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Hints on Summer Dress.

dress.

Lisle-thread gloves are worn, and there should be at hand a supply of linen or paper collars and cuffs. As linen is very unbecoming to some ladies, frills may be recommended. These can be bought in packages of a dozen, at prices ranging from fifteen cents a dozen, and are so cheap that they may be thrown away after having done duty for a day.

and pongee are the materials usually employed for the ulster, but mohair is preferable, as it IN attempting to give a series of hints in redoes not crumple or require doing up. Quiet gard to summer travelling, which shall prove colors, such as gray or brown, are chiefly used. of universal adaptation, one feels almost inA blouse-waist of washing material might be competent to cover the whole ground. In leav-substituted under the ulster for the waist of the ing home, most people have different ends in view, and to meet every case is clearly impossible; but general suggestions may be given which can be modified to suit individual cases, and which on the whole may prove of value. Ladies contemplating a visit in some quiet village or farm-house, and who will pass the greater part of their time out of doors, will need at least two serviceable costumes devised of material which will not easily crush or be injured by the sun, the dust, or an occasional summer shower which may come up too rapidly to be avoided. For evening one or two simple muslin dresses may not be found superfluous, although the evening breezes in the open country are often so cool that a light shawl is necessary, so that even for such purpose thin woollen or silk goods are more to be depended upon. A couple of chintz wrappers are a desirable addition, and also several light sacques, which with a skirt will form a neat négligé.

A rubber waterproof is a useful addition, and may be compressed within a very small space. Rubber overshoes should not be forgotten; nor is it safe to travel without a shawl.

Mountain Costumes.-There are ample opportunities for delightfu! excursions up in the mountains; but nature is a little rugged in her grandeur, so that to be quite at home and at ease, the traveller's dress should be strong and serviceable as well as pretty, and short enough all around to escape the ground. The shoes should be light, with moderately thick soles and flat heels, as a sprained ankle or perhaps a serious fall would probably be the result of

One should not commit the unpardonable error of supposing that because one is among people of plain habits all attention to attractive-wearing high heels. ness in dress may be dispensed with. The class of ladies who, when travelling, lay in a stock of torn and soiled kid gloves, which once did duty for a ball or dress reception, in order to save what a neat pair of Lisle thread or dark colored kid would cost, would consider the sojourn of some weeks at a farm-house a time for the laying aside of those small finishings and accessories of the toilet, the use of which always mark the lady.

A polonaise once handsome, but now faded and showing rents, worn without frill or collar in the neck, can never by the memory of departed glories be made a substitute for a tidy, fresh garment, which, though of inexpensive material, is ladylike and attractive, because cleanly and appropriate. Yet these substitutes are sometimes made, and by persons who, when in the city, would not set foot upon a pavement unless wearing an outfit faultless in detail.

Appropriate and very pretty costumes are made of ginghams, which are so perfected now that they have a silky appearance, and the newest shades are beautifully blended in them. Cashmere, bunting, and light qualities of wool suitings are also serviceable materials for these costumes. Plaid wool dresses are pretty, bright and warm for days when a fresh wind blows, and it is frequently quite cool in the early mornings and in the evenings when one gets a few thousand feet above the level of the

sea.

Yachting Styles.-That delightful pastime, yachting, takes one more completely out of the ordinary city life than any visit to the country. When tossed about on the waves day and night, with a charming little cabin for a parlor and the deck the only promenade, there is a delightful sense of freedom, in spite of the obvivous fact there is very little real freedom at all, as one is actually confined on the little craft and there must remain, at any rate, until the next port is reached. The fresh winds that blow health into the cheeks compel ladies to dress seasonably, and light flannel suits, bunt

For Short Visits.-If a tour among different watering-places is intended, affording only a few days or a week at each, a comparatively small number of dresses will prove sufficient, for the obvious reason that they are virtually new in each place. The travelling dress shouldings prettily trimmed with plaids and stripes, be of a material which will stand sun, wind, and rain; and for this there is nothing more serviceable than the light wool or silk and wool materials of the day, or a dark colored silk of light quality. By all means let the travelling suit be made in simple style, as devoid as possible of trimming or anything which may prove a resting-place for dust. It is superfluous to suggest the especial appropriateness of the short costume for travelling.

