A VETERAN. 
I’m a battered, old banged baby carriage, you see, 
And I don’t think I’m good for much more. 
For at first, bless their hearts, they just bought 
me for one. 
And I’ve had to do duty for four. 
Yes, I looked pretty fine when they first brought 
me home, 
Painted white, with a lace parasol, 
And I surely felt proud when they wheeled baby 
out, 
But No. 2 came in the fall. 
So they tucked them both in, and I didn’t much 
mind, 
In spite of the folks’ silly grins, 
But No. 3 gave me the blow of my life, 
For I never had counted on twin*. 
My parasol’s torn, and my paint is all gone, 
W .ashed off by a night in the rain, 
And to tell the plain truth, I am rather a wreck, 
And I’ll never be pretty again. 
But there’s life in the old carriage yet, and I think 
That my spirits, perhaps, my revive, 
And with care and some mending, I’ll brace up 
again 
And be ready to tote No. 5. 
—Louise Edgar in Youth's Companion. 
Economy is lauded as a virtue, and 
commended to all. Yet the pinch of 
economy has snuffed out the brightness 
and youth of many a life. Economy 
costs, in many cases, far more than it is 
expected to save ; only we do not always 
see or value that which is lost. 
* 
Thkre are two very successful young 
women architects in New York. One of 
their first business rules was to ask the 
same pay for their work that men get. 
Desiring to make an improved plan for 
a tenement, one of them lived in the 
poor district for four years. She became 
acquainted with all of the inconveniences 
against which the tenement dweller 
must contend. Her practical way of 
dealing with the problem bore fruit. 
With the best city architects as competi¬ 
tors, the subsequent plans of these two 
young women working together, were 
approved, and will be carried out by 
some persons interested in improving 
the condition of tenement homes. 
“ Hai.f of the praying that is done, 
consists of back talk,” says the Atchison 
Globe cynic. The cynics can tell us a 
few truths, and most of them don’t hesi¬ 
tate to do it. Why not stop that kind of 
praying ; at least, stop calling it prayer? 
/ BIT OF HUMAN NATURE. 
HERE’S some folks you couldn’t 
feel that way about, but that’s 
the way I feel about her.” Little Mrs. 
Patten had a sweet, small mouth, with 
a despondent droop to its corners. I 
watched it form the words daintily, with 
precision. “ That’s how 1 feel about 
Lydia Symmonds,” it repeated. 
“Yes?” I said, wondering why the 
soft hisses of the s’s sounded so musical. 
“ Yes, she’s a beautiful woman. I 
could let her take care of my children. 
I’ve watched her with her little nieces, 
sometimes. She’s the only woman 1 ever 
saw to whom I could trust my darlings.” 
I meekly nodded. I knew that I was 
not much of a “hand” with babies. 
Still I confess that I winced a little at 
the unconscious hint in this small moth¬ 
er’s words. She, herself, was sublimely 
ignorant of offense. 
“I wish that Thomas knew Lydia 
Symmonds,” she ran on, “ I want him 
to. I shall try to bring them together. 
I want him to admire her good qualities 
as I do—to appreciate her. Then, if any¬ 
thing ever happens to me ”— 
The droop deepened in the corners of 
the sweet mouth. Mrs. Patten’s tone 
was solemn and significant. I began to 
listen more attentively, for I knew that 
she was in earnest from the minute she 
called her big,rollicking Tom,“Thomas.” 
“Yes,” she sighed plaintively, “I 
could let her be a mother to my chil¬ 
dren if—if anything happened to me. 
Of course, I shouldn’t dream of suggest¬ 
ing such a thing to Thomas, you know— 
dear me, no ! But 1 shall bring them 
together, and try to impress him with 
her superiority.” 
She laid her work down and gazed 
wistfully out of the window at the nose¬ 
gay of brightly-gowned little ones play¬ 
ing on the lawn. “ You—you are not 
feeling sick, Mrs. Patten, I hope ! ” I ex¬ 
claimed, rather clumsily. I could never 
do such things with grace. 
“Bless you, no!” she cried, recover¬ 
ing her spirits instantly, “ I never felt 
better, and I come of a long lived race. 
But, you know, it’s always best to be 
prepared for everything. I always am. 
