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RICKARD OLNEY'S BOYHOOD.
Tiie Early Life of the Secretary of State in
Oxford, Mass.
,u. St.dloß., S.crty 80,-The Womaa | H oraealed W here
Ue Woi Born Had Sever Heard of Him, Bat
Others Remember Him Well.
Copyrighted.
Bost on, Mass., July 13. Seldom hai
. „.j C aI fate thrust high position upon
. -o little known to the people as
* r ,i oiney. Secretary of State. Though
ta resident of Boston for over
■ v years, not 3no men know him by
' when he appears on the streets. He
1 his present distinction neither
'i. the political arena nor by stir
eels of patriotism. He was prac
-1 ’ally unknown to public life until his
induction into office two years ago.
,' n he was appointed Attorney General.
*- e vious to that time ho had held but
ofp.ee and that was twenty years ago,
vn he was a member of the state legls
hture.
jj r oiney’s rise to the highest cabinet
option is a surprise to the people of
goston. and they are asking: "How is it
t6a , we never heard of Oiney, when he has
l, living among us all these years?” Yet
•here is no mystery about it. He has
hfon serving as corporation attorney for
r „ Boston and Maine railroad, and other
companies, and this legal work did not
tr , n g him into contact with the people
©r"into popular notice, as he rarely ap
ared in court. He acted chiefly as
■i-.l in his own office, which is in
the same building as that of Charles
fra: is Adams, formerly president of the
Prion Pacific.
from ills legal practice Secretary Oiney
). a . a cumulated wealth. He has a sum
ir.rr home at Falmouth, near liuzsard'3
fay, and a winter residence on Common
weaith avenue, the finest boulevard in
Boston.
Mr. Oiney has, however, risen to af
flmr. e from an humble New England ori
gin. He comes of hardy Worcester county
stock, and Is a native of Oxford, eleven
m, south of Worcester. It is a village
imcng rocky, wooded hills, with all the
charm of those quaint New England towns
that, forgotten by time, change not. It
has hold Its uneventful course, hardly dls
t irhed by a ripple, sirtce Richard Oiney
was born there sixty years ago, on Sept.
P, 1835. Even now It scarcely awakens to
the thrill of pride In Its most illustrious
ion.
old. worn and gray, with the suns and
storms that for a century have beat upon
it. the house of his grandfather, Richard
Oiney, where he was born, anti whose
name he bears, still stands, a sad remind
er of the past. It has been moved from
Its commanding position at the intersec
tion of two roads, and placed close to the
street, where It stands, scantily shaded
by two young chestnut trees. Its present
t upant was, until recently, quite uncon
scious of Its dignified past.
It was the Irony of fame! In response
to my vigorous knocking at the front door,
an elderly woman appeared with a dis
turbed look on her face. When I asked
about the memorable birth that occurred
in her house sixty years ago, she said: “I
don't know anything about it. 1 have only
Iht I here three or four year*. Richard
bin, yWho is he, any way, and what is
ail this fuss about? I've seen lots of
' ‘pie. pointing out this house this week."
Ii ci being told that it was the birthplace
of the Secretary of State, she said: “Oh,
i‘S. well, I'll have to read up about him.”
Shortly after Oiney’s birth, his parents
moved from the old homestead to Louls
'ille. Ky. While there his father Wilson
01m y. engaged In trade unsuccessfully,
u 1 the family returned to Oxford, when
tie hoy was seven years olrl. Wilson Ol
io y then became bookkeeper for the woolen
m ii in which his father had an Interest.
In addition to keeping the company’s
books, he was clerk in the company's store,
s is usually the case In the mill towns.
T.i" mill was at Howarth’s, a mile from the
t wn proper. So as to be near his work,
Mr oiney built a home on a neighbor
ing hillside, a little aside from the factory
tenements.
This old brow n house stands, but it has
become a tenement, In which live a mill
operative and his swarm of children. But
re at least the memory of the original
dwellers is known, and the motherly house
wife takes pride in saying that some of the
lounger members of the Oiney family were
born there.
The mill itself is run by Its present own
ers. Andrew Hotvarth & Son, In about
t !<• same old way as fifty years ago, when
J'our.g Richard played about it and listened
in childish wonder to the click, click of the
looms. The same number of hands are em-
I red—between fifty and sixty—the same
roduct is turned out—white flannel—and
fine same power Is still supplied by the
rennh river, a small stream, dammed
up into two beautiful ponds encircled by
two hills wooded with pine and maple.
was In Oxford that Richard Oiney
Passed the formative period of his life.
II was at the district school here, held
not in the kind of little rfcd school-house
•oaious in history, but in a room of the
' operation boarding-house, that he learn-
Ms first lessons. This building Is now
divided into a number of tenements. But
among the shifting population of mill help
® : traditions of the old school and Its fa*
' ls rupil have vanished. Only one old
• ever, who has worked In the mill as
, ‘ n an d hoy for over forty years, ls able
v” ,lo ‘ nt °ut the building. It was to this
* unie in the little mill hamlet in a remote
corner of Oxford that Richard Oiney re
‘irm-l on his vacations from Leicester
‘demy and Brown University, which he
“ttvnded.
, oldest resident of Oxford, Miss Er
*-a Smith, was a teacher at that time.
