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/ 7t' THE SUNNY SOUTH. y y* ' i ^*y**|^*^«*^ i *«X«iX«»^K««^t«Xi«JLi*M«A>«£i«XiiKi«Xa«^*<^i«^*^»<^i«^>tJ^i Woman’s Page and Work of the Household Continued. crutches—will hurt me all my life, and *'•11 understand how that has tied my hands somewhat. Now that she is im proving I have time to renew old inter ests, hut mirth comes with scarcely the old zest. However, this trial has taught me much, and I am glad of the depths in my nature which have responded to the need. Then came the time when “from the weary rounds of a busy life I was shaken out of my place" from illness, and this taught me another lesson. But aside from that it gave me time for a little re creation. a mental relaxation of which I was sorely in need. Just think of it! I read a book through, something I have not been able to do for months, and you never could guess what it was. What in deed but “Vanity Fair." Never mind wondering "where I've lived all my life,” I had never read it. and now I am almost sorry I did. Not but that the literary style is excellent. Inimitable, unlike any thing one finds in any other classic, but somehow it made me sorry for human nature. I hate to believe that there are people as brutally scheming as Becky Sharpe, as blindly inane as Amelia, or as weakly selfish as George. I shocked my self by admiring Becky more than I did Amelia with her weak, goody goody ways and her stupid devotion to a shadow, while she slighted the love of the one worthy man of her acquaintance. Poor old Dobbin! I shed oceans of tears over his troubles—a. great, true heart like that to waste itself so! But there is waste love in life and always will be, I suppose, grieve over it as we may. Probably there is not a character in the book but has its counterpart in real life, and that’s the pity of it—that's just what made me sorry. We are all of us so weakly hu man, and yet there are moments when each may rise to heights of sublimity. If we could only stay there long enough to get acquainted, to homestead it, as it wore. But one joy the winter has brought me unmixed with any regret—a better ac quaintance with Emerson and an intro duction to the great word painter. Bus kin. I had known Emerson slightly be fore, but through a friend I grew to know and appreciate him to the fullest. Rus- kin's “Crown of Wild Olives" has opened a new world to me, and I stand on the threshold exalted and wondering. To be sure, he has a tantalizing habit of start ing out with what we consider a false premise and reasoning so logically that we find ourselves unconsciously agreeing with him. But then he is so earnest and withal so true that he charms me as few other writers have done. I am very much interested in following the doings of the Book club, and the only balm to my regret that I am not a member is the sweet fact that I was invited to become one. If only my time were not so lim ited! But I am glad the little mother has devoted space to it so that I may have the pleasure of reading the criticisms. Of the books so far discussed, I have read “Marcella" and “A Bow of Orange Rib bon.” “Marcella” I care less about than any other of Mrs. Ward's books I have read. I like her earnestness, her inten tions, but somehow she never seems to arrive anywhere. She starts out so well, she presents evils to us in so sympathetic a manner that we are fired with anxiety to correct them, to throw off the yoke of injustice fastened upon us by society, but she never shows us how to do it, and our last state is nearly as bad as the first. “A Bow of Orange Ribbon” was interest ing, but it didn't impress itself on my mind as did that other book of Mrs. Barr’s, "Jan Vedder's Wife.” That has something in it to remember, a gauge by which to measure self, and I think aH wives especially should read it. How good the little mother is to us to give us so much space, and aren't we having just the nicest times all to our selves lately! It seems so cosy in our household that no wonder they all came back—the Kitsie we had missed so long, the Golden Gossip we had thought we lost, the Maggie Richard and Earnest Willie we can't get along without. Oh, and our spicy Musa Dunn, our dreamy Dolores, sunshiny Samoth and that naughty boy, Eugene. By the way. Eu gene, what are you doing with Maude Estelle’s heart? Don't you know that little, boys shouldn’t have anything unless they ask for it real pretty? And so val uable a plaything as a heart she had al ways fancied should remain quietly in its hiding place until some would-be posses sor earnestly pleaded that it be trans ferred to his keeping in exchange for the pure gold of his own. What have you to say for