court decided that no law was broken and no right of any man injured by the singing of these worshipers upon our public streets. There are still some who seem to think that this music is blasphemous becuase it is not always in tune and who consider that the matter of religion ought to be treated with more conservatism. But they can do no more nthan rail. The law protects the Salvationists. To most of the citizens of this town, however, the train of benneted women and uniformed men, with their two flags one of the army of the republic with their cymbols, cornets, drums, their sharp, metallic, nervous voices, their absolute indifference to public contumely, their superiority to physical discomfort, their unqualified sacrifice to an unpopular cause, has come to have in it something so familiar and pleasant that the smiles which used to be scornful have become indulgent, and if any misfortune were to overtake the Salvation army here there would be much sorrow. The little band numbers about eighty souls at present. It is never very large for the reason that many of the soldiers are migratory. They stay in one place but a short time. They are restless-they are rovers However, the barracks on the corner of Davenport, near Seventeeth, is well filled nightly, and the crusade for souls goes on there with as much fervor as ever the crusade for the sepuicher of the Lord went on in the dim days of the eleventh century. To many an outsider this work may appear to be entirely haphasard. But on the contrary, it is well regulated There is great system employed. The states of Missouri, Iowa, Nebraska, South and North Dakota, Colorado and Wyoming are under the charge of Major George Frunch. The war orrice is in the New York Life building on the second floor, and here the books are kept the reports revised, the orders issued and all personal and general matters attended to. There are 1,500 Salvationists in this district under the command of Major Frensh. This commander has manifold duties, and it goes without saying that to be successful he must be a man of much fact, firmness of character and unwavering belief in his cause. It may surprise a good many to know that the salcation army has a school in this city for women cadets. This has been in existence about three years, and during that time has graduated a number of women who have gone out to active feild work At present it has seven students under the tuition of ensign and his wife. an Irish woman of gentle birth and the same unequalified enthusiasm for her work that characterizes Mrs. Ballington Booth Lieutenant Ruby, a 'young woman, is Mrs. Reid a assistant. The school for men cadets is in Iowa. An effort was made not long ago to have it stationed at South Omaha, but a desirable place could not be obtained The school for girls here in Omaha is stationed next door to the barracks The training school rules are of interest. At the head of the printed rules are these two bits of scripture remluder "By love serve one another," and "He that is greatest among you shall be your servant." These girls are awakened by bugle call. Roll call follows, then breakfast, then general work. After that a silent half hour, for introspection. Then bible reading and prayer, after that the study hours At the close of the morning session is five minutes prayer for the Salvation Army, and then dinner. Then follows a little time for resting and dressing, and at 2 o'clock the cadets must be neatly dressed for the street, where till 5 o'clock they sell the War Cry, from the proceeds of which the training school is supported, or they visit in the sums of the city, praying with those who
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permit it, talking to the children, or the women, and speaking words of encouragement and religion whereever they may. After supper there comes prayer for the field, then the meeting at the barracks, and then bed, with all lights out at 10:30. The rules to be observed in the household are as follows. 1. Ever cadet is expected to rise directly the bugin blows in the morning except through sickness of especial leave of absence granted by the officer in confirmed 2. No cadet is allowed to leave the house without the sanction of the commanding officer. 3. Cadets having articles lying around will be looked upon as very careless and untidy. 4. Cadets are not allowed to go out to meals. 5. No person, whether officer or friend, is allowed to visit the garrison without a written permits from the major 6. Officers visiting the garrison will be expected to conform to the rules, and by so doing be an example to every cadet. 7. Every cadet will be expected to treat every officer with due respect. Every cadet is responsible that his or her dress is kept in a neat and tidy condition ready for inspection at any time Every cadet is expected to wear full uniform. Unless permission not to do so is granted by officer in charge. No cadet is allowed to write more than two letters a week, unless special permission is granted All mail for cadets will be handed them by the garrison officer immediately after meals Cadets appointed to visit corps must go there direct and back net staying to talk to soldiers after meeting is closed. No cadets is supposed to enter the hall for meeting before the capitals without special permission. As soon as meeting is colsed cadets must leave hall to prevent the loitering of soldiers. No cadet must come out from meeting with permission. Cadets when meeting officers of superior rack should aport the regular military salute instead of the handshake. Cadets raising donations must turn the same over to the commanding officer. Every cadet should consider the comfort and feeling of these around him seeking first the glory of God and the happiness of the home. George Fuench Major. As to the course of study, it comprises the reading of the volume of 'Orders and Regulations for Field Officers,' the book of Doctrines and Disciplines," the study of singing and the playing of instruments and arithmetick in connection with making out field reports, besides the elements of a general education. "The Orders and Regulations for Field Officers" were written by General Booth, with the assistance of other writers belonging to the army. This volume is a remarkable one. For while a large portion of it is given no to orthodox explosions of the bible, there is much besides in the way of directions concerning department and the duties of those who give up their life to the service of the Lord. Now and then there is something brilliant in the book- although it was not written for the purpose of producing and effect of that sort. There are directions concerning health social relations the expenditure of money, the manner of dressing, what to eat how to treat strangers, how to deal with sinners, converts, "backsiders," different classes of people direcitons concerning