, , “Oarded In the Oiney household. She
• a nor S7th year, and she throws some
hoi ni ’ S '^ e * ig *'* s on * n th® old brown
' I always thought that Richard had
* , i _ Uy h ‘Sh notions,” said she. "Those
wh en he came home from college
„ ' ,s j ts he held his head up well and
mH, I to think a good deal of aristocra
ts 1/ SOt ,llat * c * ea from remarks he would
Hp waa a sroat reader, and I re
r lh at on one visit he brought 'Da
r ‘ and read it aloud to the
• of the family evenings. While we wo
s‘>wpfi, Richard and his father would
"ad aloud.”
l h ” who best remembers Rich-
In. • y as a boy * s Jonathan Pratt
■ ia, s, years of age. He was school
, mm lss i oncr when Richard went t 0 the
. t school.
at.'vi**’cv" e '*’ * ,s n b?h °nto fifty years
i m J ‘ ncy was one of our school boys.”
thr. f’ lr ' r,a na, musingly, as he sat on
ron ’ steps of his house on the out
sk '* of th e town. The good old man
f;> e i , a I K ? ln ,he oonntless seams of his
. 1, . ‘f ’he ragged snow-white beard
1 i rr ’*hh is as clear as ever. He be
ta 10 „ , that almost extinct type of old
• 1 th , er BC * l °°l commissioners who tili
to ‘l * arms and stopped on the way
road 1 |° vlsit the schools along the
town f- ! hls oa Pacity he served the
w/ T hls r,th '<> his 7Bth year.
liovn ( ' la ' e had a Rood many bright
m.-in .. h au T r sc 'bools here,” said the old
f !irnr„. 1 romember Richard Oiney was
"as -it t .w mon * h,a class at hls age. It
I nori, „ I’"strict school debates that
ea “ lln most. I then thought lie
was about the smartest boy in argument
at I over saw. His logical powers were
a u le J <or hls age and the advant
ages he had had.
"There mu„ t* something very mark
—l_ n 4 a ”°y make an impressjon on a
man In middle life which he will re-
Tor fifty years. No, I don't know
aa , . th ° u * ht at that time that Richard
b l -*: to eminence, for I had be n
disappointed In so many bright boys who
petereed out as soon as they left school.
xi f, rc "J Prnh ® r Richard's brother, Petet
Butler Oiney, very well, too; he was ap
pointed district attorney In New York by
Cleveland In 1883. Peter was bright, and
as able in debate as Richard when he was
or the same age. I knew the Olneys
through and through. The father lived
and died right beside me. and I knew their
grandfather, too. They were all smart
men, end not only smart, but honest, and
that is the crowning glory of manhood.
A " old schbolmate of Richard Oiney,
Hollis \V. D. Bacon, keeps the tavern that
tne grandfather kept when It was known
as the Oiney tavern. The old sign which
invited the wayfarer to stop and feed his
beast Is now in the possession of one of
the Oiney family.
“I went to school with Richard,” said
Mr. Bacon, who, clad In a long linen dus
ter, sat in an armchair on the porch of
the inn. "It was at Mrs. Metcalf s house,
when she kept a private school.
I may say,” he continued in a self
defamatory way, "that was the last of my
schooling, but Richard kept right on.
There was this difference between us in
school—l had to study my lessons, and he
didn’t. He only had to look at hls books
to know what was In them. He was 12
years old, and I was 14. Our teacher, Mrs.
Metcalf, was the wife of an old orthodox
minister, who had kind of got through
preaching. Guess he found it didn't pay.
so his wife took to teaching.
“She had a dozen scholars In an upstairs
room that had straight, highbacked chairs
and other old fashioned furniture. Most
of her scholars were girls. There were
only two or three boys besides Richard
Oiney and me. We had great respect for
our teacher. She was well educated, and
very strict and firm. I didn't go to her
school but three months, but Richard went
a long time. That was forty-eight years
ago ”
When the hotel keeper pronounced the
name of Oiney, he pronounced it In the
old English way, omitting the sound of 1,
as If It were spelled Oney. This ls the
way It Is spoken by all the old Inhabi
tants, and it Is the pronunciation also used
by the Rhode Island branch of the fam
ily.
Richard Olney's father was an unas
suming man. who took the greatest Inter
est In hls children. He wished to see
them make something of life. He was
a money-earner, but not a money-maker.
He never became rich, though during
hls later years he held the position of
cashier of the Oxford bank. Hls duties
there were of a clerical nature, and while
esteemed by the directors for hls hon
esty, he was never regarded as a shrewd
banker. He always filled positions that en
abled him to keep hls family in comfort.
All he could spare he spent on hls boys'
education. In this lie was assisted by
Peter Butler, hls wife's brother, a well
known and prosperous Boston merchant.
It ls said that this large-hearted man
contributed to Richard’s academic and
college expenses. Herbert Heywood.
A HALF-TOY MOGET OF SILVER.
Fonnd by Prospectors Close Beside n
Rallronil Track In Arizona.
From the San Francisco Examiner.
Hackberry, Ariz., June 24.—From Peach
Springs comes the story of the finding of
a nugget, or boulder, rather, of pure
silver, such as there has been no record
•of In the history of mining In the west.
The boulder weighed about half a ton,
and its value is anywhere from SB,OOO to
SIO,OOO. It was found by William Tucker
and John Doyle, both old prospectors,
and they have kept the facts to them
selves heretofore because of the chance
that there was more sliver where this
lump came from, and they desired to get
the best location for themselves before let
ting the rest of the world into the se
cret.
The find was made on June 15. Tha
men had been prospecting in the Death
Valley mining region, and had started
across country to the Grand canon of the
Colorado to get into a little pleasanter
region for their summer work.
They were camped on the Beach emi
grant road just where the cut-off com3
down over the low rolling hills to tha
railroad track, about four miles from
Peach Springs, and the nugget was lying
within 300 feet of the railroad track and
not more than 100 feet from the main
wagon road. It projected from the hill
side in plain view of the road, and stoo l
in such a position that more than one man
had probably sat upon It to gaze up or
down the railroad track. Being exactly
similar in appearance to hundreds of other
rocks in that region, it had escaped par
ticular notice until Mr. Tucker came along
and rested his hand upon It. Both Doyle
and Tucker are old miners, and Tucker
especially was struck with the peculiar
"feel” of this boulder. He ls familiar with
the form of silver known as “black met
al," found In the dolomite limestone in
the Mescal mine In California, and almost
Intuitively It struck him that here was
a piece of the same black metal.