yourself, Eugene? May Phillips Tatro, I am so glad you are getting bet ter and that you come to us so often. I see your name in other periodicals often, and immediately I feel a sense of sweet proprietorship in that magazine, for do you not belong to us by right of love? And Minnie Eee Arnold is hack again, not to stay away so long again I hope. And now I am going after having tired you all out. But you see, my long silence demanded a long letter. If I make my future silence in proportion to the length of this letter you will hear from me again about next Christmas or later. Goodbye, MAUDE ESTELLE SMITH. Pontiac, Mich. A TRIP TO CANADA. A Householder Writes Interestingly of Her Trip Into the Queen’s Domains and Beautiful Toronto. Dear Household: In fulfilling my prom ise to you, to tell of some of my rambles, I also make good a promise, in this ar ticle, made to other friends. But I have hesitated about putting my thoughts be fore The Sunny readers, for I shall try to tell you of things that the most bril liant pens of two continents have beg gared language in describing. In my simple way, will give you my im pressions of this visit across the states. It was clear across, too, and the longest way there, for I live in one of the gulf states. When a Canadian or one from an extreme northern state, found out that I was from a gulf- state, there was the liveliest interest manifested and many questions put to me. And I, so proud of our noble Southland, could almost feel myself grow taller, as I told them of the incomparable south. The City of Toronto. In Toronto my party was delightfully domiciled on Jarvis, one of the prettiest streets in the city. When our hostess, an elegant English woman, learned that we were from the states, she said: “O, yes, you are Yankees!” This did not ruffle me, however, as I knew- she was “innocently guilty.” Then I explained the difference to her. * * * We all fell in love with the people of Toronto. They are charming and did everything in their power to make our stay among them one of continued pleas ure. They are so courteous and thought ful and not at all like the usual English man. Wish I could describe Toronto to those who haven't seen it. so they could get at least a good idea of it. I have visited about half of the largest cities in the states, but with the exception of Wash ington. have never seen any half so beautiful as Toronto. In the first place, it looks like one vast flower garden. Then the grass is so green and the streets are so clean, is it any wonder the people are joyous and happy? The principal streets are solidly paved with asphalt, and are cleaned with elec tric sweepers twice a day. The pavements are elevated six inches and broad enough for four to walk abreast. One could go out walking or driving and come back fresh and clean as far as any flying dust was concerned. There wasn’t any. It did seem to me that I never saw a city so chock full of places of vivid inter est. Our cities are pretty much alike; but Toronto is essentially English, and being so different from ours, made the in terest greater. I had seen the three larg est museums in the states, but when I had rambled through the one at Toronto, I realized that I had been in a museum in every way worthy of the name. It is per fectly marvelous the millions of curious things that are collected in that huge building, and some of them must date back to the year 1. Instead of a month in Toronto, one should have a month for the museum. Then there is that magnificent library, and the many public buildings that are built on so grand a scale. But the parks and the horticultural gardens filled my soul with rapture. Yet I can not say that these are one bit prettier than the ones at Washington, D. C. Of all my trip across the states, I be lieve I enjoyed most the skim over Lake Ontario on one jf those splendid steel clad steamers made especially for the lake trade. There are three of these steamers. Our party took passage on the Corona, licensed to carry 3,000 passengers. My desire to see and learn carried me pretty well all over the steamer. I knew, too, that the best way to avoid sea-sick ness was to keep on my feet and be in the stirring air as much as possible. I had not forgotten what a cousin of Everyone knows the ex pense and annoyance of lamp- chimneys breaking. Macbeth’s don’t break; and they make more light. Write Macbeth Pittsburgh Pa mine said of herself when she crossed the Gulf of Mexico, and mal-de-mer attacked her. At first she was afraid she was go ing to die; then, as she became sicker, didn’t care if she did die, and finally she prayed to die. I am most grateful that it was my priv ilege to enjoy this skim across the lake, both