Let the hat or bonnet correspond. Select a kind of trimming which is readily brushed and which does not soil easily, and be provided with a gauze veil. A broad-brimmed hat of some kind is indispensable. If rusticating in some out-of-the-way place, it is quite as essential as on the broad piazza of a fashionable hotel. An ulster is also very desirable. Linen, mohair,

cotton satines with bright flowers on dark grounds, and écru pongees richly embroidered in darker shades, are all becoming and serviceable. These dresses look well made as costumes, with trimmed skirts, with a coat basque or long jacket with a vest, as the slightly masculine appearance of these garments suits well the careless, easy time spent on board a yacht. Much trimming and many flounces are out of place and inconvenient, so these dresses are made rather plainly, which, however, does not detract in any way from their style or elegance; for, though a dress may be well made and stylish, the real elegance and cachet is given by the person who wears it.

A close-fitting, low-crowned sailor hat of coarse straw, or a moderately wide-brimmed Leghorn or fine Panama, trimmed simply with

a gauze scarf, having ends arranged to carry around the neck, should be worn. Gloves that protect the wrists well from the sun and boots that fit so as to allow a secure tread on the slippery decks are indispensable adjuncts to a yachting toilet.

Boating.-All wool material will be found best adapted to resist the effects of salt water. The blouse waist, plaited into a yoke back and front, is appropriately worn with a plaited

skirt; or a loose sailor blouse, cut out in a round low neck and worn over a chemisette gathered very full about the throat, with a full frill standing up above a neckband of narrow ribbon,gives a piquant, dainty effect to a blonde type of beauty that cannot be excelled. A lowcrowned sailor hat and a light, warm shawl, to be used after the exertion of rowing, should not be omitted.

An excellent way to save the hands when rowing is to make a pair of long-wristed "halfhanded" gloves of chamois leather. These can be washed whenever they get soiled, and by pulling and rubbing them can be kept soft.

Hints to be Observed.-One thing indispensable to good rowing is to have the clothing fit easily at the armholes and waist, so as not to strain out the seams, as rowing is one of the exercises that is particularly hard on clothing. When a party take a sail on lake or river, for the pleasure to be derived from it, costumes of any woollen or silk material may be worn, but all wool is preferable. Cambrics or muslins

may be worn if one does not need to practice economy in laundry bills. In fishing or crabbing it is best to wear any old costume that looks at all respectable, for fish will splutter and spatter one in spite of all precautions, when they are removed from the hook, which is ruinous to clothing. Old kid gloves, with the ends of the fingers cut off, will preserve the hands.

Bathing Costumes.-A bathing suit, to be comfortable, should be fitted to the neck, shoulders, bust, and armholes just as carefully as the most elegant dress. It need not fit so snugly, but it must follow the curves of the form; and while allowing free motion to the arms, it must not drag about them and excoriate them with every

movement.

The most appropriate material is twilled flannel or moreen, as these do not cling to the figure when wet. The trimming should be rows of alpaca braid, either forming the entire garniture or in combination with bands of all-wool delaine of a contrasting color. A bow of black lutestring ribbon, which will not be injured by water, is tied at the neck. Turkish towelling is largely used for this purpose, and trimmed with a bright color looks exceedingly pretty; but all-wool goods is better than any other, as it keeps the body warm. Circulars or cloaks made of Turkish towelling are used by ladies who frequent any of the fashionable resorts. These are made in the "burnous style," or with wide sleeves like the Hortense." A garment of this kind is only used by those who have a maid or some friend in attendance to relieve them of it as they enter the water, and to have it in readiness as soon as the bath is over, as its use is to shield a dripping figure from currents of air as well as from the gaze of spectators.-From the N. Y. Herald.