I find it’s a comfort to decide just what 
you’d do when—when it was necessary.” 
We both of us laughed at her am¬ 
biguity, and, callers interrupting, we 
never continued the subject—that is, 
not until two years later, when I went 
to Mrs. Patten’s again to board through 
the summer days. The intervening 
year I had spent abroad. The pleasant 
little home I found just as pleasant as 
ever—the children just as sweet, though 
taller in their little black-stockinged 
feet, to be sure, and “Tom” just as 
jovial and big, though growing a bit 
bald. Mrs. Patten’s mouth still had its 
pathetic droop. One afternoon, we two 
women sat together on the shady porch, 
and pretended that we were sewing. I 
wasn’t, anyway. A pretty phaeton drove 
lazily by, and Mrs. Patten nodded. I 
thought that she made the slight salute 
rather coolly. 
“I wonder who that is,” I happened 
to say, absently. 
“ Lydia Symmonds !” Mrs. Patten’s 
little, sharp teeth cut the words, it al¬ 
most seemed, on their way out. 
“Oh !” All at once, I remembered our 
conversation about Lydia Symmonds 
long ago. “She is the woman—the only 
woman in the world—you would trust 
your chil ”—I began with innocent in¬ 
terest. 
“ Wait! ” She cried, interrupting me 
in the midst of the “children,” “ Wait! 
Don’t finish it! ” She held her needle 
point toward me, like a lance. Was she 
going to impale me on its tip? “Don’t 
say another word about Lydia Sym¬ 
monds,” she said, “ or I shall either cry 
or laugh.” Of course she laughed. 
“She is married then?” I ventured, 
sympathetically. 
“ No,” shortly. 
“ And she isn’t dead, of course, seeing 
that she rides by in phaetons ”- 
“ Of course ! ” 
“ Well?” 
“ Well, she’s an excellent woman, 
Lydia Symmonds is. Who said that she 
wasn’t? ’ Mrs. Patten’s mouth-corners 
drooped depressingly, though I was sure 
that I caught twinkles in the corners of 
her eyes. There was a little interim of 
bilence between us that embarrassed me 
into plying my needle with zeal. It 
was broken by Mrs. Patten’s clear, sweet 
laugh, under which, however, a note of 
chagrin lay, ill-concealed. That encour¬ 
aged me to ask : 
“ Did Tom—did Mr. Patten ever meet 
her ? ” 
“He met her !” 
“ And didn’t like her—Oh. I see ! ” I 
have baid before that I was clumsy—be¬ 
hold the proof ! 
“ And did like her. I brought them 
together just on purpose, you know,” 
Mrs. Patten said, still the undernote of 
chagrin in her voice. “ I kept at it—had 
her here two or three times. Tom 
thought that she was perfectly lovely.” 
“Just as you had hoped he would,” I 
wickedly interrupted. 
She went on, ignoring, “ He said that 
she was the loveliest lady he ever saw— 
except me,” she added demurely. 
“Just as you hoped.” 
Mrs. Patten’s needle advanced upon 
me again, lance-like, “ Well,” she said, 
rising and striking a charming little 
attitude before me, “ I’ve given up all 
my desire to have Lydia Symmonds the 
mother of my children !” 
ANNIE HAMILTON DONNELL. 
A CHEAP COFFEE STRAINER. 
SERVICEABLE strainer and cof¬ 
fee dripper can be made of a baking 
powder can and its cover. Cut the bot¬ 
tom smoothly out of the can; spread 
over one open end of it, a piece of cheese 
cloth. Cut the top smoothly out from 
the cover of the can, which will change 
it into a broad ring; slip this ring over 
the cheese cloth on the can, and press 
down until it fits firmly around the can, 
holding it taut, or slack, as desired. 
Around the other end of the can, cut at 
intervals, perpendicular slits about an 
inch long, see Fig. 215. Bend the tin be¬ 
tween the slits outward so as to form a 
projecting rim around the can, which 
rim may rest on the edge of any vessel 
into which you are straining, thus ob¬ 
viating the necessity of holding the 
strainer. m. lane griffin. 
TROUBLESOME CHILDREN. 
