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PLAIN MISS BARSTOW.
“What nonsense it is for me to stand
here gazing into the glass in hope of dis
covering one r xl feature in a face every
one calls plain! A!j me! I wish I coni 1
learn to lis;"*i without a pang to the
many remarks ma loon my personal ap
pearance. lam a perfect foil to Emily,
and people notice my ugliness tiecaus i
my sister is such a beauty. I see her
sought after aifl admire 1, while I"
Lucille Burstow stopped speaking, and.
dropping her hen 1 in her hands, burst
into tears. She did not hoed the length
and luxuriance of the chestnnt hair
which enveloped her like a veil. In her
opinion Emily's lutir was far lovelier than
her own. And she was unconscious of
the symmetry of her small liunds and
feet. To their beauty she attached no
importance, and thought only of the
plain face on which so many of her ac
quaintances remarked.
She had passed the evening at a ball,
and while dancing a quadrille had heard
a gentleman in the next set say:
“Isn't the lady in blue and white the
one we heard sing so divinely at Mrs.
Springer’s?”
The reply of his partner came distinct
ly to Lucille's ears:
“Which yonug lady? It was the plain
Miss Barstew we heard sing. Yes, she
is dressed in bine and white, I see. She
is the same.”
How well Lucille rememljered every
word! She could sing. No one ever de
nied the sweetness and strength of her
voice, and she had sung her best at Mrs.
Springer's. No wonder Geoffrey Wayne
had remembered it. Few could forget
the beauty of that clear voice, but Lu
cille would have willingly bartered her
voice for a lovely face.
At last the weary girl turned off the
gas, and went to bed; but it was long
before she could find rest in sloop.
Breakfast was nearly over when Lu
cille appeared in the dining room the
next morning. Her grandmother and
sister were just rising from tin- table.
“Mercy, sis!” cried Emily, “how
swollen your eyes are, and you look like
a ghoetl It doesn’t improve your ap
pearance very much to look so woe be
gone.”
“I am not always studying my ap
pearance,” answered Lucille, taking a
•eat at the table.
“Lucille, Geoffrey Wayne spoke to me
last night of the excellence of your sing
ing at Mrs. Springer's," said Mrs. Bur
-8 tow.
“Yes, I heard him speak of it," said
Lucille, with a bitter smile, for she re
membered that she had also heard the
answer of his partner in the quadrille.
“But don’t let his praise cause you to
have holies of fascinating him,” laughed
Emily, “for I have entered the lists, and
naturally you will have no chauoe."
“Naturally, of course,” said Lucille.
“Emily, don’t fret Lucille this morn
ing. She looks half sick,” said Mrs. Bar-
Btow, with a fond look at the beauty,
whom she idolized.
“I am wholly sick,” said Lucille, push
ing away her coffee cup. “I wish there
was some place on this earth where I
could go with the certainty of not hear
ing the changes rung on my ugliness."
“1 am afraid there is no such blissful
•pot," said Emily. “But I must lie off
to dress, for Geoffrey Wayne is to call
this noon. This is November. I will
wager a pair of gloves to you, Lucille,
that I have a chance of becoming Mrs.
Wayne before January.”
“I don’t doubt it, so I won’t run the
risk of lasing the gloves," said Lucille,
leaving the room.
Geoffrey Wayne came at the time ap
pointed, and Emily, beautifully dressed,
flitted down into the parlor, and held out
one white dimpled hand in welcome to
this tall, golden haired fellow who was
so sought after in society.
“ Where is your sister? I hoped to
have the pleasure of hearing her sing,"
Mr. Wayne said when he at last arose to
go.
“She has a headache. Indeed, she is a
perfect martyr to all the petty ills to
which flesh is heir,” replied Emily. “She
cares very little for society, and seldom
receives morning calls," she added.
That night Lucillecamo into her grand
mother’s room, and knelt beside the low
chair in which the old lady sat. She did
not speak, and her face looked worn and
sad.
“What is the matter, Lutie? lias any
thing gone wrong?” asked Mrs. Barstow,
kissing the upturned brow of her grand
daughter.
“Everything is wrong, grandma. lam
leading a vain, useless life, and I am
tired of it. What does it tdl amount to
—this continual round of balls and par
ties? It brings no peace, no joy to me,
and I am sure I bring no joy to any one
else. I hear myself spoken of every
where as ‘the plaiu Miss Barstow.’ It is
thus that 1 am distinguished from Emily
Let me go somewhere else, dear grand
ma. Let me try to be happy in my own
way.”