He had gone out to bring hls horses In
to camp when the rock attracted hls at
tention, and trying to break off a frag
ment he discovered that the rock was
solid metal. He then tried to lift It, but
could not, and then he went and brought
Doyle out to help him. A little digging
disclosed a boulder in the shape of a tur
tle, about two and a half feet long, of the
same width, and one foot thick. The top
was smooth and lustrous, and the under
surface was coated with scales of tho
black metal.
Mr. Tucker says the nugget has all the
appearance of having been thrown up
from a great vein and smelted by the
flow of the lava which abounds in that
region, cooling in the room in which it
was found; and this theory is borne out
by the find of at least a dozen similar
pieces. These pieces of pure silver weighed
from five to fifty pounds each.
Tucker and Doyle have located a min
ing claim where the boulder was found,
and intend to sink a shaft and drift in
search of the main vein.
Mr. Tucker said to-day that in 1883 a
piece of smelted silver weighing four
pounds was found by William Hooker two
miles west of Peach Springs, but attract
ed no attention, the supposition being that
it had been stolen from a Mexican smelter
and subsequently lost by the thief.
Customer (in up-town drug store)—”l
want a thirty-grain dose o' quinine, young
man.”
Clerk—" Yes, sir. What will you take It
with, sir.”
Customer—'Til take it with a spoon. I'm
a Wabash Valley man an' I ain't doodish
•nough yet, thank Uod, to eat with a fork.”
—Puck.
THE MORN ING NEWS: SUNDAY, JULY 14,1893.
ORE A BELLE OF THE BORDER.
A Romantic History dosed With the
Death of Sallie Mills.
From the New York Time*.
A few weeks ago. In Oklahoma. Deputy
Marshal ShafTer of Oklahoma City, and a
posse of his men killed George Newcomb,
alias "Bitter Creek,” alias "Slaughter
Kid.” and Charley Pierce, alias “Cockeye
Charley." the last, except the notorious
"Bill” Doolan, of all the once numerous
members of the daring Dalton band of
outlaws. And in this last stand of the rem
nant Sallie Mills lost her life.
Six or seven years ago Sallie was as
pretty as a peach, and as sweet and smart
as she was pretty. In 1888 she went west
from Ohio to teach school in the Chicka
saw country. Her modest, demure man
ner. as well as her beauty, won the uni
versal admiration of all the bordermen and
Sallie became the belle of the Indian coun-
try.
Pete Hills, “Dare Devil Pete," the hoys
all called him, was a boomer with Harry
Hill's crowd. While in camp at Purcell
Pete met Sallie Mills. She was riding out
of town on a pony, when a coupe of
would-be "bad men" came shouting and
shooting on horses behind her. She turned
out to give them the road, but the men,
seeing she was alone and apparently un
protected, rode up to her and one of them
attempted to steal a kiss. The girl*
screamed. There was a loud report and
the would-be bad man lay dying at the side
of the road, while his cowardly comrade
rode hastily away.
Then it was that "Dare Devil Pete,”
who had heard the cry of alarm and had
fired the fatal shot, rode up and politely
lifting his sombrero begged to escort the
lady to her home. Sallie deeply regretted
the killing, but could not fail to notice
how handsome were the features of the
dissolute looking stranger who had res
cued her from the rough's embraces. Pete
and Sallie took a mutual “shine" to each
other, as they say out west. The man
quit hls reckless mode of living, and, as
far as circumstances, and the nature of
his life would permit, he abstained from
participating In tho deadly rows then so
prevalent on the border. He was slower
on the "draw and shot” than In the past,
and Katie Daniels, the leader of the fe
male boomer brigade, then massing for
the first grand rush for homes, said that
love had ruined Pete. But Sallie Mills
did not agree with Katie In her verdict.
She was glad that her handsome lover had
given up hls wild mode of life, and when
she Joined the female boomer brigade
bet self she was pleased to know that
Pete Hills was not far away. The two
"sick kittens” was what Nanetta Daisy
called them, but Pete and Sallie only
laughed. They bore all this rafllery In
a good natured manner.
Bob Dalton and Pete Hills were boon
companions. Bob was at that time a dep
uty marshal, and had not become msted
ns an express robber. Bob met Sallie and
liked her. The girl respected Bob. be
cause he was her lover's greatest friend.
One day before tho final rush "Dutch
Dave," a “terror” from the Brazos coun
try, rode into camp and Insulted many of
the women, more especially Sallie Mills.
Sallie tried to keep this from the ears of
Pete Hills, but he heard It from some of
the camp loungers, and went out to hunt
up the "bad man.” All of the old vicious
ness of “Dare Devil Pete" was aroused,
and he drank heavily while scouring the
country for the man who had insulted
h.is sweetheart. Finally the two met.
"Dutch Dave” knew of the designs of
Pete, and It was only a question of which
was the quicker. As ill luck would have
It Pete Hills' pistol somehow caught in
the holster, and before he could losen It
the other man had shot him dead. It was
a whole day before Sallie heard of it,
and by that time the boys, thinking to
spare her pain, had buried Pete by the
side of the river.
The shock was a terrible one to the girl,
and changed the whole course of her life.