going and returning. Coming back, tve had a tiny squall. This was interest ing! A friend and I (mbea to thj up permost deck and then it was more inter esting! I thought several times we would be swept from our feet. Ah! but it was grand! Niagara Falls. Now, indeed, I hesitate. Ever since my first geography, when I saw a picture in that little book, of Niagara Falls, I have longed to see it in reality. That dream was realized on the Canadian trip. My first hour at these Falls was disappoint ing. It was simply too immense to be taken in quickly. But as the beauty and grandeur of this mighty wonder, grew upon me. it became all and more than my fancy had pictured. The rush of the mighty waters never grows tiresome, either to eye or ear, and as 1 stood there that first day, there was a wish in my heart that I might live within the sound of those waters as long as I was on this sphere. It had a soothing effect upon me; and yet—when I gazed upon the mighty force of those waters, wondering when it came, and to what it was tending, a wild longing to understand it all made me turn nervously away and close my eyes. Its very indeserihableness puzzled me. There is no pen—there are no words— that can give a true picture of this great waterfall, that Canada and the states both claim. The royal gorge of the Niagara was as grand in its way, as the Falls. An elec tric car line runs from Hotel Imperial— our stopping place—to the wharf at Lew iston, where one takes steamer down the river and across Lake Ontario. A road bed has been cut out of the rock so high it is impossible to see the ton from ob servation cars. The river is very turbu lent all the way till just before Lewiston is reached. This route is considered one of the wild est and most picturesque views on the globe. What is known as “Whirlpool Rapids" begins not far from the Imperial, and is the wildest thing I ever saw in the shape of water. Now listen, friends, and try to see it as I saw it, As the waters rush over the rock bed of the river, they seem to come from opposite directions. As they rush together, the force is so great that the water is dashed into the air, falling back as spray. The Whirlpool proper is a great circular basin and the waters are highest in the middle. This, of course, is caused by the fierce rocks beneath. The waters rush cross ways to the opposite bank, which, by the way, is 350 feet high. Here there is a parting of currents. One great eddy sweeps backward while another turns in another direction, which is, itself divided, a portion of the water going one way, and the other turning hack, form ing another eddy; and thus it goes on for ever. It makes you dizzy to watch it, yet the picture is so fascinating, that you don't want to take your eyes away. The conductor had the car to stop a few times, that we might the better see. O, it was grand! But I'm not satisfied with my visit to Niagara Falls. “Some sweet day I will wander back again,” and that “some day” shall be in winter. I want to see that mighty wonder done up in ice. Then I will be satisfied. ITALIE. P. S.—Shall I come hack some time and tell you my impressions of Mammoth Cave? Say! Householders, how am I ever to let you know how much I love that little blue-eyed Hubbard of ours? Every time I say anything nice about her. she puts her pencil through it. That isn’t fair, is it? Did you all see what Italic said on edi torial page of March 11—about The Sun ny’s silver anniversary? I wish you would tell me if you think it a good idea. Think seriously about It, now. I do hope the idea will grow Into a grand success. ITALIE. WITH THE POETS. AN OLD-FASHIONED SHIVOREE. To James Whitcomb Riley, In apprecia tion of Child Rhymes, presented Jan- uard 14, 1899. If your hearing sense appreciates a mu sic nice and sweet, That enraptures all your being from your head down to your feet. That awakens your heart’s slow throbbing like the tingle of old wine. With pulsations wild and thrilling that are more than half divine, You will say my estimation’s good, and suits you to a T, When I speak about a regular old-fash ioned “shivoree.” With these words of explanation and the stream of fancy loosed. It seems that I am back again, and once more introduced To the days of old affection when my life was gay and young. When I was active as a cat and very glib of tongue; The days were golden apples then in sil ver pictures sweet. And all my anxieties were Just to sleep and eat; But I forgot my subject, as these feel ings come to me. What was it? Yes; a regular old-fash ioned “shivoree.” My memory slips the halter, and my wife she often ties A string around my finger when she sends for her supplies For the kitchen; hut it