“Where do you wish to go, Locille?”
asked the old lady gravely.
“You know Amy Winter, my old
schoolmate, who lives in BarrisVown?
Let mo go there for a few months. She
and her mother live very quietly, and I
know they would be quite willing to
have me board with their. I could cul
tivate my voice, and —here I am not
happy. lam restless, unsatisfied. 1
want, I really need a change."
“My highest ambition is to make the
orphan children of my poor boy happy,"
said Mrs. Bars tow in a sad tone. “I can
not forget that he consigned them to my
care with his dying breath. You shall
do as yon wish, Lucille; but you will be
leaving a luxurious home for a very
plain one. Emily seems very happy
here; why cannot you be so also?"
“Emily and I are very different," re
plied Lucille. “She thrusts me into the
background always. Perhaps she does
not mean to be unkind, but the knowl
edge of her great beauty and the homage
it receives make her selfish and over
bearing. I shall lie happier for having
a change, even though it will be only to
dull little Barristown.”
Lucille wrote to her friend at once,
asking if she could, have a home with
;
j her for a few months, and the answer
; came by return mail. The Winters were
I delighted with the idea of her coming,
and hoped she would come at once.
Of c ourse Emily was much surprised
| at her sister's desire t® leave the city in
the hei jht of the gay season: but Lucille
would listen to no reasoning or argu
) meats, anl the end of the week found
| her in Barristown.
At fir.t she was very well contented
with the change she had made. She
practiced all her old mune, read every
book which came in bar way and did a
barge amount of worsted work. But after
i a while time dragged very heavily. The
small circulating library was exhausted,
! and every bureau and mantle in the
1 house was supplied with worsted mats.
The days grew weary again, and Lucille
began to question whether she was rnak
i mg a better use of lier life in Burristown
than she had made in her own home.
During this season of doubt a letter came
from Emily containing great news.
•‘Congratulate me, dear Ln,” so the
letter ran, “for I have bagged my bird.
Yes, I am actnally engaged to that gold
en haired Adonis, Geoffrey Wayne, and
have a solitaire diamond three times as
large as the one Will Gorh:un gave Mol
lie Prichard. I was undecided at first
between Goof and Count Lazona—do
you retnemlier him? Oh, such dark,
languishing eyes and such a thrilling
voice! But ho is poor, and I am not
adapted for love in a cottage. It would
not suit me even with the coant as wor
shiper. If his old aunt in France would
but die conveniently and leave him a
fortune! But she won’t, of coarse, and
Geof is richer ttiau she is anyhow. He
is madly in love with me. Won’t you
like him for a brother-in-law? When I
am married you and grandma can live
as humdrum as you please; and you
needn’t vegetate into the country to
avoid being overshadowed by me. The
count told me last night that I had a
face like a falling star. Wasn’t that
pretty? Oh, dear, how I wish he were
rich! Geof Is too dignified to say such
things. Sotvl me your congratulations,
little plain face. Your turn may oorne
some time. Love in a cottage might
suit you admirably; but for heaven’s
sake don’t marry one of those Barris
town pumpkins Amy used to tell about”
“What a different letter I should write
bo her if I should become engaged!”
murmured Lucille, allowing the epistle
to fall in her lap. “But then Emily and
I are not at all alike."
Then she drew her cliair to the center
table, opened her desk and began the
congratulatory letter required of her.
When it was finished she took it to the
postoffice herself, for she felt the need
of a brisk walk. On her way home she
bought a newspaper, and when she
reached her own room again threw her
self on a comfortable lounge, and began
to read. Almost the first thing her eye
fell upon was an advertisement for a gov
erness;
“Wanted, a governess for two small
children. House in tho couutry. Good
s;ilary. English branches only required.
None but homely women need apply.
Address Mrs. Julia Lamotte, Wildwood
Park, Queenstown.”
Over and over again did Lucille read
this singular advertisement. She knew
that none but foolish women ever in
serted such strange productions, and
wondered what kind of a person Mrs.
Lamotte could be.
“She must he jealous of her husband,
and won’t throw temptation in his way
iu the shape of a pretty governess,” Lu
cille thought. “I wonder if I would
prove homely enough to suit her. I
hardly think she would bo jealous of ‘the
plain Miss Barstow,’ ” and the girl
glnnood in the long mirror which hung
opposite her. “At any rate, I mean to
try for the situation. lam tired of the
dull monotony of my life here, and yet
I can’t go back to tho old one, ouly to go
through that dreary round of ple-asure
seeking and dissipation. What an ex
perience it will be to go out as a gov
erness! I will tell Amy at ouce."