different kinds of meetings, instructions about speaking, singing and the playing of musical instruments In short, everything that appertsins to the life of the field officer in dealt with, and it must be said that if these directions were followed life would have no imperfections is it. The Salvation army has its own songs-dramatic, intense songs, peculiarly adapted to the sort of work undertaken by the Salvationists. Among these songs I search in vain for everything that can be called irreligious. Some of them are beautiful, some are commonplace, all are brisk and material. The Musical Salvationist is issued every month thus providing the soldiers constantly with new songs. Some of these songs are extraordinary, as for example, "The Life story of a Salvationist," which comprises twelve songs, each one telling the story of a drunkard reformed by the street preaching and sluging of the Salvationists, and intended to gold the interst of an idie crowd on the street. To sing such a song as this so that it will produce the effect intended. It is necessary to sing boldly and dramatically, and to have a perfect enunciation as well as some historic talent. The song closes by the death of the convert in a riot against the army. He dies in his battle, after the manner of heroes. Looking at the song from the point of view of the Salvationists, it is certainly a good one. The charges brought against the army that they sing course and ribald songs, or songs which treat religion with disrespect, is not sustained by anything written. And if such songs are sung, they are extemporized by ill advised corpe not under the immediate supervision of a high officer. When it is considered from what sources the army draws many of its recruits, such indiscretions are not to be wondered at. Another charge often brought against the army is that it uses a mutisted bible. The truth of the matter is that a pocket edition of excerpts from the bible has been prepared, appropriate for morning and evening reading, with little songs interpolated It seems a very well designed plan and makes much more satisfactory reading for brief readings than would the chronological reading of the bible. A part of the work of the Salvation army, as almost everyone knows is in the saloons, and here in Omaha the cadets spend every Saturday night in the saloons. They usually meet with kind treatment and are frequently. Invited to sing Occasionally a drunkard is converted by this means, at least so say the officers of the army. The income that supports the training school and pays the salaries of such officers as give up all their time to the army come from voluntary subscriptions and from the sale of the War Cry, the organ of the army. This is published in the east, and one is San Fransisco. The latter has a circulation of almost 14,000 on the coast. In Omaha the War Cry averages 700 a week. Fifty per cent of this goes tothe support of the training school. There is one fact concerning the Salvation army which has puzzled many and which may need a little explanation There has been throughout the east, and to some extent in the west corps of these religious soldiers who denominated themselves "The Salvation Army of America" This is an off shoot of the Salvation Army proper General Booth, several years ago when the army was formed in this country placed at the head of the American command a man by the name of Moore. Moore resented authority, and as the American colonists succeeded from English authority, so did he from the English authority, so did he from the English Salvation army. But the soquel was disasterous. Though he took with him almost all of the soldiers here the funds, the records the paper, and every other possession, the army sank rapidly into disrepute Moore himself became disreputable. The ranks have dwindled But the lil-advised actions of Moore and of some of his followers have brought a good deal of undeserved reproach upon the members of the Salvation army. This may explain to some persons the puzzling fact of the occasional appearance of religious soldiers not members of the Salvation army proper. It is a matter for honest congratulations that the prejudice existing against the army is daily growing less Its work is peculiar. One of its fundamental principles is that the least creature is worth saving for the Lord. And the leaders of the army constantly inculcate through their books that some men find it as easy to steal as others do to speak a flippant word, and that there subtle, prenatal forces must be taken into consideration, and that the backrailing of a converted thief ought not to turn the righteous against him say more than the backsliding of a lady who gives vent to ill-natured expressions. Temperament is taken into consideration. Rules of physiology are taken into account Creed is helped out by nature and science comes to assist in religion In fact, nothing but good and disinterested motives am I able to find frim a perusal of the remarkable books of the Salvation army. And as it is always a pleasure to do anything which may serve to decorate the temple of truth." so it is a pleasure to bear witness to this fact. Surely there is no room for all of us-of whatever faith of Protestanism or Catholocity. And there is room for the bright banners of the Salvation army and for the shouting of the voices of its soldiers and the bugic calls. Elia W. Peattie. TOLD OF SAM HOUSTON. Incidents in the Life of the Hero of Texas. While at school in Tennese, in his early years, Sam Houston, who found little that was congenial in the then wilderness suddenly disappeared. He joined the Cherokee Indians and remained with them, apparently contended and happy, until he was discovered and reluctantly returned to his home When contentions arose between himself and his brothers he rejoined the Indians The most mysterious act of his life occured while he was governor of Tennessee. On entering his office one day it was found that he had swept from his desk all the litter of papers that had accumulated, leaving it clean and unoccupied, excepting that an inkstand was placed in the center and under it a slip of paper containing his resignation of the office of governor. He resigned that office to return to the chosen life of his boyhood with the Cherokees and from whom he had won the honors of a chief. He heartily joined in their councils and was their companion, apparently as happy and contended as ever, for several years Various explanations were given of this strange conduct One of these refers to his unfortunate marriage. He had chosen as a wife a charming and amiable young woman who manifested extreme reluctant to living with him and returned to her father's roof a few month's after her marriage She made no charge against her husband and he made no charge against her It was said that he was not her choice, that her heart had been given to