She remained with the boomers, and made
the race for a claim, but her bright smile
had disappeared. Bob Dalton had been
away at the time of the tragedy.but to him
the stricken girl went for comfort. Dalton
swore he would shoot “Dutch Dave" on
sight, and a gleam in the girl's eye prom
ised him his reward if he would do so. Af
ter Pete's death Bob looked after Sallle’s
welfare, and soon grew to love her as well
as Pete had done before him. But he did.
not let the girl know of hls love. He was
afraid of frightening her,and that was one
thing he wished to avoid.
"Dutch Dave" remained out of sight un
til the final rush came, and then these two
met. Once more It was a case of who was
the quicker, and the fortune of war fa
vored Boh Dalton. Bob fired threo shote
Into the big Brazos brute before he fell
from the horse to the ground. For the
killing it was sought to cause Dalton's ar
rest, and he was discharged as a Deputy
Marshal. Then it was that he first joined
“Bill” Doolan and began that rapid crim
inal career that ended with his killing at
Coffeyvllle In October, 1892.
Sallie heard of "Dutch Dave's” death,
and of the fact that Bob Dalton had been
outlawed. She remained quietly on her
claim near Edmonds, until one night she
was visited by a man who rode up on
horseback and who remained there all
that night and the next day, while a heav
ily armed band were in camp not far
away. The stranger was Bob Dalton.
Without the formality of a marriage they
proclaimed themselves man and wife, and
from that time to the day of her death
Sallie Mills was known as "Dalton's sweet
heart.” As often as he could the outlaw
visited the home of this woman, who had
had such a romantic life on the border.
More than once the officers watched
"Dunn’s place,” as the house was called.
They thought that they might catch the
great express robber off his guard, but
they failed. When the Daltons raided the
banks of Coffeyvllle and Bob was shot
to death this woman was heartbroken.
Her hair, once a beautiful golden, began
to turn gray, and she was half suspected
of being an outlaw herself.
When Bob Dalton was killed at Coffey
vllle hls brother Bill was a quiet, steady
farmer near Hennessy, Oklahoma. But In
a few short months Bill went wrong and
was soon at the head of the remnant of
hls brother's old band. Sallie Mills heard
of Bill and sought him out. He had heard
of her from "Bill” Doolan and others of
the band, and took her In hand as a
brother would have done. The officers
said that Sallie had again transferred her
affections, this time to “BUI" Dalton, but
this has already been dented by the out
law clans. They say that the friendship
between these two was entirely platonic*
Sallie was never tired of working for the
welfare of the hand, and especially lte
captain. When Bill’s death was reported
she almost went Insane and became more
vicious against the law and the officers.
In fact,Sallie and “Bill” Doolan were Joint
ly responsible for the assembling of the
last gang under Inka Jack.and which band
was wiped out when "Slaughter Kid,”
"Cockeye Charley," and Sallie Mills were
killed. May 1, at the Dunn farm, thirty-five
miles east of Oklahoma City, In Payne
county.
—A Game Dinner—Walter, he said, as he
seated himself In a Park Row coffee and
cake saloon, and drew off his gloves;
what kind of a game have you got to-day?
"I’ll ask the chef,” replied the waiter,
softly. Presently he tiptoed back. "There's
beef an’ beans, wheat cakes, eggs, an' red
napkins with fringe. We were to have
turkey feet on toast.” he added, apolo
getically; "but It looked so much like rain
this morning that the boss thought that
the young gents wouldn't care to stir out.”
—Puck. /
FROCK BABBLE.
Bab Relates the Woes Caused by the Un
businesslike Dressmakers.
Summer Pnrrliaslna Mast Br Done In Y\ Inter—Paying Homage to Mod-
Isten—Yot n Queen of Mieba, After All—The “Homling Swell” Milli
ner to YVed—Woman's Mission Is to Admire Beautiful Gowns,
Parasols, Gloves and Sleeves Costumes Ap
propriate for Different Oeeaslons Care
lessness of Apprarnnee Yot Feminine.
New York, July 13.—There is always a
time in the early spring when the woman,
who has grown wise through experience,
concludes that she will be ready in time
for hot weather, and achieve this readi
ness by arranging about her gowns very
early. While the snow is still on the
ground, she invests in Swiss muslins. In
ginghams and in all the pretty cotton fa
brics that go to make up the wardrobe
of the summer woman. Then she hies
herself to a dressmaker. She is greeted
with Joy. and told, with much sweetness,
that if she will send all her gowns at
once and give a few hours to a thor
ough fitting, she needn't bother any more,
and that when the warm days come,
because of her wisdom In taking time
by the forelock, she will be gowned like
a lily of the field and will be able to say,
to her less wise sister, "Look at my
frock and be unhappy!” The drcssmakr,
who incites the female mind to this ■so
called wisdom, ls usually short, plump
and of Milesian birth. She is flattering
'ln manner and profuse In compliments.
Occasionally she asks for a little money
in advance.
But to return to the woman. On the
first day of July she will have the pleas
ure of knowing that, after she has scold
ed. written, telegraphed and even pray
ed, the scissors of the wily dressmaker
have never even been put Into the frock
of her Innocent self. And there nre wo
men who receive this treatment every
year. And there are people who every
year cry, “Lo, the poor dressmaker!”
Now, there are women who are at oneo
dressmakers and good business women,
but the average modiste deserves to hava
a string put around her neck with
a large stone attached to the other end,
and to be lowered to the bottom of the
deep blue sea. The cry that ought to go
up should be this, "Lo. the poor woman
who dopends on a dressmaker!" Men
wouldn’t stand such treatment from their
tailors. A woman has to kou-tou, per
suade. be amiable and admire the dress
maker's apptt.ranee, her eyes, her hair,
family and at one recognise end respect
the blue blood that appears whenever
she pricks her finger If she wishes her
frock.