Of coarse Lucille met with opposition
from her friends. They thought she
would find the life of a governess very
irksome, and that her grandmother
wouldn’t approve of tho plan at all.
“But I can leave the place whenever I
please, aud I don’t intend to tell grand
ma a word about it. You can forward
(ill her letters to me, and I will send all
my letters to you to post hero. She will
never know that I am not with you, and
lam l>ent on being Mrs. Lamotte*B gov
erness if Mrs. Lamotte will have me. So
don’t try to stop me."
Mrs. Winter and Amy at length ceased
to oppose the wishes of their guest, and
Mrs. Lamotte’s answer to Lucille's letter
having been favorable, she found her
self a week later on her way to Queens
town. A carriage drawn by a pair of
handsome bays was in waiting for her at
the station, and she was driven rapidly
toward Wildwood park.
So anxious was Mrs. Lainotte to see
whether the homeliness of her new gov->
erness was as pronounced as she wished
it to be that she came herself to the hall
door when the carriage arrived, and af
ter one glance into Lucille’s face gave
her a cordial greeting and led the way
to a handsome parlor.
“Do you admire my home?” she asked
when Lucille had diveeted herself of her
traveling wraps.
“I think it beautiful,” said Lucille
heartily, “and it shows to advantage in
this fresh springtime, with the green
•ass springing up everywhere and the
-es putting forth their young leaves
ad buds."
“You are enthusiastic,” said Mrs. La
motte, “and I feel sure I shall like you.
Draw your chair nearer, aud I will tell
you in confidence why I advertised for a
homely governess.”
Lucille, who had called herself Mias
Danvers (her middle name), did as Mrs.
Lamotte requested, and that lady began;
“I am a widow, as of course you per
ceive by my mourning. My poor Arthur
died five years ago, and left me this es
tate and a comfortable income. My only
brother is a bachelor, and spends his
winters in the city, but hissummers with
me. I expect him here next week. He
is wealthy and much sought after, and I
have had a terrible timo protecting him
from the snares set for him by every old
maid and young mis3 in the neighbor
hood. I had one pretty governess, and 1
firmly made up *ny mind that I would
never have another. There shall be no
more running round the garden moon
light evenings and culling buttonhole
bouquets. Do you know. Miss Danvers.
I actually caught that sly Miss Garfield
in the very act of pinning a rose on my
brother’s coat! Of course I paid her a
month’s salary in advauco and sent her
off. lam obliged to have a governess
for my two poor darlings, but it shall
never bo said that my only brother was
sacrificed on my account to one of those
sly, deep, pretty governesses. No, I
have liad enough of them. I suffered
from narvons apprehension all the time
Miss Garfield was here. Another week
tips sly thing would have been my broth
er’s wife.”
“I don’t think I shall trouble his peace
of mind,” said Lucille languidly, in
wardly laughing at Mrs. Lamotte’s tribu
lations. “I am sure we will not wander
in the garden and pick rosea together.”
“Oh, I am sure there is no danger with
you,” said Mrs. Lamotte.
Several days went quickly by, Lucille
being charmed with her new life. Shf
completely won the hearts of her two
little pupils, and found both interest and
amusement in teaching them. Sho had
now reg alar duties which she was obliged
to fulfill, and found life much more
bearable than at liarristown.
One morning when she entered the
breakfast room abe started back as if she
had seen an apparition, for there in an
easy chair, his handsome head on his
hand, his blue eyes bent on the carpet as
if in melancholy dreaming, sat Geoffrey
Wayne. He was evidently entirely at
home, for, hearing a footstep, he looked
up, saw Lucille, and rising from his
chair came forward, saying:
“Miss Dun vers, lam sure. I arrived
very late last night, and saw my sister
but a few moments, yet she found time
to tell me of you and the love Maud and
Willie bear you.”
He did not recognise her then. Why
should he? She had been in full dress
at both pbvx* where they had met, and
her hair had been drmsed with flowers
and sprinkled with gold dust. Of course
she looked vastly different now in a plain
dress of dark muslin and her luxuriant
hair In a simple coil. And of oourse,
fix), Geoffrey Wayne would never think
of finding in his sister’s governess the
sister of his fiancee, whom he had been
told was at Barristown.