another, and that she felt it her duty, under the circumstances, not to live with one whom she did not love, and whom she had been led to marry soley by the entreaties of her parents. General Houston seemed to live in the hope of winning the affection of his wife, and sought political perferment with the expectation that his success might secure her admiration. It is said that immediately preceding his resignation Governor Houston had a long conversation with his wife, in which he besought her to give him her heart as well as her hand. Listening patiently and silently to his entreaties her only reply was to gently push him aside and turn away. Houston, it is said, proceeded at once to the capital, wrote his resignation, and returned to the hermitage of the Indian encampment. Colonel Baylor of Texas whose father was an army officer at Fort Gibson and an old friend of Houston, says that while the latter lived with the Cherokees as their chief he sometimes called at the Baylor mansion, always apparently with his face painted and wearing his moccasins and Indian toggery. While chief of the Cherokees he never held any conversation with white men without insisting on having his interpreter present, so that his coversation, which wa always in the Indian tongue, could be interpreted. When the Texas convention met in a log house at San Felipe to form a temporary government in November, 1835, Houston appeared in his Indian apparel, and President Jackson, whose everlasting friendship he had won in the Cherokee war, thanked God that there was one man he was aquainted with who was not made up by a tailor. "Royal Ruby" Fort Wine is especially recommended for invalids, convalesense, the aged, etc. Guarenteed absolutely pure and over 7 years old. It makes strength creates appetite. Quarts St. Sold by Kunn & Co. the 13th and Douglas and W.J. Hughes and 10th and Webster st. 24th and Farnam sts. GRAPES FROM CUTTING. When is the proper time to take grape cuttings? What is the best method of keeping them during winter, and how shall they be planted? These questions are answered as follows by Orange Judd farmer. The cuttings can be taken any time afte the wood is fully matured in autumn, up to the 1st of Janurary or even later, but it is preferable to do the work before the severe weather of the first months of the year. Select healthy, well matured vines, and cut in pieces right to thirteen inches long, being sure that each piece has at least three buds One of these should be near the lower end of the cutting Blad these in bundles, pack in sand, and place in a cool cellar, where they should remain until the frost is out of the ground in trenches out of drove, with the bottom up, and cover with about six inches of soil. Let them remain here until the ground is warm and dry when the ends will be calloused over, with probably a few small roots starting In planting, place obliquely in trenches and cover the entire cutting having the upper bud just at or just below the surface. Press the earth firmly about it by tramping. The culture the first summer consists in keeping down all weeds and preserving a mellow surface soil. If only one main shoot is allowed to grow, so much the better Another method of spring planting is to preserve over winter as directed above; then when the ground is ready to work, cut the lips in pieces containing one bud each. Place this horizontally in a shallow trench with the bud up and cover with three or four inches of ground. The first method usually gives best results. Seven trollers have race records below 2.10 and all but one Alis- are by developed aires. Aleyone with Martha Wilkes, 208 1-4 and Harrietta 3.00 34 is the only sire with two performers.
263
THE FALL OF THE KITCHEN
Mrs. Peattie Writes of the Mournful Decay of That Household Feature.
The Change in Home Life Has Revolutionized One of the Sweet Visions of the Past.
From time to time one reads elegant but pessimistic articles in the magazines concerning the decay of the drawing rooms. There is a unanimous opinion among the writers of these articles that the "grande dames" are all dead -- like the doges -- that conversation is a lost art and that "society" has perished, and given place to a mere aggregation of well dressed persons who bore each other.
All this may be so, but it has never impressed me so much as the indubitable fact of the decay of the kitchens. There are in our houses, to be sure, certain rooms that we call kitchens. They have there the improved conveniences for [?] in domestic work. They are equipped with coal stove or gas range. They have a zink, with faucets of hot and cold water. They have stationary tubs, drains, ventilators, they are lit by gas or electricity, and they have in them electric bells, speaking tubs, [solled?] clothes shafts, dumb waiters, and patent appliances for adjusting the furnace dampers without moving from the room.
Now and then some of us venture to go into them. We do not have a cordial welcome. The neat Swede looks at us suspiciously, and seems to put herself on the aggressive. We are smiling and more or less apologetic, and we get out as soon as consistent with dignity and the well being of the menu for the day's dinner. These kitchens are usually very clean. The Swede women keep them well scrubbed. They face the insidious cockroach, and the vivacious red ant with indignant courage and drive them from the field. They consume our art journals for paper for the shelves, and wash and iron like angels of the third heaven. We are grateful, and let them off every night of the week and two afternoons out of seven. But the kitchen, all the same, has come to seem like a foreign country, where another language than the one we know is spoken, and where foreign manners obtain.
And we reflect with someting very like sadness that there has been just such a decay of kitches all over the continent. For America once made very mmuch of her kitchens. It is only the other day that the best part of the lives of American women were spent there. I'm not talking now about the lower classes -- whatever or whoever they may be -- but about people such as you and me, people who wouldn't let anyone think for a moment that we weren't as good as anybody else; people too comfortably sure of our respectable American citizenship to think anything about aristocracy one way or the other. You see, the kitchen was the drawing room just a little while ago. The women who were the ladies here in Omaha when the rest of the state was still a desert, used to make the kitchen the very most inviting room in the house. It was the warmest room in winter for [?] thing, having a good store or a fireplace in it. And it had mualla curtains up at the window, and plenty of chairs round about, and a [?] or sofa to lounge on if you weren't feeling well, and a big pine table which you ate off at meal time, and afterward used as a reading table.
