onal Woman's Suffrage Alliance and the Woman's
Christian Temperance Union, with its branches in every country. Indeed the
boundaries of countries are disappearing before this new sisterhood of
woman.

Of famous women it would be folly to attempt to speak. America is justly
proud of her many clever daughters, but every nation has its brilliant
women. Mme. Curie, who was awarded the Nobel prize for science, was born
and reared in Poland and lives in France. This year the Nobel peace prize
fell to the Austrian Baroness von Suttner.

Considering the progress of the past half-century, one can but wonder what
the next one hundred years will bring.

RHYMES BY THE BARDS OF GRAFT.

SEVEN AGES OF GRAFT.

All the world is graft,
And all the men and women merely grafters.
They have their sure things and their bunco games,
And one man in his time works many grafts,
His bluffs being seven ages. At first the infant
Conning his dad until he walks the floor;
And then the whining schoolboy, poring o'er his book,
Jollying his teacher into marking him
A goodly grade. And then the lover,
Making each maiden think that she
Is but the only one. And then the soldier,
Full of strange words and bearded like a pard,
Seeking the bubble reputation,
Even in the magazines. And then the justice,
Handing out the bull con to the bench
And jollying the jury till it thinks
He knows it all. The sixth age shifts
To lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose--his is a graft!
For he is then the Old Inhabitant
And all must hear him talk. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange, eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans graft, sans pull, sans cinch, sans everything.

_Chicago Tribune._

WHATCHY GOIN' T' GIMME?

"Whatchy goin' t' gimme?" says the youngest boy to pa;
"Whatchy goin' t' gimme?" says the youngest girl to ma;
"Whatchy goin' t' gimme?" says the maiden to her beau;
Everywhere the answer is, "Oh, sumpin, I dunno."

"Whatchy goin' t' gimme?" asks the little boy at school--
His just 'fore Christmas goodness makes him mindful of each rule;
"Whatchy goin' t' gimme?" sings the gamin in the street;
"Whatchy goin' t' gimme?" on our every hand we meet.

"Whatchy goin' t' gimme?" asks the yawning money-box
Meant to catch the coin to feed the hungry folks in fl