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BY JOHN RUSKIN. IT is a strange thing how little in general It is the part people know about the sky. of creation in which nature has done more for the sake of pleasing man, more for the sole and evident purpose of talking to him and teaching him, than in any other of her works; and it is just the part in which we least attend to her. There are not many of her other works in which some more material or essential purpose than the mere pleas ing of man is not answered by every part of their organization; but every essential purpose of the sky might, so far as we know, be answered, if once in three days or thereabouts, a great ugly black rain-cloud were brought up over the blue, and everything well watered, and so all left blue again till next time, with perhaps a film of morning and evening mist for dew. And instead of this, there is not a moment of any day of our lives when nature is not producing scene after scene, picture after picture, glory after glory, and working still upon such exquisite and constant principles of the most perfect beauty, that it is quite certain it is all done for us, and intended for our perpetual pleasure. And every man, wherever placed, however far from other sources of interest or of beauty, has this doing for him constantly. The noblest scenes of the earth can be seen and known but by few; it is not intended that man should live always in the midst of them; he injures them by his presence, he ceases to feel them if he be always with them. But the sky is for all; bright as it is, it is not "too bright nor good for human nature's daily food;" it is fitted in all its functions for the perpetual comfort and exalting of the heart,

for soothing it and purifying it from its dross and dust. Sometimes gentle, sometimes capricious, sometimes awful, never the same for two moments together; almost human in its passions, almost spiritual in its tenderness, almost divine in its infinity, its appeal to what is immortal in us is as distinct as its ministry of chastisement or of blessing to what is mortal is essential. And yet we never attend to it, we never make it a subject of thought, but as it has to do with our animal sensations; we look upon all by which it speaks to us more clearly than to brutes, upon all which bears witness to the intention of the Supreme that we are to receive more from the covering vault than the light and the dew which we share with the weed and the worm, only as a succession of meaningless and monotonous accident, too common and too vain to be worthy of a moment of watchfulness or a glance of admiration. If, in our moments of utter idleness and insipidity, we turn to the sky as a last resource, which of its phenomena do we speak of? One says it has been wet, and another it has been windy, and another it has been warm. Who, among the whole chattering crowd, can tell me of the forms and the precipices of the chain of tall white mountains that girded the horizon at noon yesterday? Who saw the narrow sunbeam that came out of the south, and smote upon their summits until they melted and moulded away in a dust of blue rain? Who saw the dance of the dead clouds when the sunlight left them last night, and the west wind blew them before it like withered leaves? All has passed, unregretted as unseen; or if the apathy be ever shaken off, even for an instant, it is only by what is gross or what is extraordinary. And yet it is not in the broad and fierce manifestations of the elemental energies, not in the clash of the hail, nor the drift of the whirlwind, that the highest characters of the sublime are developed. God is not in the earthquake, nor in the fire, but in the still small voice.-From "Ruskin on Painting" (Appleton.)

The Blessing of the Rain.

BY JOHN BURROUGHS. THE great fact about the rain is that it is the most beneficent of all the operations of nature; more immediately than sunlight even, it means life and growth. Moisture is the Eve of the physical world, the soft teeming principle given to wife to Adam or heat, and the mother of all that lives. Sunshine abounds everywhere, but only where the rain or dew follows is there life. The earth had the sun long before it had the humid cloud, and will doubtless continue to have it after the last drop of moisture has perished or been dissipated. The moon has sunshine enough, but no rain; hence it is a dead world -a lifeless cinder. .

His first food is milk; so is his last and all between. He can taste and assimilate and absorb nothing but liquids. The same is true throughout all organic nature. 'Tis water-power that makes every wheel move. Without this great solvent, there is no life. I admire immensely this line of Walt Whitman :

"The slumbering and liquid trees."

The tree and its fruit are like a sponge which the rains have filled. Through them and through all living bodies 'there goes on the commerce of vital growth, tiny vessels, fleets and succession of fleets, laden with material bound for distant shores, to build up, and repair, and restore the waste of the physical frame.

Then the rain means relaxation; the tension in nature and in all her creatures is lessened.

The trees drop their leaves, or let go their ripened fruit. The tree itself will fall in a still, damp day, when but yesterday it withstood a gale of wind. A moist south wind penetrates even the mind and makes its grasp less tenacious. It ought to take less to kill a man on a rainy day than on a clear. The direct support of the sun is withdrawn; life is under a cloud; a masculine mood gives place to something like a feminine. In this sense, rain is the grief, the weeping of Nature, the relief of a burdened or agonized heart. But tears from Nature's eyelids are always remedial, and prepare the way for brighter, purer skies.