The flower stand stood on the south side by the window, and the cat slept underneath, or else back of the stove. And the tea kettle was one of the members of the family, and gave a little snort with it steaming nostril when each of the children came in after school. And the boys put their feet up to the fire to thaw them out, and the girls heated their curling irons in the front of the stove. Everybody gravitated to this room instinctively. For one thing, mother was always there. She would sit by the window and peel phenomenally long peelings off the apples she was getting ready for the pies, or she would be chopping meat with the briskest imaginable sound. os cutting out cakes with a little star-shaped tin -- presumably the sort Julliet had reference to when she wished that Romeo were cut up in little stars and put in heaven.
Father always made for the kitchen the first thing, of [?]. If mother wasn't there he yelled out:
"Where are you, mother?"
It made him uneasy if mother wasn't in the kitchen. As for the children, there was a blight upon them the moment the room was emptied for her presence. They all hung around her. They kept so close about her and couldn't half do her work. And at night she usually toasted the toes of the youngest while the others sat around her and studied. (Of course, you know, I'm not talking about my family, but about your family.)
In those days when we lived in the kitchens the pantry was a wonderful place. On the floor underneath the shelf were a lot of jars. Some of them were uninteresting and only held such things as sifted those, and corn meal, and picked potatoes. But there were others with cookies and apples, and sweet pickles, and quince preserve. The dishes had a sort of individuality, and looked as familiar as the face of mother. And we used to like to sit on the low, broad shelf at the end of our pantry and eat our piece of bread and butter and kick our feet against the flour bin.
These kitchens used to have beautiful perfumes. Whenever you came home from school on a dull, rainy day, sore in spirit at a blunder in school, and a cross word from the teacher, there was always sure to be as delicious odor of chicken pie, or bean soup, or steamed pudding coming out to tell you mother was there and thinking about you. Very likely mother didn't kiss you when you came in. But she unfastened your scarf in a businesslike way, and took off your coat, and hung up your hat, and poured out warm water for you to wash in. And then maybe, if the day was particularly bad outside she told you that you could make popcorn, or pull molasses candy.
Sundays it was equally delightful in the kitchen. Mother would be giving instructions tot he older girls so that they could look after idnner while she went to church, and father would have a row of shoes before him on an outspread paper, and be blacking them one after the other, looking rather apprehensively at the soles to make sure they were not wearing out. Sundays one used usually to have a suet pudding. Mother always had to give a great many instructions about not letting the kettle under it get dry. Meanwhile the sun streamed in across the white floor, and made the yellow cat look golden, and forced the buds of the geranium to open their read leaves. Mother put a geranium leaf in the front of her dress when she went to church, and father walked about six inches ahead of her, very self-conscious is his heavy black coat with the little creases between the shoulders. Meanwhile the children staid at home and sniffed the dinner, and read the Little Corporal, or the Youth's Companion, or looked at the war pictures in Frank [?] or Harper's Weekly.
After dinner, when everything was cleared away, and the house tidied, it might be that father and mother would sit in the front room for awhile, especially if there was company. But the children preferred the kitchen, where the cat was, and the [?] and the picture papers, and where you could tell stories that would make the hair stand straight on your heads. The imagination worked much better in the kitchen than it did in the front room. Little Orphan: Annie could never have told her stories if she had been sitting in a front room.
I don't suppose the kitchen ever meant to any other race just what it has to us. For such a very, very long time it has been only the peasants among the people of Europe who have been intimately acquainted with their kitchens. But the Americans, leaving luxury behind them, and following the instinct of pioneering, which has driven us westward as the Tartars were impelled toward the east, has forced us to live simply. In our small homes, the kitchen has been the shrine, Democracy was kept alive beside our kitchen fires. The principles which are the groundwork of the republic were nurtured there. The poets understood it. Whittler, Longfellow, Lowell, Riley and Holland put their people in the American kitchens. They gave them, too, the simple dignity, the hearty manners, the sincere hospitality that belonged to the place. In those kitchen days we really had hospitality -- and not a vanity, which we mistook for it.
We did our courting in the kitchen -- Lowell says so, and, besides, there are other ways in which we now it. We used to meet our sorrows there, too. Was there ever a day when you spread out the paper there in old war times and ran a trembling finger down the list of the dead, while all the rest of the family stood and watched you with burning eyes, and amid a frightful silence? And was there a place where your finger stopped suddenly, as if a hypnotizer had bidden it to do so and -- ? But there are other things pleasanter to think of.
Christmas always centered around the kitchen. The stockings hung there and were investigated there the next morning, while the turkey, stuffed and awaiting the oven, gleamed out dimly from the recesses of the pantry. One didn't get very many presents in those days. And among the presents were no bunches of La France roses, no little jewelers boxes, stuffed with cotton and something else, no bon-bon baskets, dainty with indigestible confections, no treasures from over the seas, no bric-a-brac oppressing one with its coatliness. No, the presents were of quite another sort. But they were just as welcome -- oh, every bit as welcome!
Truly, the kitchen has decayed. We have now only a room where our meals are cooked. The place has no associations. The voices heard in it speak a foreign tongue. The sentiments there are alien to us. The memories there are those with which we have nothing to do. And even such of us as do our own work in the kitchen, leave that room as soon as possible, and if we do not apologize for having been there, we at least confess to ourselves that we think it something of a hardship to be obliged to stay there. We certainly do not invite our friends in, and it is not the room to which our children hurry when they come home from school.