"It ls altogether likely that you ee
something that suits your complexion
in the way of stuff, that zuits your pocket
book, and In which, Joy of Joys! you feel
sure you will please the dearest boy In
the world. The man of your heart lis
tens to a lovely story about the color and
width of that material, the fact that you
selected It because you knew he would
like It, and then you tell him of the treas
ure you have discovered who Is to make
It. Hls birthday happens to come on
Sunday, and this wonderful frock ls to
be worn on that.day. The day comes,
and although jfv nice, It sud
denly dawns on the mail o? yotrr heart
that you had expected to appear like tho
Queen of Sheba, and that somehow you
didn't come up to expectation. And he
asks why. Of course, It ls the old, old
story. She, with a pronounced emphasis,
on the she, after promising to give you
that frock ahead, disappointed you; she
hasn't sent it at nil, and she snubbed
you dreadfully when you asked if you
coudn't have It, and gave you to under
stand that when she exerted herself It
was for people who had really expensive
gowns, and who had a great many made,
as if you could help not having the Bank
of England to back you. Some day you
get the frock, but It ls never what you
expected, and life goes on, and it is full
of frocks and full of disappointments.
However, all that Is going to be changed,
nowadays. About two years ago a girl
who is a howling swell, had the misfor
tune to lose her money, but she was as
plucky as she was pretty, and so she con
cluded to open a shop. She hired a Itrstclass
milliner, and had it distinctly understood
that, while the best materials would be
used, and every effort made to please peo
ple, her terms were strictly C. O. D. She
Is going to be married now, and sell out to
her partner, for she has made a success
of her work, and she made It, because,
having suffered from the unbusinesslike
methods of milliners and dressmakers, she
made It a rule In her establishment that
promises made were to be kept. Another
bright woman, who was making a poor
living, at painting pictures, realized that
there was room for a dressmaker who
would ask reasonable prlces and keep her
word. She advertised extensively, stated
her prices, which were fair; and announc
ed that a frock would be turned out In a
week. She hired a number of competent
workers, and to-day she Is making plenty
of money. A few years will see her retire,
and then she will paint pictures for pleas
ure. But this woman Insists on the C. O.
D. rule, and no matter who the customer
ls, the law stands—no money, no gown.
This Is printed upon her business pa
per, and her customers are also Informed.
In the same way, that any frock, requir
ing alterations, must bo returned within
three days. This woman is as business
like as a man’s tailor, consequently her
success Is easily understood. I asked her
If people ever tried to get frocks with
out paying for them; she said, occasional
ly. but if any woman took a frock from
one of her girls, and did not give her the
money, she acted promptly, and sent a
policeman at once to demand, either the
money or the frock.
I am a believer in beautiful gowns, and
the woman who Is not has something
wrong in her general make-up. It Is a
part of a woman's life to look her best.
And although I have heard women say
that they don't dress for men. I think It
Is all nonsense. It may be that men don't
look at the details of dresses, but they are
Influenced by the general effect, and they
are very quick to notice untidiness. There
are women so lacking In womanly knowl
edge that they never get becoming gowns.
There is the flat-chested woman,who looks
utterly shapeless, and who says, “No, I
will have nothing done to my gown and I
won’t lace.”
Now, when the natural figure Is hideous
art should come to the rescue, and the
wise dressmaker Is the one who pays no
attention to this nonsensical chatter, but
who carefully inserts just enough cotton
to make curves where there are angles,
and makes that woman look more fem
inine and less hobhledehoy. Then there Is
the other woman with the fiery red face,
who will wear a bright blue frock. What
does she want? Either red or black. Red
will tone down the color In her face, and
so will black. Then, too, there ls the wo
man with pronounced features, who, for
some unknown reason, elects that her bod
ice shall be decorated in miniature but
tons. On these buttons are the faces of wo
men whose features are perfect, and some
body Is bound to recognize and find lud
icrous the contrast. The woman with the
long chin or long nose should learn to hold
her head back, so that these features are
not made more prominent. She with ugly
teeth should smile, but never laugh so
that they show, while the woman with
dumpy hands must stick religiously to dark
gloves, leaving the light ones to the pos
sessors of long, slender fingers.
The artist in dress chooses a veil with
a thin mesh, and rather small dots on It;
the large ones, a great distance apart, have
thp effect of black splotches on the face,
and If a dot happens to land upon one eye
and another on the tip of one’s nose, the
effect Is ridiculous, a something that a wo
man can never afford. The blonde can re
vel advantageously in pale yellow, the
rjr color of the spring sunshine, while
the brunette, because of her rich color end
her glossy hair, may put on pale blue;
that exquisite color only becoming to the
perfect brunette, the angel child, and those
other angels with wings, harps and perfect
complexions. The blonde, already cold, is
made to look colder and more colorless
when she assumes blue. The woman who
Is stout should never wear a tailor-made
suit. She needs fullness to conceal her
extra flesh. She whose foot is badly shaped
should beware of a white shoe, or a velvet
slipper. The woman with a long, slender
foot may assume the velvet slipper, but
she must have a very high rosette to
conceal her lack of Instep.
That woman who dresses well Is the one
who utilizes her belongings to accentuate
her virtues and coneeal her defeets. Un
less a neck is beautiful It should be cov
ered. and It ls Just as well to remember
that If the skin of the neck is dark, a
black bodice will make It look almost as
black as the proverbial devil. It should
never be forgotten that the arm of the
average woman ls ugliest from the elbow
down, and so there should he a rharitable
frill of lace, or chiffon, attached to every
elbow sleeve, that sleeve which used to lie
the abhorrence of Worth. She whose
waist is large must wear a black bell and
a small buckle. The small woman must
forswear the large hat which extinguishes
her, while the large one must give up the
little bonnet which tends to make her
bead look silly. Once you have discovered
the style of coiffure best suited to your
face, choose it for life, no matter what
the fashion may be It will give you a
certain Individuality, and you will know
that, artistically, you are always correct.