I think rain is as necessary to the mind as to vegetation. Who does not suffer in his spirit in a drought and feel restless and unsatisfied? My very thoughts become thirsty and crave the moisture. It is hard work to be generous, or neighborly, or patriotic in a dry time, and as for growing in any of the finer graces or virtues, who can do it? One's very manhood shrinks, and if he is ever capable of a mean act or of narrow views, it is then.

I suppose there is some compensation in a drought; Nature doubtless profits by it in some way. It is a good time to thin out her garden and give the law of the survival of the fittest a chance to come into play. How the big trees and big plants do rob the little ones! there is not drink enough to go around, the strongest will have what there is. It is a rest to vegetation, too, a kind of torrid winter that is followed by a fresh awakening. Every tree and plant learns a lesson from it, learns to shoot its roots down deep into the perennial supplies of moisture and life.

But when the rain does come, the warm, sundistilled rain; the far-travelling, vapor-born rain; the impartial, undiscriminating, unstinted rain; equable, bounteous, myriad-eyed, searching out every plant and every spear of grass, finding every hidden thing that needs water, falling upon the just and upon the unjust, sponging off every leaf of every tree in the forest and every growth in the fields; music to the ear, a perfume to the smell, an enchantment to the eye; healing the earth, cleansing the air, renewing the fountains; honey to the bee, manna to the herds and life to all creatureswhat spectacle so fills the heart? "Rain, rain, O, dear Zeus, down on the ploughed fields of the Athenians, and on the plains."

The first water-how much it means! Seven tenths of man himself is water. Seven tenths of the human race rained down but yesterday! It is much more probable that Cæsar will flow out of a bung-hole than that any part of his remains will ever stop one. Our life is indeed a vapor, a breath, a little moisture condensed upon the pane. We carry ourselves as in a phial. Cleave the flesh, and how quickly we spill out! Man begins as a fish, and he swims There is a fine sibilant chorus audible in the in a sea of vital fluids as long as his life lasts.sod and in the dust of the road and in the por

ous ploughed fields. Every grain of soil and every root and rootlet purrs in satisfaction. Because something more than water comes down when it rains; you cannot produce this effect by simple water; the good-will of the elements, the consent and approbation of all the skyey influences, come down; the harmony, the adjustment, the perfect understanding of the soil beneath and the air that swims above are implied in the marvellous benefaction of the rain.-From "Locusts and Wild Honey" (Houghton, Osgood & Co.).

Spring and Summer.

IN spring we note the breaking
Of every baby bud,

In spring we note the waking
Of wild flowers of the wood;
In summer's fuller power,

In summer's deeper soul,

We watch no single flower,

We see, we breathe the whole !
From "Apple-Blossoms," by Dora Read Goodale
(Putnam).

An Old Homestead.

corners as the window-seat-suggestive of placid repose: a strange opposite mixture throughout of flowery peace and silence, with an almost total lack of modern conveniences and appliances of comfort - as though the sinewy vigor of the residents disdained artificial ease.

In the oaken cupboards-not black, but a deep tawny color with age and frequent polishingmay be found a few pieces of old china, and on the table at tea-time, perhaps, other pieces, which a connoisseur would tremble to see in use, lest a clumsy arm should shatter their fragile antiquity. Though apparently so little valued, you shall not be able to buy these things for money-not so much because their artistic beauty is appreciated, but because of the instinctive clinging to everything old, characteristic of the place and people. These have been there of old time: they shall remain still. Somewhere in the cupboards, too, is a curiously carved piece of iron, to fit into the hand, with a front of steel before the fingers, like a skele ton rapier guard; it is the ancient steel with which, and a flint, the tinder and the sulphur match were ignited.

Up in the lumber-room are carved oaken bedsteads of unknown age; linen-presses of black oak with carved panels, and a drawer at the side for the lavender-bags; a rusty rapier, the point broken off; a flintlock pistol, the barrel of portentous length, and the butt weighted with a mace-like knob of metal, wherewith to knock the enemy on the head.