seems tonight, my eyes no longer dim Can see the stars of years ago, the new moon fine and slim. That shone on Wagsley’s meadow that October night when we Went trudging for a regular old-fashion ed “shivoree.” There was hint of winter in the breezes blowing chill. And all the world it seemed was wrapped in slumber deep and still. Except, when with regretful sobs, the autumn wind went by. Or when in distant woods the owl awoke his boding cry; We struck across the country, in a sort of Indian-file, We skirted by the thicket and then cross ed the broken stile; No explorers climbed the mountains, nev er sailors stemmed the sea, With the spirit of our regular old-fash ioned “shivoree.” Lafe Someby had a gallon can, a “rosom- ed” string fixed to it. For any idea of the sound you'd have to hear him do it; But when his dusty glove would slip along that sticky string. The sleeping hills for miles around with echoes sharp would ring! Nate Larkins had a- cow-bell fastened to a leather strap, And every time he'd give a step the string would likely wrap Around his leg! Such sounds and sights, I never hear nor see. As when we took a regular old-fashioned “shivoree.” Horee Sidles? W»!l, T reckon-so! ar.5 when the boys played, It seemed the mules for miles around in highest key had brayed; And pans and guns and sleigh bells, but there never was a mouse That crept along more softly than we did up to the house; It makes me seem a boy again, way back there, Ge-mi-nee! The racket of a regular old-fashioned “shivoree.” Lafe Someby gave his “rosomed” string a pull, and some one shot A horse-pistol, how it cracked! and then the entire lot Of bells and bugles, conch shells and rat tle traps, such a noise! All joined in the chorus of “Now give it to them, boys.” It is Harve Hankins’ wedding that is specially in mind; A fellow with a fainter heart would be a task to find. He'd courted for full fifteen years, and mustered courage then To lay his ease before her; this we cele brated when We marched across the turnip patch, around the house, and he Looked out upon our regular old-fashion ed "shivoree.” The door was swung wide open, and each fellow found a seat; The old man said, “The wind is sharp, so boys here's a treat.” There was cider in a pitcher, there were applies smooth of skin That he passed with the injunction, “Ev ery fellow now pitch in.” And pockets! Hank had not enough to hide his hands away, He just backed up against the wall with out a thing to say! And Bethy in the corner sat and held one of the girls Was musing kindly sober with her rib bons and her curls. And trying to look dignified, but some how smiles v. ould creep Around her mouth, when she would look, where eh.v as any sheep Now stood her lord and master who was still her loving beau With face like a transgressor in the stocks of long ago! We cracked some hickory nuts, and had some taffy! Such a time Would baffle eloquence to tell, and any how my rhyme Is getting something like my step, and plods along quite slow. They both had music in them in the day whose fading glow Is shining in the heavens as a prelude to the night. Where soon eternal stars will rise to greet my longing sight; But I know when I shall waken to the angels' Jubilee, I shall recall our regular old-fashioned “shivoree!” —ALONZO L. RICE. A LATER LUCILE. born to nurse And to soothe, and to solace, to help and to heal The sick world that leans on her. This was Lucile.” —MEREDITH. I have read on the page of Lucile Of a woman's devotion and worth. But I never had hope yet to feel I would meet one Just like her on earth She was pure in her worth as the snow On the top of the mountain, or yet As the flower but yesterday blown. And by kisses of dewdrops still wet. ’Mid perplexities keeping her course. With a trust that was wont to endure, Not alone by a meaningless force, But demeanor so lovely and pure. And so when the world would oppose And a shade on her pathway was cast, She would bend like the delicate rose To arise when the tempest was past. Or resembling the lily, her heart Was too full of the burden and heat, And must wither, its grace to impart. Or be crushed by the merciless feet. And moreover resembling the flower That is rifled and nipped by the frost, With its odor surviving the hour, Notwithstanding its beauty is lost. So her grace and her beauty still lives, Where no shadow can cross nor conceal, And a new inspiration it gives To a later and fairer Lucile. And so may your life as a stream In the sunlight of heaven still flow. And rejoice undisturbed in the dream Which the present has blessed you to know. As the moon to the star at her side An existence devotes on all nights, Will you give (to be taken