Perhaps there will be those who will maintain that we have got to better things and that we have progressed. I hardly think so. Not that we have retrograded. But we were very happy people back in those kitchens of the frontier. We had a dear family circle there. We said some good things and thought some good thoughts there. And we showed as much taste, exactly, as we show now in our palm-decorated, rug cursed, bric-a-brac-cluttered parlors.
The next reception you go to, when conversation gets dull or personal -- and it is fairly certain to be one or the other -- you ask one of the respected nations of the place if she doesn't think the kitchen she used to have when she came out a bride to Omaha, wasn't one of the nicest rooms she ever saw, and see what she will say. Once get her interested and she'll tell you some pretty tales about how she rode into Omaha sitting on the bottom of a tub in a lumber wagon, and how she sewed the rags for the front room carpet, and how she shot at wolves one night, and how -- . But you just speak to her about it. It will be worth while.
Yes, yes, the kitchen has decayed. ELIA W. PEATTIE.
GLADSTONE.
Gladstone becomes more and more of a terror in his sarcasm and eloquence the older he grows. His language becomes less scholastic and more Anglo-Saxon. An American stump orator could not be more plain and direct than he was in his speech, in which he chastised the house of lords for its claim that it had the right to force a dissolution of parliament, said Gladstone, and the house of commons had the right, by its vote, to force a dissolution. "But," continues he, "no such thing has been recorded at any period of our history as a dissolution brought about by a vote of the house of lords. Such a contention is a gross, a monstrous innovation, an odious, new-fangled doctrine, and no men are fonder of these doctrines than the modern tories, except it be the modern unionists. But in addition to being a new-fangled doctrine I hold that it is nothing less than high treason if this is to continue to be a self-governing country."
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264
THE FALL OF THE KITCHEN
Mrs. Peattie Writes of the Mournful Decay of That Household Feature.
The Change in Home Life Has Revolutionized One of the Sweet Visions of the Past.
From time to time one reads elegant but pessimistic articles in the magazines concerning the decay of the drawing rooms. There is a unanimous opinion among the writers of these articles that the "grande dames" are all dead -- like the doges -- that conversation is a lost art and that "society" has perished, and given place to a mere aggregation of well dressed persons who bore each other.
All this may be so, but it has never impressed me so much as the indubitable fact of the decay of the kitchens. There are in our houses, to be sure, certain rooms that we call kitchens. They have there the improved conveniences for assisting in domestic work. They are equipped with coal stove or gas range. They have a zink, with faucets of hot and cold water. They have stationary tubs, drains, ventilators, they are lit by gas or electricity, and they have in them electric bells, speaking tubs, soiled clothes shafts, dumb waiters, and patent appliances for adjusting the furnace dampers without moving from the room.
Now and then some of us venture to go into them. We do not have a cordial welcome. The neat Swede looks at us suspiciously, and seems to put herself on the aggressive. We are smiling and more or less apologetic, and we get out as soon as consistent with dignity and the well being of the menu for the day's dinner. These kitchens are usually very clean. The Swede women keep them well scrubbed. They face the insidious cockroach, and the vivacious red ant with indignant courage and drive them from the field. They consume our art journals for paper for the shelves, and wash and iron like angels of the third heaven. We are grateful, and let them off every night of the week and two afternoons out of seven. But the kitchen, all the same, has come to seem like a foreign country, where another language than the one we know is spoken, and where foreign manners obtain.
And we reflect with something very like sadness that there has been just such a decay of kitchens all over the continent. For America once made very much of her kitchens. It is only the other day that the best part of the lives of American women were spent there. I'm not talking now about the lower classes -- whatever or whoever they may be -- but about people such as you and me, people who wouldn't let anyone think for a moment that we weren't as good as anybody else; people too comfortably sure of our respectable American citizenship to think anything about aristocracy one way or the other. You see, the kitchen was the drawing room just a little while ago. The women who were the ladies here in Omaha when the rest of the state was still a desert, used to make the kitchen the very most inviting room in the house. It was the warmest room in winter for one thing, having a good store or a fireplace in it. And it had [mualla?] curtains up at the window, and plenty of chairs round about, and a settee or sofa to lounge on if you weren't feeling well, and a big pine table which you ate off at meal time, and afterward used as a reading table.
The flower stand stood on the south side by the window, and the cat slept underneath, or else back of the stove. And the tea kettle was one of the members of the family, and gave a little snort with it steaming nostril when each of the children came in after school. And the boys put their feet up to the fire to thaw them out, and the girls heated their curling irons in the front of the stove. Everybody gravitated to this room instinctively. For one thing, mother was always there. She would sit by the window and peel phenomenally long peelings off the apples she was getting ready for the pies, or she would be chopping meat with the briskest imaginable sound, or cutting out cakes with a little star-shaped tin -- presumably the sort Julliet had reference to when she wished that Romeo were cut up in little stars and put in heaven.
Father always made for the kitchen the first thing, of course. If mother wasn't there he yelled out:
"Where are you, mother?"
It made him uneasy if mother wasn't in the kitchen. As for the children, there was a blight upon them the moment the room was emptied for her presence. They all hung around her. They kept so close about her and couldn't half do her work. And at night she usually toasted the toes of the youngest while the others sat around her and studied. (Of course, you know, I'm not talking about my family, but about your family.)