THE stream, after leaving the village and the washpool, rushes swiftly down the descending slope, and then entering the meadows, quickly loses its original impetuous character. Not much more than a mile from the village it flows placidly through meads and pastures, a broad, deep brook, thickly fringed with green flags, The parlor is always full of flowers-the manbearing here and there large yellow flowers. By telpiece and grate in spring quite hidden by some old thatched cattle-sheds and rick-yards, fresh green boughs of horse-chestnut in bloom, overshadowed with elm trees, a strong bay or or with lilac, bluebells, or wild hyacinths; in dam crosses it, forcing the water into a pond summer nodding grasses from the meadows, for the cattle, and answering the occasional roses, sweet-brier; in the autumn two or three purpose of a ford; for the laborers in their great apples, the finest of the year, put as ornaheavy boots walk over the bay, though the cur- ments among the china, and the corners of the rent rises to the instep. They call these sheds, looking-glass decorated with bunches of ripe some few hundred yards from the farmhouse, wheat. A badger's skin lies across the back of the "Lower Pen." Wick Farm-almost every the arm-chair; a fox's head, the sharp white village has its outlying "wick"-stands alone tusks showing, snarls over the doorway; and in the fields. It is an ancient, rambling build-in glass cases are a couple of stuffed kingfishing, the present form of which is the result of successive additions at different dates, and in various styles.

When a homestead like this has been owned and occupied by the same family for six or seven generations, it seems to possess a distinct personality of its own. A history grows up round about it; memories of the past accumulate, and are handed down fresh and green, linking today and seventy years ago as if hardly any lapse of time had intervened. The inmates talk familiarly of the "comet year," as if it was but just over; of the days when a load of wheat was worth a little fortune; of the great snows and floods of the previous century. They date events from the year when the Formeads were purchased and added to the patrimony, as if that transaction, which took place ninety years before, was of such importance that it must necessarily be still known to all the world.

The house has somehow shaped and fitted itself to the characters of the dwellers within it : hidden and retired among trees, fresh and green with cherry and pear against the wall, yet the brown thatch and the old bricks subdued in tone by the weather. This individuality extends to the furniture; it is a little stiff and angular, but solid, and there are nooks and

ers, a polecat, a white blackbird, and a diverrare here-shot in the mere hard by.-From "Wild Life in a Southern County" (Roberts).

Honey-Flowers.

BY JOHN BURROUGHS.

THE first spring wild-flowers, whose shy faces among the dry leaves and rocks are so welcome, yield no honey. The anemone, the hepatica, the bloodroot, the arbutus, the numerous violets, the spring beauty, the corydalis, etc., woo all lovers of nature, but do not woo the honey-loving bee. It requires more sun and warmth to develop the saccharine element, and the beauty of these pale striplings of the woods and groves is their sole and sufficient excuse for being. The arbutus, lying low and keeping green all winter, attains to perfume, but not to honey.

The first honey is perhaps obtained from the flowers of the red maple and the golden willow. The latter sends forth a wild, delicious perfume. The sugar maple blooms a little later, and from its silken tassels a rich nectar is gathered. My

bees will not label these different varieties for me as I really wish they would. Honey from the maple, a tree so clean and wholesome, and full of such virtues every way, would be something to put one's tongue to. Or that from the blossoms of the apple, the peach, the cherry, the quince, the currant-one would like a card of each of these varieties to note their peculiar qualities. The apple-blossom is very important to the bees. A single swarm has been known to gain twenty pounds in weight during its continuance. Bees love the ripened fruit, too, and in August and September will suck themselves tipsy upon varieties, like the sops-ofwine.

The interval between the blooming of the fruit-trees and that of the clover and raspberry is bridged over in many localities by the honey locust. What a delightful summer murmur these trees send forth at this season. I know nothing about the quality of the honey, but it ought to keep well. But when the red raspberry blooms, the fountains of plenty are unsealed indeed; what a commotion about the hives then, especially in localities where it is extensively cultivated, as in places along the Hudson. The delicate white clover, which begins to bloom about the same time, is neglected; even honey itself is passed by for this modest, colorless, all but odorless flower. A field of these berries in June sends forth a continuous murmur like that of an enormous hive. The honey is not so white as that obtained from clover, but it is easier gathered; it is in shallow cups, while that of the clover is in deep tubes. The bees are up and at it before sunrise, and it takes a brisk shower to drive them in. But the clover blooms later and blooms everywhere, and is the staple source of supply of the finest quality of honey. The red clover yields up its stores only to the longer proboscis of the bumble-bee, else the bee pasturage of our agricultural districts would be unequalled.