Before Lucille could collect her
thoughts sufficiently to reply Mrs. La
motte entered, evidently not at all dis
turbed at finding her handsome brother
and her homely governess together. La
cille saw by the way she joked and
laughed at Geoffrey about matrimony
and the snares spread for him that she
knew nothing of his engagement to Em
ily.
Mr. Geoffrey Wayne had come to pass
the summer with his sister as usual;
but to the lady’s astonishment he did
not eater with his usual zest into her
plans for croquet parties and archery
matches. Lucillo noticed that he was
grave almost to melancholy, and when
letters came from Emily would go off to
the little arbor at the foot of the garden
and sit for hours smu trig gloomily.
Lucille was sitting alone on the front
piazza reading one evening when little
Maud came ruaoiug excitedly to her.
“Oh, Miss Danvers!" she cried, almost
out of breath, “come to Uncle Geof
frey. A horrid horse kicked him in the
leg, and it is broken. Peter and Sam
carried him into the parlor, and Peter
has gone after a doctor.”
Lucille hardly waited to hear all the
child said, for at the first intimation she
received that Emily's lover had beou
hurt she started from her seat and hur
ried to the parlor.
Geoffrey was lying on a sofa with his
brows contracted by pain, his handsome
face white with suffering. Lucille, tak
ing a bottle of cologne from the mantel,
drew a ehair dose to the sofa, and began
bathing his head very softly and gently
He did not open his eyes, however, and
it whs only when his sister came running
in wild with excitement that he spoke.
Then he begged her to be quiet, and said
his accident would not amount to much.
But Mrs. Lamotte would not be quieted,
and wept and moaned until the doctor's
coming sent her from the room. She
professed herself utterly unable to nurse
her brother.
“I feel like fainting when I go into a
darkened room," she 6aid. “My feelings
completely overpower me when I see
him lying there so white and still. Miss
Danvers, help me in this. I know I can
trust you. lam sure I am not doing a
daugvvous thing. You are not pretty and
sly like that horrid Miss Garfield, and
you are the very one who can read and
amuse poor Geoffrey. Promise me you
will do so.”
Lucille, with a bitter pang at her heart
as she thought that Mrs. Lamotte could
indeed trust her to pay to Emily's finan
cee any little attention he needed.
But Mrs. Lamotte was wrong in think
ing it not a dangerous thing to throw
these two young jioopte so much together.
As Geoffrey felt the touch of the cool,
soft hands on his head he learned to ad
mire them. As he i . tened to the low,
sweet voice, which appeared never to
weary when reading aloud to Mm, he
learned to love it. As he saw the hun
dred different efforts Lucille made each
day to interest him and render his con
finement to one room less dull and irk
some, he learned to worship her. He
forgot her plain face, and contrasted her
character only with that of Emily.
For he no longer loved the girl to
whom he had bound himself. He had
been infatuated with her marvelous
beauty, caught in the coils of her shim
mering golden hair and musical laugh,
;vnd he believed his infatuation to be
lo ve. But when thrown constantly with
her whom he had believed as perfect in
character as in face he had discovered
her mind to be shallow, her one passion
to be the leader of society. She was
vain, exacting and selfish, and had no
real love for the man she had promised
to marry. Bat Geoffrey believed his
honor demanded that ho should fullfil to
the letter the vow he had pledged, and
the wedding was to take place in Octo
ber. He had made no effort to break lik
fettera, though they had grown so gall
ing. He had thrown aside all prudence,
listened not to the voice of reason, and
had asked Emily to marry him after an
acquaintance of barely six weeks.
The knowledge of Geoffrey's love for
her came upon Lucille like a thunder
clap. Thinking of him only as her sis
ter’s betrothed, she had never imagined
that her gentle ministrations to him
during his illness had awakened into
being the tenderest emotions of his
breast. He was nearly well, ami was
sitting in the twilight one evening when
she entered the room, and not perceiv
ing in the gloom a chair directly before
her, she stumbled over it and fell to the
floor, striking her head with consider
able force against a small center table.
With one bound Geoffrey was by her
side, and lifting her in his arms he
cried:
“My darling! my darling! toil me yon
are not hurt. Speak to me, Lacille, my
dearest, tell me you are not hurt." Hie
voice was bourse with emotion, awl hot
kisses fell upon th<j girl's brow as he
pressed her to his breast, forgetting
Emily, honor, everything, but that he
loved this littlo governess of his sister’s.