In those days when we lived in the kitchens the pantry was a wonderful place. On the floor underneath the shelf were a lot of jars. Some of them were uninteresting and only held such things as sifted those, and corn meal, and picked potatoes. But there were others with cookies and apples, and sweet pickles, and quince preserve. The dishes had a sort of individuality, and looked as familiar as the face of mother. And we used to like to sit on the low, broad shelf at the end of our pantry and eat our piece of bread and butter and kick our feet against the flour bin.
These kitchens used to have beautiful perfumes. Whenever you came home from school on a dull, rainy day, sore in spirit at a blunder in school, and a cross word from the teacher, there was always sure to be as delicious odor of chicken pie, or bean soup, or steamed pudding coming out to tell you mother was there and thinking about you. Very likely mother didn't kiss you when you came in. But she unfastened your scarf in a businesslike way, and took off your coat, and hung up your hat, and poured out warm water for you to wash in. And then maybe, if the day was particularly bad outside she told you that you could make popcorn, or pull molasses candy.
Sundays it was equally delightful in the kitchen. Mother would be giving instructions tot he older girls so that they could look after dinner while she went to church, and father would have a row of shoes before him on an outspread paper, and be blacking them one after the other, looking rather apprehensively at the soles to make sure they were not wearing out. Sundays one used usually to have a suet pudding. Mother always had to give a great many instructions about not letting the kettle under it get dry. Meanwhile the sun streamed in across the white floor, and made the yellow cat look golden, and forced the buds of the geranium to open their read leaves. Mother put a geranium leaf in the front of her dress when she went to church, and father walked about six inches ahead of her, very self-conscious is his heavy black coat with the little creases between the shoulders. Meanwhile the children staid at home and sniffed the dinner, and read the Little Corporal, or the Youth's Companion, or looked at the war pictures in Frank Leslie's or Harper's Weekly.
After dinner, when everything was cleared away, and the house tidied, it might be that father and mother would sit in the front room for awhile, especially if there was company. But the children preferred the kitchen, where the cat was, and the settee and the picture papers, and where you could tell stories that would make the hair stand straight on your heads. The imagination worked much better in the kitchen than it did in the front room. Little Orphan: Annie could never have told her stories if she had been sitting in a front room.
I don't suppose the kitchen ever meant to any other race just what it has to us. For such a very, very long time it has been only the peasants among the people of Europe who have been intimately acquainted with their kitchens. But the Americans, leaving luxury behind them, and following the instinct of pioneering, which has driven us westward as the Tartars were impelled toward the east, has forced us to live simply. In our small homes, the kitchen has been the shrine, Democracy was kept alive beside our kitchen fires. The principles which are the groundwork of the republic were nurtured there. The poets understood it. Whittler, Longfellow, Lowell, Riley and Holland put their people in the American kitchens. They gave them, too, the simple dignity, the hearty manners, the sincere hospitality that belonged to the place. In those kitchen days we really had hospitality -- and not a vanity, which we mistook for it.
We did our courting in the kitchen -- Lowell says so, and, besides, there are other ways in which we now it. We used to meet our sorrows there, too. Was there ever a day when you spread out the paper there in old war times and ran a trembling finger down the list of the dead, while all the rest of the family stood and watched you with burning eyes, and amid a frightful silence? And was there a place where your finger stopped suddenly, as if a hypnotizer had bidden it to do so and -- ? But there are other things pleasanter to think of.
Christmas always centered around the kitchen. The stockings hung there and were investigated there the next morning, while the turkey, stuffed and awaiting the oven, gleamed out dimly from the recesses of the pantry. One didn't get very many presents in those days. And among the presents were no bunches of La France roses, no little jewelers boxes, stuffed with cotton and something else, no bon-bon baskets, dainty with indigestible confections, no treasures from over the seas, no bric-a-brac oppressing one with its costliness. No, the presents were of quite another sort. But they were just as welcome -- oh, every bit as welcome!
Truly, the kitchen has decayed. We have now only a room where our meals are cooked. The place has no associations. The voices heard in it speak a foreign tongue. The sentiments there are alien to us. The memories there are those with which we have nothing to do. And even such of us as do our own work in the kitchen, leave that room as soon as possible, and if we do not apologize for having been there, we at least confess to ourselves that we think it something of a hardship to be obliged to stay there. We certainly do not invite our friends in, and it is not the room to which our children hurry when they come home from school.
Perhaps there will be those who will maintain that we have got to better things and that we have progressed. I hardly think so. Not that we have retrograded. But we were very happy people back in those kitchens of the frontier. We had a dear family circle there. We said some good things and thought some good thoughts there. And we showed as much taste, exactly, as we show now in our palm-decorated, rug cursed, bric-a-brac-cluttered parlors.
The next reception you go to, when conversation gets dull or personal -- and it is fairly certain to be one or the other -- you ask one of the respected nations of the place if she doesn't think the kitchen she used to have when she came out a bride to Omaha, wasn't one of the nicest rooms she ever saw, and see what she will say. Once get her interested and she'll tell you some pretty tales about how she rode into Omaha sitting on the bottom of a tub in a lumber wagon, and how she sewed the rags for the front room carpet, and how she shot at wolves one night, and how -- . But you just speak to her about it. It will be worth while.
Yes, yes, the kitchen has decayed. ELIA W. PEATTIE.
GLADSTONE.