with pride) A remembrance to him who thus writes? —ALONZO L. RICE. THE SPOILER. (Af.’civ *>/? manner of Rudyard -V.ipling.) '“A* tv **,f jq' mere was and she wrote for the press (As you or I might do). She told how to cut and fit a dress. And how to make many a savory mess, But she never had done it herself, I guess, (Which none of her readers knew). O the hour we spent and the flour we used. And the sugar we wasted like sand. At the hest of a woman who never had cooked, (And now we know that she never could cook). And did not understand A woman there was, and she wrote right fair, (As you or I might do). How out of a barrel to make a chair, To he covered with chintz and stuffed with hair, ’Twould adorn any parlor, and give it an air! (And we thought the tale was true). O the days we worked and the ways we worked. To hammer and saw and hack. In making a chair in which no one would . sit. A chair in which no one could possibly sit Without a crick in his back. A woman -there was, and she had her fun, (Better than you and I); She wrote out receipts, and never tried one. She wrote about children—of course she had none— She told us to do what she never had done, (And never intended to try). And it isn’t to toil and it isn’t to spoil That brims the cup of disgrace— It’s to follow a woman who didn’t know beans, (A woman who never had cooked any beans). But wrote and was paid to fill space. A BETROUSERED BIPED. BY FERNANDEZ JACKSON. If there is any one creature on the face of this fair earth that is utterly and hope lessly despicable, It is the betrousered biped that thinks itself irresistible. I make no mistake in the pronoun. Pray let it stand. The best authorities sanction such usage in speaking of all small and puny creatures; and surely among these we must class this flabby lump of ego tistical contemptibility, which is beyond question the puniest of the puny and the smallest of the small. It seems to be the current belief that vanity and self-conceit are the natural concomitant of beauty. This is true only in part. The betrousered biped which fancies itself irresistible is as a rule only passably good looking, and often it is positively ugly. Indeed Its attractions are frequently so few and of a character so feeble that one Is driven to the conclusion that the puny organism must be afflicted with a mild form of lunacy. Behold it seated by the side of some bright, pretty girl, its face wreathed in vacuous smiles, its whole being aglow with idiotic self- adulatio!n Can I ever forget a scene of this kind I witnessed one sunny April morning on the cars at Wilmington? The girl—a perfect picture of blooming youth, sparkling intelligence and winsome beauty—was leaving the city, and the biped had come down to see her off. It had been simpering to her of its many conquests in the domain of Eros, and like Marianna in the moated grange the young lady seemed a-weary. I did not wonder at it. I myself felt as if I were living in an atmosphere of ipecac. The fatuous, beaming toad held for me a certain sickening fascination. In my misery I kept glancing back at it, wondering by what sorry mischance it had found a place among the sons of men. While I still wondered the young lady’s forbearance seemed to have reached its limit. With a smile of ironic sweetness, she looked up at the biped, saying: “Really, Mr. Jotaes. you should be la belled dangerous. Some provision ought to be made to protect ^he hearts of too susceptible maids from such gallants as you.” “Aw—so? Why, may I ahsk?” fondling the shadow of a mustache, and grinning inanely. "Why. don’t you realize that you are daily committing a species of murder? Have you no conscience—no pity for those poor girls whose lives you are making very nightmares of misery?” “Aw, but how can I he’p it? It s not my fault, don’tcherknow.” choking with an agony of nauseating delight. “Not your fault?” repeated the girl with lifted brows. “Have you not been just telling me that you made them all believe you were in love with them and so suc ceeded in winning their hearts?” The fatuous grin broadened. The biped rolled its eyes around the car as if good- humoredly demanding of the passengers the attention and admiration it felt was Us due. “Naw,” it said, "I didn’t say that. Miss Glenn. I don't make love to the young ladies. They—they—weally, you mustn’t blame me for what I cahn’t he’p—Indeed, you mustn't. Miss Glenn.” “What!” exclaimed the girl. "Do you mean to say that all those young ladies gave you their love unsought?” At this the toad's delight reached the hysterical stage. Its grin expanded to its ears. Its great colorless eyes swam In moisture. It choked and swelled and gurgled so alarmingly away down In its throat that really I began to think we should presently have an explosion. “Aw,” it stuttered, “but you oughtn’t to ahsk that, don’tcherknow. Only I wouldn't make love to any girl unless I meant to marry her. No, indeed. Miss Glenn. I don't mean to be ewuel—I wouldn’t cause pain if I could he'p it. That would be ewuel, don’tcherknow.’’ I saw the girl’s face change. She look ed sick—deathly sick No wretched lands man in mid-ocean ever appeared more utterly miserable, and I knew that vanity- bloated toad was the cause. “Will you get me a glass of water?" she said faintly, adding, however, in a stronger voice before he could rise: “No, pray do not trouble yourself. I will get it myself.” With this she rose and left it. Still grinning and twirling its little spec tre of a mustache, it sat there awaiting her return. Presently, however, it seem ed to dawn upon it that she was linger ing at the cooler an extraordinarily long time. It turned and saw her standing on the car platform, gazing intently into space. The biped stared and began to fidget. It hummed very softly an air from a comic opera, and carefully arranged its altitudinous collar and inflammatory four- in-hand. Finally, as it seemed on the point of rising and making for the door, the girl came hurrying back. “We are about to start, Mr. Jones.” she said—as a matter of fact we were not to leave under fifteen minutes—“and I will not detain you longer. I am going to take a seat on the other side of the car. Thanks for coming down to see me off. Good-bye.” She spoke very courteously and bent her young head with sweetest grace, but the look of unspeakable contempt in her glowing eves penetrated even the rhin- ocerous hide of the creature before her. It actually changed color and shrank from her. It watched her take up her little gripsack and move away to the further end of the car, and its lips were dumb. It cast a furtive look at the other passen gers, and then slowly got upon its weak ly spindle legs and turned toward the door. Not once did it glance toward the girl away down yonder near the opposite entrance, but went sneaking out of the crowded car. looking for once In its poor, little, grovelling life as if it felt almost as cheap as it really was. And I—Lord forgive me!—I just wanted to bite that little darling. I believe that dainty peach-bloom cheek of hers would have tasted delicious. I would have giv en a small fortune if I could have only made her understand how wildly, madly happy she had made me. As that was out of the question, how ever, I had to content myself with sitting there grinning Insanely, and occasionally hugging myself in an access of unholy glee. ANY PERSON Wishing to know the truth In regard to their health should not fall to send for a valuable and new 64-page Booklet which will be sent FREE for a short time to those who mention this paper. This book is published by the celebrated physicians and specialists—Dr. Hathaway & Co., of 22V 2 S. Broad street, Atlanta, Ga„ whom you should address. Write today. TAX-DODGERSJN HAWAII. Here are a few names taken at randon from the delinquent tax list of Hawaii for 1S9S, as printed In one of the Honolulu papers; Alapaki, Bila Alapai, Ah Kui, Ah You, C. J. Ah Fat. Boo Sau Tong, Bow Din, Doi, Ak Goo, lopeka. Ellen Ka- haunaela, Lukia Kaholoholo, Liehulu Keokalole, Kahakumakalanl, Not At and B. So. The 'Ks'” take up three columns of space, being three times as numerous as the delinquents under any other letter. A TALENTED WOMAN. Press Opinions of a Daughter of the South Who Gives Dialect Readings. That gifted Alabamian, Mrs. Henry Gielow, who, as dialect reader and lec turer, Is awakening the warmest enthu siasm both north and south, has recently given us that charming book, “Mammy's Reminiscences.” In this volume of mono logues. she interprets the plantation folk lore, as it really was, and not as repre sented by the minstrels of today. She re produces the negro cabin speech, its mel ody, its quaintness, its grotesqueness, its underlying tone of pathos, its naturalness —in short, she touches the dreamy old plantation twilight with the wand of genius. The south can but feel proud of its tal ented daughter, and Atlanta will give her a cordial welcome the latter part of April. Of her lectures and readings the northern papers have many pleasant things to say, as seen below: The Troy (N. Y.) Chronicle says; Mrs. Gielow is one of the rare enter tainers who leave a feeling of genuine regret when they have finished. She is refined, and to the charm attributive of the true southern woman has added the happy faculty of talking the dialect of the negro as it is spoken in the land of which she knows. Her plantation