That movable background, the parasol,
rpay be white, black or scarlet, but blue
Is never advised, and yellow ls seldom lie
coming. A pale pink will give you a dainty
flush, but with it the gown worn must be
pink also.
The knots of ribbon on your pink or
blue cotton gown should be black, while
gray demands pink ribbons; brown, pale
yellow, and white, ecru. Y'our sleeve and
your collar will, this year, either make or
mar your bodice. A long sleeve must not
be too long and a very short one had bet
ter be omitted altogether. The business
woman can, least of all, afford to overlook
the value of dress, but her gowns must be
exquisitely simple, and no matter how
many diamonds she possesses, they must
never be Introduced to the office. Velvet
Is the Ideal gown for a matron, and noth
ing more elegant can be dreamed of than
a heliotrope velvet visiting toilet made
magnificent with rich buttons. Upon this
material Worth put buttons of the finest
cut steel, and the effect was superb. Cot
ton may be dainty; velvet or silk are ele
gant; while ail wool materials have for
their adjective the word, suitable. I should
as soon think of talking about an “ele
gant gravy” as 1 should about an elegant
cotton dress, and yet women occasionally
make this mistake. As we accumulate
years It becomes possible for us to wear
rich fabrics. Simplicity attaches itself
only to the beaute de dlable.
A babble about frocks? Well, my friend,
even if you are a man, you must confess
that you like to see a woman well dress
ed, and I must confess that men have
very good Ideas about women's clothes.
They like rich fabrics. Velvets appeal
to them, and yet they know when these
materials are Improperly worn. They
know when a women ls properly dressed
for the street, or for a dinner party, and'
they are equally clever In their criticisms.
They like laces, and they appreciate the
frou-frou effects that are so essentially
womanly. I never yet saw a man who
encouraged a woman In the wrapper hab
it. They seem to know that the loose,
ungraceful garment, worn outside of the
bedroom, Is the first step toward untid
iness of dress and speech. Man Is not a
bad critic. He may be Ignorant of ways
and means, but he can Judge results. As
he seldom overdresses, he Is bitterly op
posed to It, and doesn’t like the woman
who rules hls heart to attract attention
by loudness In her clothes, or her man
ners. It has been a pet belief of mine
that women are largely Influenced, mor
ally, by their gowns. It would be Im
possible for a woman to be free and easy
in velvet and rose point, and It would
he equally Impossible for her to grieve
In pink satin, or dance the minuet In
black crape. Who could be dignified In a
cotton frock made frivolous with many
ribbons? Who could be business-like in
swlss muslin? And who could be a suf
ragist in a white tulle looped with roses?
Generalizing, the American woman ls a
good dresser. The French dressmakers
claim that she lacks originality, but that
she takes the best and assimilates It to
herself. The English woman, inclining to
simplicity, is afraid to suggest, and de
pends largely on her dressmaker. She
dreads being conspicuous, and yet she
wants to look well. The Russian woman
is a good dresser, and a French modiste
says of her that she is the most critical
as far as her bills are concerned, but
that she always pays promptly. He Is
bitterest toward the Italian. Of her, he
says that she is hard to please, when
dressed no credit to him, and very poor
pay. Generalizing again, I think Ameri
can women are honest. I wish I could
say the same of the general dressmaker,
who doesn't find It necessary to be honest
either In words or deeds.
The woman who doesn't care for her
appearance, who isn't Interested In frocks.
In bonnets, In coats and hats, In parasols,
and gloves, In handkerchiefs and fans, ls
the woman whb belongs to no century
and who ls In the minority. She Is not
feminine, therefore she is not Interesting.
Men don’t like her, women don't find her
companionable. She Is a mistake. And
there Is no place for her either In heaven
or on the earth, though there may be In
the water under the earth. She Is not ap
proved of by men, by women, and cer
tainly not by— Bab.
Hicks (in bed)—Confound you, Boots! I
told you to wake me in time for the 0:10
train, and here it is 6:05 now.
Boots—Y’our honor can't blame, me, sir.
It's only four minutes’ walk to the sta
tion. If your honor was dressed, you could
catch It now.—Harper's Bazar.
—Young America—Did Thomas Jeffer
son write all of the declaration himself?
Patriotic Parent—Yes, my son; he wrote
every word of it with his own pen.
Young America—Why didn't he hire a
stenographer and typewriter.—New York
World.
“IYLICKT MIKE'S" LAST STAKE.
Money and Death Came Together to
the Indian Territory “Miurr."
From the New York Times. r
A big gang had gathered at "Japanese
Tommie's gambling pavilion, in the Creek
Indian country, a few weeks ago. The
place was filled with men in all stations
of border life, who were trying to carve
out a fortune through the high card.
Hardly any one noticed the entrance of a
seedy, broken-down man. who took a seat
at the faro table and began to play. He
had the unmistakable look of a man who
had been pushed to the wall and was
staking hls last cent. An old sombrsro
shaded eyes that were underlaid with
heavy dark rings, and the gambler drop
ped into hls seat as though hls body had
been weighted down with lead.
He threw a silver dollar on the high
card, slouched hls hat down over hls
eyes, and became motionless. The high
card won, and the dealer paid the bet,
pushing the money over toward tlte play
er. He let It remain, and the high card
continued to win until a big idle of money
lay in a heap before the forlorn'-looktng
at ranger. BtUl the player never moved.
The deal went steadily on. and still tho
high card won.
"Shake that fool up," said the dealer at
last.
A half-breed Indian first shook the play
er and then pulled off hls hat. The face
of a dying man greeted hls .close scru
tiny. The dealer reached for the heap
of money, and a dozen pistols were drawn
upon the Instant.