Gladstone becomes more and more of a terror in his sarcasm and eloquence the older he grows. His language becomes less scholastic and more Anglo-Saxon. An American stump orator could not be more plain and direct than he was in his speech, in which he chastised the house of lords for its claim that it had the right to force a dissolution of parliament, said Gladstone, and the house of commons had the right, by its vote, to force a dissolution. "But," continues he, "no such thing has been recorded at any period of our history as a dissolution brought about by a vote of the house of lords. Such a contention is a gross, a monstrous innovation, an odious, new-fangled doctrine, and no men are fonder of these doctrines than the modern tories, except it be the modern unionists. But in addition to being a new-fangled doctrine, I hold that it is nothing less than high treason if this is to continue to be a self-governing country."
265
THE MEN OF THE MOUNTAINS
Mrs. Peattie Writes of Them and of the Capital of the Rockies
Denver as Seen With the Eyes of a Visitor From the Prairies--Views and Impressions.
Cities, like plants, are the result of conditions; and the nature of those conditions determines the quality of the plant - or the city. That is to say, man makes some cities by force of attrition, production and competition. Human life itself is the soil from which the city grows. The precious manure is prodigally expended to keep in existence such hotbeds of effete civilization as Berlin and Paris. The necessities of man, the meeting of his demands, the catering to his pleasures, his education and his vices, are the causes of the city's prosperity and its continuance. It is like the sea, in which fish feeds upon fish, and some fishes seem born only that others may fatten upon the. Such cities are like coral reefs, which the builders build with their lives, making the voluntary sacrifice naturally, and in obedience to the instincts of their nature.
But here in the western part of this republic are cities which have come into existence, and which are sustained for different reasons. There are the cities born literally fo the earth. They feed men and do not prey upon them
Two such towns are Omaha and Denver. Both are the fruits of earth Both the natural, healthful offspring of the vast mother. One is born of the plains, the other of the mountains. One is the result of corn, wheat, hay and the garden. The other of gold, silver, lead and coal.
One does not talk about one's own town any more than one puts his own portrait on his writing desk. As it is pleasanter to look at the face of another, so it is pleasanter to talk about another city than the one of which he is a part.
Denver is the miners' paradise. To earn—Denver considers that stupid. Like Tumon Of Athens it digs "roots, roots, roots," out of the earth—roots which make the wealth of nation. The streets upon streets of business blocks, residences, schools and churches are built literally out of the mountains. The many colored stone that architects and builders have used with exquisite art were quarried from the mountains. Giant powder, hydraulic machine, and miners' pick brought out the lead and silver that filled those homes with luxury, and paneled the club houses with onyx and wainscoted the hotel rotundas with marble and carvings of wood. Minerva did not more triumphantly spring from the head of Jove than Denver has sprung from the mountains. And above her those mountains hang always, inscrutable, terrible, beautiful, always changing warred upon by the elements, making in tender mists a mask behind which their sternness hides, fascinating and inviting the beholder.
There is in Denver peculiar class of men. They are essentially men of the mountains They may have their weaknesses, but cowardice is never one of them. They are men with a peculiar development of certain faculties. They handle money as a farmer handles seed corn—only as a means of producing more. They are always spendthrifts Misers do not live a mile above sea level, where the ether intoxicates, and a hysteria of hope disturbs the emotions of even the best poised.
Physically, these men of the mountains are remarkable. Their chests average four inches more in breath than those of the men of the cast. They do not become giddy. They can climb anywhere. They can walk all day. They can sleep anywhere. And they can eat anything but are naturally luxurious, and the miner's cabin frequently knows finer [vlands?] than the dining room of the conventional and pretentious citizen.
Denver has lived like a Monte Christo Now, suddenly, it is the midst of poverty. The people who live in those magnificent homes are many of them penniless. They are haunted by the sheriff, who follows them like a Nemesis. Yet the old habits of luxury will not easily desert them. They give banquets for which they cannot pay. They lock the door on the sheriff and drink their champagne. They refuse to be dull. When they are melancholy it is with a sort of furore that makes them threaten secession. Not that they mean anything treasonable They are the most loyal people in the world. But up in that altitude you have to be more or less spectacular.
Besides, to have been one day the Sodorn of this republic, that is the richest and gayest of cities, and the next to bo pauperized—isn't that enough to furnish excuse for a little ill advised verbosity?
Not that Denver is discouraged.
"Just let the government decide what sort of money it really wants," said one of its citizens, "and we will go out to our mountains and dig it up."
Apropos of the effect of Denver upon the emotions, it may be safely said that it arouses the ambitions as no other city does. It is, perhaps, for this reason that there is within it a more brilliant "smart set" than is to be found anywhere else in the United States, excepting New York. But there is this difference. The leaders of the New York smart set aro women. Those of Denver are men. They are of various nationalities but mostly English and American. They keep elegant establishments, stables of blooded horses, are members of the Denver club, and connoisseurs la the giving of dinners. They are collectors of bric- a brac, pictures rugs, horses and picturesque personal episodes. Prodigality in their fee of entrance into social circles. Omaha and some rich young men, but the most reckless of them have never tho essayed the dash that is the leading characteristic of the Denver smart set.
Of course, where there are ten persons of this sort, there are a thousand domestic, quiet, modest, hard working citizens, who love their own homes better than society, and a reputation for reliability more than a glittering popularity. But no home le bo modest or no family so domestic and steady-going that dreams of sudden wealth have not entered it The slow earning of money always seems the last report to the Colorado man lie cannot get over the idea that he has to go out there among the mountains and ale it out. In his dreams he sets the dull glow of the precious, ore la the cold recesses of the long, draughty theft.
