Rolling Stones

e a blaze of lights. Carriages line the streets in front, and from gate to doorw

rooms are filled with the culture, the beauty, the youth and fashion of society. Austin society is ack

d beauty, rarely equalled anywhere. Her evenings come nearer approaching the dignity of a sal

ted in the back to conceal prominence of shoulder blades. She is chatting easily and naturally on a plush covered tête-à-tête with Harold St. Clair, the agent for a Minneapolis pants company. Her friend and schoolmate, Elsie Hicks, who married three drummers in one day, a week or two before, and

playing, and during the pauses in conversatio

e necks and drooping beads; timid eyes convey things that lips dare not speak, and beneath

St. Vitus to Harold St. Clair. "Have you been worshipping at another shrine? Ar

from the cotton-patch. Got knobs on their legs, some of 'em big as gourds, and all expect a fit. Did you every try to measure a bow-legged

"Just as full of bon mots and clever s

, b

the drawing-room and draw a cork.

he rising and gifted night-watchman at the Lone Star slaughter house, and Mabel Grubb, the daughter of

beautiful,"

" says

eemed to avoid the company but by adroit changing of his position, and perfectly

is Herr Professor Ludw

t a week before, and according to the Austin custom in such cases, was invited home by the

isite harmony. He plays the extremely difficult passages in the obligato home run in a masterly manner, and when he finishes with that grand

ssor look

om is

reat French detective, who springs from be

ssor rise

ke no noise at all. You h

are hear

"give me those socks. Ther

sagst

socks will do but those you carried of

urning, no longer

upon the floor, tears off his shoes and socks, and escape