The rose, with all its beauty and perfume, yields no honey to the bee, unless the wild species be sought by the bumble-bee.

Among the humbler plants let me not forget the dandelion that so early dots the sunny slopes, and upon which the bee languidly grazes, wallowing to his knees in the golden but not over-succulent pasturage. From the blooming rye and wheat the bee gathers pollen, also from the obscure blossoms of Indian corn. Among weeds, catnip is the great favorite. It lasts nearly the whole season and yields richly. It could no doubt be profitably cultivated in some localities, and catnip honey would be a novelty in the market. It would probably partake of the aromatic properties of the plant from which it was derived.

Among your stores of honey gathered before midsummer you may chance upon a card, or mayhap only a square inch or two of comb, in which the liquid is as transparent as water, of a delicious quality, with a slight flavor of mint. This is the product of the linden or basswood, of all the trees in our forest the one most beloved by the bees. Melissa, the goddess of honey, has placed her seal upon this tree. The wild swarms in the woods frequently reap a choice harvest from it. I have seen a mountainside thickly studded with it, its straight, tall, smooth, light-gray shaft carrying its deep-green crown far aloft, like the tulip or maple.-From "Locusts and Wild Honey" (Houghton, O. & Co.).

The Same Old Story.

SHE read until she could not see
(Did Ivanhoe e'er weary ?),
Then dropped the book upon her knee
And said her life was dreary;
"From day to day I still must tread
The same dull round of duty,
Of darning socks and baking bread,
Without one glimpse of beauty.
From week to week my land-marks are-
A sermon dull on Sunday,

And Friday night the Plumville Star.
The weekly wash on Monday;
And oh! there's never a line of grace
And never a hint of glory,"

She sighed and lengthened her pretty face"It's always the same old story."

She dried her eyes and curled her hair
And went to the conference meeting,
From the garden gate to the vestry stair
The self-same words repeating.
At last the final hymn was sung

And all the prayers were ended,
And one from the doorway crowd among
Her homeward steps attended.
They left at length the village street
And sprang the low wall over,

To cross through Captain Peaslee's wheat
And Deacon Bascombe's clover.
The moon seemed shining overhead
To flood their path with glory;
They whispered low, but what they said
Was-only the same old story!

"Ruth Mariner," in Springfield Republican.

Collecting Ferns.

MOST people, in their summering, try to take home a few ferns for cultivation. Mr. John Robinson in his pleasant book about

Ferns in their Homes and Ours" (S. E. Cassino) tells how to do it successfully: "When we meet them in their full beauty they are in the most unfavorable state for transplanting, as, in the vigor of its grow. ing condition in its natural home, a fern will endure little rough handling, and requires tender care to persuade it to grow in any other place. It would be better to wait till the season's activity is passed, which it is probable we cannot do; or collect our ferns in the early spring, before the croziers unroll; but when the plants are in this condition, only an experienced botanizer knows what to look for and where to find it. Suppose, then, that in July or August we wish to obtain a small collection of our native ferns in their living state. The best way of transporting them is, of course, with their fronds uncrushed, in a box or basket of sufficient size. But this is not always practicable. It may be necessary to condense them into the smallest possible space. As we collect them the ferns can be kept in a bowl or basket till we are preparing for our journey home. When we gather them the roots should be carefully dug up, not wrenched from their sur roundings; and, when we begin to get them ready for their travels, should not be very wet. Suffer the plants to remain without water a day or two before packing, only do not allow them to become exactly dry. Then we may shake off as much of the earth as will readily fall away, and, wrapping each fern with a bit of damp (not wet) moss, roll it up in a bit of paper large enough to hold all together, tying the parcel with a thread. The fronds should all project beyond the moss and paper, and only enough of them be left to insure a healthy start the next season-three or four on an ordinary and six on a very large plant. To remember how the ferns looked (for we are not yet supposed to know their names), it is a good plan

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