In short, the Deaver man has become so accustomed to the unusual that he cannot accept the usual with anything save feelings of protest and impatience.
Where people are prodigal and gay they are also generous. No one is going to starve or freeze in Denver, bad as the times are, and formidable as is the army of unemployed men. Until recently the state hardly knew what it was to have a poor person—one dependent upon charity. One has to be very careful in Colorado not to judge a man by his dress. The man in torn jeans may have his hundreds of thousands in a pretty little pocket upon the dark mountain there, where you see that snow- wreath whirligig so cruelly. If ever the whirligig of time wrought strange tricks, it does it in Colorado.
Politics out there to perplexing. There are seven tickets in the field. These are the result of divergent boldness interests. To understand the political intrigues of Denver is as difficult as to understand the court of Louis XIV of France. Every man is attached to his own little particular faction, and for reasons which are apt to be strictly personal.
Almost every man in Denver, and at least half of the women, are in favor of equal suffrage. The daily journals advocate it openly. The leading women of the city in intelligence, wealth and social position are for it, and are conducting a disguised campaign in its behalf. It is much more than likely that Colorado will join with Wyoming in giving equal suffrage to its men and women citizens.
The last time I was in Chicago a woman tried to board one of the Harrison street horse cars. She had a heavy 2 year old child in her arms, and made several futile attempts to get upon the crowded car. Her strength was hardly equal to the task. None of the men near her moved or offered any assistance. “ The conductor stood with his band on the bell rope, watching her angrily. Everyone glared at her as if she were a vampire, sucking their lives—as, indeed, they considered that she was in thus compelling them to lose a few seconds of the time they affect to consider so valuable. At length the conductor could conceal his rage no longer
"Give me that there young 'un," he cried snatching it from the frightened woman, who looked, not without reason, as if she expected it to be dismembered before her eyes.
The other day when I was in Denver, a home bound car at the busy hour of 6 in the evening was stopped by a very sweet faced old lady who was leading two tiny children by the band. The motor had not yet reached a full stop before two gentlemen and the conductor were on the ground beside her assisting ber and her pretty charges into seals that had been vacated for them. Then everybody smiled pleasantly at the party, and the ladies who sat nearest played with the children. That makes one of the differences between Chicago and Denver.
There's no denying that they have red blood out in Denver.
One thing is noticeable to a stranger which does not strike him pleasantly, and that is the nonchalance with which theft, waste and misappropriation in public office is spoken of. Men do not resent the words 'theft' and 'boodie' as we do here. Perhaps this is one of the invidious effects of living in a speculative country.
Denver has more fine residences than any other city of its size.
The streets are narrow, but beautiful.
The architecture is distinct, intelligent consistent and original.
A frame building is an anomaly.
In the residence district the hard alkali roads are as nature made them, without paving of any kind. In the business district asphalt is used.
Bicycles are almost as much used as legs.
Even the boot blacks understand the silver question.
Some of the clergymen enjoy an enormous popularity. One of them is a poet. Another was asked to run for congress, but refused.
The school buildings are magnificent.
The women dress like New Yorkers; and the men are also fashionable and fastidious
Electricity is used to the created extent. Almost all the nicer houses are lighted by it, and many of them are heated by it as well. It runs the street cars and illuminates the streets
Great is Denver! An intoxicating, volatile, bewitching town! May its prosperity return! And may adversity inculcate some useful lessons
Look see the mountains where a mist, like mother of-pearl rises, swathing the highest peak of all! And over yonder is a mountain wrapt in purple, and with bent brow, like a sail king And there is a slender peak rosy as dawn, and looking as if only summer airs blew there! Who could guess the bleak pass at its side, and the canon where men die forgotten in the sephulchers shaped for them when the bills were young? ELIA W. PEATTIE
WHY THE CITY EDITOR FAINTED.
He was a young man with a bright face and he told the city editor that he was very anxious to become a journalist. He said that he had graduated from college last June and that while in school he wrote a number of "items" for the paper, and his friends said they were splendid and that he should be a reporter.
The city editor was short a man and so he told the young fellow that he could go around to the undertaking shops and see what was new. He was gone for an hour and when he returned he sat down at a desk. He destroyed a ream of paper before he g0t started and then he turned in his copy. I was seated in the next room and I heard the city editor grumbling to himself as he read the new man's copy.
"Holy Nellie! I but that man is a terror," I heard tho city editor mutter, " I don't believe he knows what a paragraph is. Now wouldn't this kill you: 'The corpse Iny quietly in the casket ' I suppose he thinks the corpse should have turned over a couple of times and whistling "Buffalo Girls are you coming out tonight, something else. Great Len! how's this: The relatives of the girl stood silently by.' I suppose to thinks they should shoot craps or dance!"
There were continued mutterings and continents on the new reporter's matter and then I heard a body fall heavily to the floor. I rushed in and saw the city editor Jing prostrate on the floor in a dead faint and with a sheet of the new reporter's copy clasped in his hand.
I hastily raised his head and poured a few drops of whiskey from a convenient bottle down his throat, and as I did so I saw the cause of his faintness, for his thumb rested on this sentence:
"Her untimely end casts a gloom over our entire community!"
RAY EATON.