"He's as good as dead,” said "Faro
Dick,” the dealer. "Money won't do him
any goqd and no one knows him."
"I do." said "Cherokee Sam." an In
dian police officer. "Hls name Is Mike
Donald, and they all call him "Un
lucky Mike, the Mover,’ on the border.
Hls wife and family are camped down on
a creek near here, and I heard to-!lay
they were literally starving."
In ten minutes Donald was dead. Apo
plexy had killed him. At once a half doz
en willing hands bundled the winnings of
the corpse injo a hankdcrchlef and started
to the wife’s ramp, to see the widow and
turn the money over to him. One or two
stopped to buy some provisions for the
distressed ones. They found the forlorn
little camp without much trouble. "Un
lucky Mike's" wife was there, hut she was
dead. She had died of starvation and ex
posure. The rough bordermen—many of
them professional gamblers and killers,
perhaps some of them express robbers—
were horror-stricken. They brought the
husband to the creek and burled the two
together in one grave, a converted Chero
kee Indian preaching the funeral sermon.
Four Utile children, hungry, dirty and
cold, were taken In charge by a commit
tee, the money won In the faro hank by
their dead father was placed lo their
credit, and they are now being furnished
with good homes.
Mike llonald was a noted border char
acter. Six or eight years ago he first ap
peared In the west with hls wlte. They
had a good team of horses and anew wag
on. Whenever anew country was opened
to settlement they were there, rendy to
make the run to secure a home. Down In
No Man's Land, in 1888, Mike became a
squatter sheriff near Beaver City. The
United States did not recognize that there
was such a country as No Man's Land,
and the settlers organized themselves Into
a government of their own. They elected
their sheriffs, Judges and other court offi
cers. Outlaws from all over the west
flocked In. and soon No Man's Land be
came a mundane paradise.
While Mike Donald was sheriff he killed
“Whisky Dick" at Beer City, over a game
of cards, and from that to the time of hls
death he was unfortunate. Hls stock died,
and he was never able to keep a good team
of horses. Either they were stolen or
disease carried them off. He left No Man's
Land und traveled tip to Kansas. An un
easy demon appeared to possets him. He
became known as "Mike, the Mover,” be
cause he was never long In one place. He
was one of an army of people who had
been flitting about over the border In cov
ered wagons for years past.
When the old Oklahoma country opened,
Mike secured a good claim on the hanks
•f the Capadlan, but he lost hls title be
cause ho was a "sooner"—that Is. he had
gone Into the country before It was legally
open to settlement. He next drifted down
Into Greer county, a piece of land claimed
both by tho U’nlied States and Texas.
There he tried to build up a home. He be
came Involved In trouble with a Mexican
herder, and while he killed the cowboy,
the latter's friends murdered Donald’s old
est boy.
Again the restless fever caught the
"mover,” and he left Greer county for the
Cherokee strip. HIB wife, though she was
a pretty woman when he first came west,
had grown old and haggard. Mike lost Ills
dandified manner of dressing and became
as slouchy looking and disreputable as hls
team of skinny horses. Even the yellow
dog that had followed hls fortunes for
years deserted the man now and took up
Its residence with a roving band of Co
manche Indians.
Deputy marshals and Indian police came
to speak of the mover as "Unluck Mike."
Everything he turned hls hand to was un
fortunate. When the Cherokee strip open
ed he made the race, and located n town
lot at Perry. Tne next day he learned that
he had taken a lot In the public square and
that the government owned It still. Dis
couraged and disgusted, he tried to find
some land claim that had not yet been
taken. None such could be found. Bo ho
hitched up hls old skinny team and trun
dled off down Into the Cheyenne country.
A year or two ago, when old Whirlwind's
band of Cheyennes killed several settlers
and were on the warpath, "Unlucky Mike”
was near at hand, and was arrested by
the federal officers, charged with selling
the Indians “fire water” and Inciting them
to a rebellion. It took him a month to clear
himself of these charges, and by that time
hls family had wandered away and were
lost to him. ' •
On foot, he trailed them over the Indian
country. Once he got track of the wagon
It was no trouble to follow Its meander
lngs. Any one who ever saw It would not
soon forget It. The wheels were held to
gether with wire and rope wrapping; the
bed was In splinters, and the old canvas
top was a mass of shapeless ribbons. By
some of the settlers the outfit was nailed
the "Flying Dutchman," In comparison
to the old legend of the old Dutch ship of
the ocean. It was considered a misfortune
to run across "Unlucky Mike'” and his
prairie schooner when out on a business
trip.
By the superstitious the man became iso
lated from humanity. When he found hls
family down upon the banks of the Cimar
ron river, they were almost starved to
death. Together they continued to wander
over the wild oountry like a rudderless ship
at sea. Mike had three old crow-bait
horses when he first went into hls last
camp, but It Is said that he killed one of the
animals for food. On the day of hls
deatt h he found a silver dollar on a trail
leading to a town near by. With this
money he determined to tempt Dame For
tune for a last time. It was this dollar
that he risked at "Japanese Tommie's”
tent.
His little daughter Nellie told the com
mittee of the finding of this dollar and her
father starting to town after something to
eat. Once upon a time Mike had been a
gambler in a small way, and doubtless
when he was passing the gambling house
his desire to play drew him In. The wife
died soon after he left the little camp, and
It Is probable that consumption had some
thing to do with her death. "Dnlucky
Mike" and hls unfortunate, weather-beat
en prairie schooner will no longer prove a
nightmare to superstitious border officials
and Indians.
MUNYON'S
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Don't Fill Your System YVlth Inju
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Falla.
RHEUMATISM Positively Cured.
Acute or muscular Rheumatism relieved
at once. Shooting pains In arms, legs,
side, back or breast, or soreness of any
part of body cured In from 1 to 3 hours.