“Stop,” cried Lacille, when she could
speak from amazement and excitement;
and she freed herself from his embrace,
“How dare you speak so to me, Geof
frey Wayne, when at this moment yon
are engaged to another?”
“Yon know of my engagement, then?
Bnt>t matters not how you have learned
of It, for it is true. But as Heaven hears
me, I love yon only, and wish wjth all
sincerity that my hand could follow my
heart.”
Lacille staggered back against the
wad, and dropped her head in her
hands. One instant she stood thus, and
in that instant the knowledge came to
her that she loved this man who was to
be her sister’s husband. Oh, what a
cruel wrong she had done Emily! She
raised her face and looked at Geoffrey
through her tears, so haggard, so wild,
that he was startled at the change in
her countenance, and then fled from the
room like a frightened deer.
They did not meet again until the next
day, and then both were calm, and
avoided being left alone together.
Emily wrote to Lucille, thinking her
still at Barristown, urging her to return
home to act as bridesmaid at her wed
ding, but Lucille wrote that she could
not, and Emily was forced to be satis
fied without any explanation of why it
was not possible for her only sister to be
with her on an occasion of so much im
portance.
October in all its red and golden beau
ty came only too soon for Geoffrey, who
would willingly have deferred his wed
ding had it been possible. But it had
been arranged to take place on the 10th
of the month, and on the Bth he left
TTT--1 3 1 n 1_ ... ■ ] i
MUIVIA/U X ill A, Ull ittAA/UA^A*IA4VAA wj* ciIJLjT
one, for Mrs. Lamotte, much to her
grief, could not leave home on account
of the illness of her youngest child. And
she was a faithful mother, even though
a silly woman. She was greatly re
joiced that Geoffrey was to marry so
well, and talked of nothing but the
wedding from morning till night, until
it was almost a relief to Geoffrey when
the Bth of the mouth came, and the day
when he could leave the Park.
On the evening of the 10th Lucille
went alone to the little arbor at the foot
of the garden, and throwing herself
upon a seat, leaned her head down on
the little rustic table, and gave her
mind up to painful thoughts and memo
ries. As she recalled Geoffreys avowal of
love, and pictured the scene iu which
he was even now indulging, the wedding
display and the beauty of the happy
bride, her tears fell fast, and sobs shook
her slender frame. A tempest of regret
was sweeping over her, and she could
not, cared not to, stay it.
“Lucille,” said a grave, manly voice,
“Lucille, my love, my darling, kx>k up,
and tell me if you really care so much
for me as to weep like this. ”
Lucille started to her feet, bewildered
as she saw that it was Geoffrey who
spoke, Geoffrey who stood before her,
his face illuminated by love.
‘ Emily!” she gasped. “Where is Em
ily?”
“She gave me my freedom, Lucille,”
was the reply, in a low, almost sad
tone. “She cared not that we were to
be married this evening. She eloped
last night with the Count Lazano, whose
aunt died barely four days since, leaving
him a handsome fortune.”
“Oh, my sister, my sistert" groaned
Lucille, covering her face with her
hands, and sobbing more violently than
before.
“Your sisterf” repeated Geoffrey.
“You do not mean"
“I mean that I am not the poor gov
erness you thought me, but Lucille Dan
vers Barstow.”
“What a wonderful tale! quite ro
mantic! But, Lucille, 1 must kiss you
once more to see if you are really before
me, that I am not dreaming”
A sadden crackling in the bushes about
the arbor prevented Geoff rev from carry
ing out his intention, and Mrs. Lamotte,
purple with rage, appeared before the
lovers.
“A second Miss Garfield!” cried the
widow in a shrill voice. “So the homely
as well as the pretty governesses inveigle
my brother into making love to them. I
thought better of you. Miss Danvers; as
for you, Geoffrey, 1 believe you would
make love to any girl"
“Stop, Jannette!” cried Geoffrey,whose
indignation laid prevented his checking
his sister's tirade before. “Stop, Jan
nette; you do not know of whom you are
speaking. Let why Miss
Danvers came here and who she is."
He then gave a 1 fief explanation of
why Lucille had become a governess,
and told her relation to Emily.
Mrs. Lamotte would hardly credit her
ears, and almost fainted from surprise.
