Miscellany: Fashions

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setting forth the good each lodge of the 1,500 has done since the last reunion. They had sat through boat excursions, business sessions, dinners, dances, vaudeville shows. They had decorated floats, waved flags, worn paper caps. Now, the big time over, they were ready to go home.

The new national Elk headquarters is a memorial to Elks who served in the War. Representing an investment of $3.10 for each of the 800,000 members of the brotherhood, the memorial is a structure "embodying beauty and permanence, one of the finest memorials in honor of the heroes of the War." Under a keystone chiseled with the inscription, THE TRIUMPHS OF WAR PERISH—THE TRIUMPHS OF PEACE ENDURE, bronze doors open through a colonnade into a circular hall containing twelve windows and four niches in which statues personifying Charity, Justice, Brotherly Love and Fidelity will soon be enshrined. The building faces Lake Michigan at the corner of Lake View avenue and Diversey Park.

Sculptor James E. Fraser will make the statues; Edwin H. Blashifield is working on the murals; Egerton Swartout of Manhattan was the architect, a designer of trite but heroic fancy and considerable resource. He built the Missouri State Capitol, the Victory Memorial in Washington, the Mary Baker Eddy Memorial in Boston, the Post Office and Court House in Denver, the Municipal Auditorium at Macon, Ga., and similar edifices.


In Paris a factory burned, 8,000 lovely women were destroyed. Their smooth arms, shaped for the admiration of a great public, dwindled in flame, still clutching to bare bosoms a trail of cloth or towel; their dark or flaxen heads became lumps of strange matter that smoked and stewed and reeked; their carmine lips, half-parted, twisted for a while as if in a vain effort to breathe the fire, until, under the rapture of this last kiss, they closed forever. None escaped. They were wax models, destined for the windows of department stores, milliners, hairdressers, in the U. S.


A humble shoebag, heavy with potency, set amidst the whispering grandeur of mattresses, old iron, papers and rubber tires, joggled tracklessly through the streets of Springfield, Mass., borne on a junk wagon to ignominious barter. The frowzy-whiskered junkman shifted about in his seat when a motorcycle policeman ordered him to the curb, fluttered two dirty palms in astonishment. The officer settled on a blue mattress as a hawk onto a mouse, prospected deeper into the indiscernible vagaries in the rear of a junk-wagon, retrieved the humble shoebag, departed triumphantly with it for its heartbroken owner — one Peter Audaim — after informing the surprised junkman that within it was concealed $1,200, Peter's life savings but recently drawn from the bank. The single clue to the identity of the junkman was the blue mattress which frugal Peter's unwitting spouse had included in her clever deal.

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