Chronlr Rheumatism, Sciatica or Lumba
go banished permanently. CATARRH, no
matter how serious, Guaranteed Cure by
only safe treatment. HEADACHE, from
whatever cause. Positively Relieved in
from 3 to 7 minutes. KIDNEY troubles,
in all forms, LIVER complaints. Bilious
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ways cured. DYSPEPSIA, Indigestion,
all Stomach Troubles permanently reliev
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Lung Troubles successfully treated. NER
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Diseases of the BLOOD. MALARIAL Dis
eases, FEMALE Troubles, Loss of Power
In Men, all cured by Munyon's Homoepa
thlc Remedies. All Druggists, for mostly
25 cents each. If you ure In doubt as ta
your disease write to Professor MUN
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toms. He will diagnose your case and
give you full benefit of hls advise ABSO
LUTELY FREE. Remedies sent to any
address on receipt of price.—ad.
ART OF COCK FIGHTIYG. *
J
It W a Fnvorltr Iport In the Last
Century.
From the Realm.
In the middle of the eighteenth century
Bourne called out against cock fighting
as "a heathenish mode of diversion, which
ought certainly to be confined to barbar
ous nations." lty that time It had grown
to be a hideous performance, such as we
still see It practiced In the "sporting pic
tures" of a hundred years ago. where tha
birds, provided with long steel spurs, stall
one another to death In a pit, surrounded
by a ring of leering old gentlemen In boots
and breeches. But, difficult as It may be
to realize the fact, In earlier times this
was a pastime which shocked nobody,
and really was much less horrible than
the Georgian tradition presupposes.
Extreme care was taken from the mo
ment that the egg was laid to Insure tho
health of what might turn out to be a
valuable tighter. At a month old tha
young birds were censed every morning
with burning rosemary or pennyroyal and
then taken for a constitutional on a grass
plot. Directly tho comb appeared It was
cut away and tho scar constantly rubbed
with butter. If the chicken crowed too
soon he was east out, for a good fighter
never rulssd his vulce till late In life.
When a promising bird had been selected ’
no pains were spared with him; he was
given strange and elaborate foods—cheese,
parings, chopped leeks, toast sopped in
wine. In short, no racer of our day Is
nourished and guarded more delicately by
his fortunate owner.
The bird was taken out of his pen after
his morning meal and a pair o' "hots.'t
soft padded rolls of leather, were care
fully fastened over tho spurs. Another
rook similarly protected was brought out,
and the two birds, being set on a lawn of
fine lurt, were encouraged to fight and
buffet one another until the prize cocic
showed signs of weariness. He was then
taken up, deprived of his "hots” and
burled In a basket of sweet straw, packed
around him In such a way that be could
scarcely stir, "and so shall he stew and
sweat until the evening." This basket was
called the "stove," and before the cock
was put Into it he was made to swallow
a lump of chopped rosemary and pounded
barley sugar, mixed In butter.
Some amateurs liked to put their fight
ing cocks Into a cork hag, but this wag
not held to be so cflleaclous as a “stove,’*
because the air could not pass so freely
through It. All the next day the cock
rested, and on the following morning tha
eoek master took him Into a green In.
closure. Then, putting him down on tha
turf, and holding some ordinary "dung
hill" cock In his arms, the master showed
It to him, ran from him. enticed him to get
a stroke at tho dunghill bird. When thor
oughly heated with this pastime the tight
er was once more stuffed with butter of
rosemary and then stoved In the basket
of straw till tho evening. This kind oC
training went on for six weeks, which waa
considered the proper time for training a.
cock, the last three days being spent in
absolute rest and fasting, so that It was
a fresh and hungry bird that was brought
out at length Into the pit. Now came tha
exercise of the real art of cock fighting—
the proper relation of the fighters.
None o't the Incidental refinements which
made eighteenth century cock fighting so
cruel had occurred to the simplicity of tha
seventeenth. No additions wera made to
the armor of the birds—no metal spurs or
needles fixed to their vigorous legs. All
that was done was to clear decks for
fighting—to cut oft the long feathers of
the neck and tails, to clip the wings, to'
smooth and sharpen the beak and heels
with a knife. It was Important to leava
no feathers on the crown of the head for
the foe to take hold of, and then, after a
final ceremony, when the cock master had
licked the head and eyes of the champion
all over with his tongue, the bird was
turned Into the pH to try his fortune. After
the battle was over each combatant was
tenderly taken up and his wounds were
scoured. He was then put Into his basket
to recover, so wrapped In flannel and
pressed down with straw that he could
scarcely breathe and thus left motionless
for the night.
He Wouldn’t lie It
"Say, girls, I want a booth at your
chureh festival or I won't play," declared
Mr. Freshly, according to the San Fran
cisco Post.
"Do you want to be Rebecca at the well
and draw pink lemonade out of a barrel?”
asked one.
"Oh, no; let's make a flower girl out of
him—he's so ladylike," suggested an other.
"No. no. girls; that will not do." de
clared a third, "we must put him soma
place where his manly beauty will be pro
fitable.”
"That's It; that’s it exactly," assented.
Freshly.
‘‘Well, we will put him In a box, let his
head and feet stick out, and then let people
guess what's In the box at 10 cents a
guess.”
"And whoever guesses can have it, eh?"
"And nobody will want It and nobody
will guess it, so we will make lots of
money. You'll be It, won't you, Mr.
Freshly?” But he had fled.
Husband (whose wife has been reprov.
lng him for smoking In her presence—You
often used to say before we were mar
ried, “Oh, George, I do so love the odor
of a good cigar.”
Wife—Yes, that sort of thing is part of
a young lady's capital.—Texas Slftlntra..
13