lulla- bys, song of the cotton pickers and camp meeting songs were crooned in a way that ought to shame the singer of the average comic negro composition. She can also tell a story well, never losing the point, yet never pressing it. She credits the audience with having wit enough to find the joke without the aid of a chart and compass. Would there were more like her! Plainfield (N. J.) Chronicle. Of Mrs. Gielnw's impersonation it may be said that the Monday Afternoon club never had a pleasanter reminder of their anniversaries. She combines with her art all the traditional dignity and sweetness of the southern woman native, and wins her hearers easily. In the year past she has brought her art, which is original with her, to perfection, which has come to be recognized by a long list of emi nent divines and others of note in New York and Brooklyn. New York Herald, March 14, 1S97: Mrs. Henry J. Gielow gave one of her most successful readings Tuesday after noon. when she delighted a large and fashionable audience on the Heights with her original dialect monologues. She was received in most flattering fashion, and when her first recitation. “Mam’s Little Baby,” was rendered, the plaintive negro dialect completely captured her audience. Her other recitations were of the same character-dialect monologues, which are said to fully equal in their delicate humor and pathos anything written by Thomas Nelson Page or Harris, and, of course, have the great merit of originality, as they are all, as yet, unpublished, and used by Mrs. Gielow solely for her reading. Brooklyn Standard-Union : The dramatic dialect reading given by Mrs. Henry Gielow at Mrs. Russell's Tuesday afternon was of exceptional in terest and a crowning success to the un dertakings of this gifted little southern woman. The monologues and poems read on the occasion were of her original com position. and the accuracy of her dialect and description of the darky character simply perfect. The entire program was most enjoyable, and her rendition of her “Mammy's Reminiscences” and "Evening on the Plantation” was inimitable. New York Tribune, June 25, 1896: Mrs. Gielow is one of the most promi nent members of the Southern society of Brooklyn, and her recitations and negro dialect are perfect. CRITICISM. This practice is much more common than is imagined. In the picture gallery and the museum, in the library and the lecture-room, in the church and the the atre, we continually hear the worthless criticism of people who do not under stand what they are talking about. Be cause a man can read he feels at liberty to criticize each author he takes up. however dense may be his ignorance of the subject treated. The invalid's friends often criticise the methods of the physi cian without having the least comprehen sion of them. In the same way the par ent often criticises the teacher, age criti cises youth, friends criticise each other, without any adequate knowledge of each other's motives, abilities, character or cir cumstances. CONFIDENCE HELPS TO CURE O NE reason Mrs. Pinkham’s treatment helps women so promptly is that they have confidence in her. Through some of the many thousands of Mrs. Pink- ham’s friends an ailing woman will be led to write to Mrs. Pinkham at her home in Lynn, Mass., and will tell her symptoms. The reply, made without charge of any kind, will bear such evidence of knowledge of the trouble that belief in her advice at once inspires hope. This of itself is a great help. Then the knowledge that women only see the letters asking for advice and women only assist Mrs. Pinkham in replying makes it easy to be explicit about the little things that define the disease. Mrs. Eliza Thomas, of 634 Pine St., Easton, Pa., writes: “ Dear Mrs. Pinkham—I doctored with two of the best doctors in the city for two years and had no relief until I began the use of your remedies. My trouble was ulceration of the womb. I suffered something terrible, could not sleep nights and thought sometimes that death would be such a relief. To-day I am a w^ll j woman, able to do my own work, and have not a pain. I used four bottles of Lydia E. Pinkham’s Vegetable Compound and three packages of Sana tive Wash and cannot thank you enough for the good it did me. ” Mrs. M. Stoddard, Box 268, Springfield, Minn., writes: “Dear Mrs. Pinkham—For about four years I was a great sufferer from female troubles. I had backache all of thetime, no appetite, pains in stomach, faint ing spells, was weak and my system was completely run down. I also had falling of womb so bad that I could scarcely walk across the floor. After taking two bottles of your Vegetable Compound and one box of Lozengers, can say I am cured- ”