Bnt when Geoffrey had finished his
story she no longer upbraided him or
opposed his love, bnt offered her con
gratulations effusively-, 4 'hoping Geoffi ey
would succeed in getting married the
next time he invited her to his wed
ding.”
And he did succeed, for six months
later cards were out for the marriage
with “the plain Miss Bartow,” and this
time the bride did not elope.—Boston
Traveller,
THE BERNHARDT CRAZE.
IT HAS GREATLY AFFECTED NEW
YORK WOMEN’S DRESS.
Olive Harper DeeeriUe* the Ke<mlt at
Some Length—Novel Street I>re*e*—The
Gowns of Other Days Are Rapidly Com
ing In, and They Are Fetehlng, Too.
[Special Correspondence.
Nsw York, Feb. 19.— 1 tis amusing to
see how quickly the Tosca and Cleopatra
styles in dress have broken out. House
dresses, street attire, and particularly
evening gowns, all show the effect of the
Bernhardt rage. Bat each lady is more
or less of a law to herself, and varies her
robe according to her own taste or the
exigencies of her puree or figure. Mine.
TOSCA GOWNS.
de Barrios, the many times millionaire
widow, wore a Cleopatra costume at her
recent faney dress ball, and at this same
ball there were no less than four Tosca
gowns and one other Cleopatra. One of
them only was historically oorrect.
Bat the Tosca dresses are modeled
as closely as possible after those worn
by the great French actress, though a
slight modification in the waist would
not be out of order. Still, when we re
flect that our sainted great-grandmoth
ers wore gowns just like them we ought
not to find fault.
One handsome dress was of cream col
ored satin, with a long train of the same
bordered with sable fur; a narrow band
of the same trims the bottom in front,
and above this is a pretty border of
black and gold embroidery. There is a
standing frill on each shoulder above
the short puffed sleeve. The hair is
dressed high with a comb, and a diadem
is worn around the head.
Another very taking dress is of ruby
velvet and pale pink crepe de Chine, with
three rows of rose plaited taffetas silk
around the skirt. The waist is pretty
short, but the whole effect is very hand
some. A scarf of mousseline de soie
and a liat like that in the figure are ad
ditions to the costume if it is to be worn
to a fancy dress ball, and any clever
young lady can easily do them herself
With some slight changes these two
gowns can be made most useful as well
as picturesque.
Two other dresses, these for the street,
are quite worthy of the present day, and
indeed they may be seen to-morrow on
the street, worn by some bright young
girls who like to make something of a sen
sation while looking their very prettiest.
One (kites from 1822, and the original is
of gray barege, with little shells made
of the barege placed at equal distances
all around the skirt in three rows, each
held down by a lapel of satin in the same
shade Listened with a steel button. The
waist, which used to be called a Spencer,
is very short and ornamented with steel
buttons. There is a high collar em
broidered with steel beads. The bonnet
in the picture is of white Tuscan lined
with “peachblow” silk, and with a
puffed crown trimmed with daisies.
The shape of the bonnet could easily bo
imitated in a soft leghorn hat bent
down into the desired form, and the
whole gown would be as dainty ami
picturesque a dress for the maidens of
today as in the olden times.
And the 1790 dress. It differs scarcely
at all from the very newest of today's
fashions, only that the skirt is a little
fuller and the hat is a different shape.
This hat, which is so fearfully and won
derfully made, is of white silk, with
mauve ribbon sewn on, and a plaiting
of mauve up the front The Henrik
colkir is of chiffon, the oorsage of Pekin
striped silk, the jacket of white silk,
with mauve facings, “brownish” mitts
and royal blue skirt. Blue and purple
are fighting colors, but the style of the
coat and vest is really good, and the cos
tume is piquante and pretty, and if made
by the clever fiugers of one of our own
girls would be a genuine novelty.
COULD ANYTHING BE PRETTIES?
It is quite a study to note the different
gowns seen at any large gathering. Each
lady seems to have studied her own per
son with a view of dressing to the best
advantage, and some will wear an elab
orate Worth costume, while another
will appear to be draped like the legiti
mate Ophelia, all in soft draperies of
white. Another, again, will be severely
elegant in a plain velvet gown of an
cient style; one will have a fluff of illu
sion held here and there by a few flow
ers, wMle yet another will look her
stateliest in Greek or Roman draperies,
and the rest will wear dresses, gowns
and frocks copied after old pictures.
Olive Harper,
A LAND OF HONEY.
Where Busy Bees Find a Mast Congenial
Home.