EGINNINGS,” by S. B. R., page 
583, recalls to my mind a friend 
near whom 1 once lived who used to 
visit me frequently. She had two child¬ 
ren, three and five years old. Being an 
intimate friend, she came to see me at 
any hour she chose. She always had 
three meals a day. My husband being 
from home, I generally got but two 
meals, pieferring bread and milk or 
bread and fruit for tea. My friend 
would often come in just when we were 
eating, and immediately her children 
would begin to coax and tease for what¬ 
ever was on the table. It was, “ Ma ! 
Ma ! I want an ear of corn,” from the 
oldest ; whereupon the youngest would 
chime in, “ Me want one, too ! ” I would 
give them the corn without butter, for 
I knew that they were liable to be in 
the parlor the next minute. But that 
wouldn’t do. “ Want butter on it ! Lot’s 
of butter !” they would say. If it wasn’t 
corn, it was a piece of meat, or piece of 
bread and butter. The latter must 
always be well supplied with sugar, too. 
Much as I liked the mother, I took a 
great dislike to her children. Not only 
would they tease, but if they had a 
chance to help themselves, they would 
do so. I had taught my children never 
to tease for anything to eat away from 
home, and I noticed, when visiting my 
friend, that, if her children asked her 
for something to eat, she would say no, 
most emphatically. So I could but won¬ 
der how she could sit so quietly and let 
her children tease until their wishes 
were gratified. I have often thought of 
it, and tried to account for the seeming 
lack of sense on the mother’s part. 
I stood it as long as I could until, at 
last, when the children began to tease, 
I would not notice them. Every little 
while, I would hear the mother whis¬ 
per, “Keep still!” Then they would 
begin, “ I want to go home ! I want to 
go home !” and I would ask, “ What is 
the matter ? ” The mother would reply, 
“ They say that they are hungry, but 
they cannot be ; we ate just before we 
left home.” Then I would get a cracker 
for each of them, and if it were scat¬ 
tered over the carpets, I need not care. 
In fact, I got into the habit of keeping 
crackers on hand for visitors’ hungry 
children, and think it a good plan ; for 
there are children, of course, who are 
really hungry, and crackers are clean. 
MABEL H. MONSEY. 
BE GENEROUS. 
OW childish, and often cruel, it is 
to hold a spite against a neighbor, 
relative, or old friend, because of some 
unguarded word or act of theirs against 
our “ august self.” A child is allowed to 
say of a friend, “ He is so hateful, and 
I’ll never speak to him again ! ” The 
parents say, “ They are only children ! ” 
But children form habits, we must re¬ 
member. A spiteful child makes a spite¬ 
ful man or woman. 
Forgive and forget, if you would grow 
noble and respected. There are plenty 
of ignorant people to hold grudges and 
keep up quarrels. You are a privi¬ 
leged person, educated and refined. 
There is some good in every one, and 
it is your duty to add your little mite 
towards the happiness of every one 
you know. We lessen our own enjoy¬ 
ment when we cannot think of neighbor 
Mary, or cousin Joe, without a feeling 
of resentment. It is a small mind that 
cannot be generous to another’s beliefs, 
when they are not one’s own. It’s a 
mean spirit that will not forgive an¬ 
other’s faults, for each of us has his 
own faults. 
How we mourn when we lose a friend 
by death ! Yet we sometimes see people 
give up a living friend for some little 
quarrel which, if it might not have been 
averted, should have been forgiven and 
forgotten. We are no more important 
than our friends ; why should we expect 
them always to be true to us when we 
are often wanting in faith to them ? 
‘‘ Put yourself in his place ” often when 
you judge another. Ah, it looks differ¬ 
ent now ! How lenient we are to our¬ 
selves ! It is said of Whittier that he 
was very generous to the faults of others, 
though very strict with himself. Shall 
we be counted with Whittier ? r. m. 
! | 
| 440 j 
| CHANCES TO j 
1 MAKE MONEY j 
♦ ♦ 
1 Open to every man ^ 
1 and woman, every girl and 1 
| boy. No one need hesitate. | 
X The most remarkable op- l 
i portunity ever offered, t 
X Simple and dignified. | 
X Address j 
! j 
! The Ladies’ Home Journal ♦ 
Philadelphia | 