[Special Correspondence.]
San Francisco, Feb. 24.—A feature
of Southern California most surprising
to me is the honey industry. Stories
thereof, which sound like the wildest ex
aggeration. are told in almost every lo
cality of that part of the state. If they
were not so amply corroborated one
would be justified in placing them in the
category of fish and snake yarns, but as
it is the stranger cannot but marvel at
what he sees and hears of in the honey
line. It is, of course, well known that
Southern California in general, and San
Diego county in particular, is the center
of the honey industry in this country.
This is easily understood when one
remembers that it is a land of per
petual flowers, in which bees can work
all the year round, and have no occasion
to lay up in their hives from four to six
months of the year to eat up the prod
uct of their summer's work. But that
the bees should so overrun the country
as to almost render themselves nuisances
I was not prepared to believe.
During a casual conversation at Los
Angeles, in which the subject of bees
came up, I was told of an incident which
excited my interest in the question, and
I mado it a point to bring up the subject
in each town subsequently visited.
At a village near Los Angeles, when
carpenters went to overhaul the school
house after the vacation, they found the
doors to the cloak rooms apparently her
metically sealed. They sucoeeded after
an effort in prying open the doors, and
found the cloak rooms literally packed
full of honey, colonies of bees having
settled in the rooms during the vacation.
My informant did not know how much
honey was taken from the peculiarly lo
cated colonies, but said two pailfuls fell
to his share in the distribution.
At Riverside I was shown a church, in
the steeple of which bees had colonized,
and nearly a ton of honey rewarded the
daring of the man who took the job of
ridding the church of its unwelcome
tenants.
It is not uncommon for bees to settle
down to the task of tilling the spaces be
tween the walls of residences with honey,
and an open attic window but invites
wandering swarms of bees to locate
therein.
They settle down to business iu vine
yards,and literally burden the short stocks
of vines with great sheets of honeycomb
in the oj)eu air. In every cavity in the
scrub oaks and other scattering trees
they take up their abode, and in the foot
hills the caves and gopher holes invite
straying colonies to set up iu business.
It seems that they accumulate more rap
idly than the farmers care to have them,
and in such cases many young colonies
are iiermitted to swarm and depart in
search of a home without any effort to
prevent them leaving.
Many extensive tree ranches are to be
found on every hand, and a vast amount
of honey is annually put on the markets
from this region. At Santa Anna I
shipped home a case of the purest and
richest honey I ever tasted, produced on
the ranch of Mine. Modjeska, who owns
a large place a short distance from that
town, and whose revenue from her bees
alone is ample to keep the wolf from her
door without her ever again appearing
behind the footlights.
Comb honey brings the highest prices,
but I am told that there is more clear
money iu strained honey at even less
than half the price of comb, because of
the added expense and labor necessary
to obtain the perfect comb product.
Greater care is necessary in the hives,
the little squares of which have to be
measured with precision as to weight
when filled in order to make the comb
perfect and ready to be transferred from
the hive to the shelf of the grocer and
thence to the table of the epicure with
out being touched. Empty goods boxes
and barrels set upside down are good
enough for hives, and will be filled with
equally pure honey, but not in such
shape as to be handled in the comb with
out breaking and running out. It makes
no difference how roughly it may be
handled when it is to be strained, hence
strained honey may be readily bought
at first hand at from three to five cents
a pound. Pour cents may be considered
an averago price to the producer, and at
that figure a good profit may be realized.
To my surprise, for I had wondered
what on earth it was made for, the om
nipresent white sage brush of these im
mense stretches of verdureless and water
less prairies produces the best honey.
White sage honey is almost as translucent
and pure as water, and lias a peculiarly
delicate flavor.
To get the best results from bees, even
in this region where they thrive so
abundantly, requires intelligent care in
providing them with the proper kinds of
“forage.” Certain blossoms, it seems,
carry offensive flavors into the honey,
and if one seeks quantity alone rather
than quality it is an easy matter to in
duce the bees, unconsciously to them
selves, to adulterate their product.
Coarse cheap brown sugar or glucose
placed near to hives will be rapidly
transferred to the comb by the bees.
They have no secret chemical labora
tory in wMch to change the nature of
the baser substitute into real honey, so
that the fact that you buy houey in the
comb is no guarantee that it is not adul
terated. But I did not learn of any ex
tensive doctoring of the natural product
of flowers during my brief and super
ficial study of the question in southern
California. W. G. Benton.
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