Life — January 11, 1906 — page 9: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

LIFE’S FASHION PAGE. -LIFE: By Mrs. Witson Wooprow, Studies in Home Millinery. O matter what a woman's morals may be this season, her hats must be cecentric. Fortunately so wide a latitude is al- lowed in the autumn and winter fash- ions that she may utilize almost any of the means at her command, and achieve attractive results, For No. 1, take a large matting rug, eut a hole in the center of it, and in- sert a wire crown, Fasten the rug to the crown on one side and strew the hat thickly with ostrich feathers. Tilt at an angle of forty-five degrees. The effect is deliciously piquant One of the daintiest of Paris impor- tations is pictured in No. 10, and it may easily be copied by any woman with all purse and deft fingers. Cover a wire frame with white ma- lines, then stud thickly with cabou- chons of real pearls and emeralds. Pluck the tail feathers from your own or your neighbor's peacocks, and fas- ten on the right side of the hat. This will give the appearance of great height to a small woman. but it was very French and mod- ern; and she was not old at all; indeed. Grandmother was the youngest person I had ever scen, She had the most beautiful red hair piled up on her head, and the pinkest cheeks, and the tiniest i it was tiny when she r play golf h some of the men who came to see her. But when she got home she always cried to her maid: “Marie,unlace these stays quick before I faint, and get me into a kimona!” When I called her Grandmother, she looked at me with angry eyes, and ex claimed: * Little wretch! Don't ever Little Stories of Home Life. GRA I AM a little girl nine years old, and this autumn I learned to my great delight that T was to be sent on a visit to my Grandmother. I had never seen her; but I have always been a quict, studious child, a constant reader of the stories in the family magazines, and consequently had formed my own idea of her. She would live in a big, quie quaint house with a garden about it full of old-fashioned flowers, holly- hocks and phlox, verbenas and lemon geraniums, roses and lilies. And she herself would be a sweet-faced, low- voiced, old lady with silvery hair, a lit tle white lace cap and fichu, and a soft black silk dress. How different. was the reality. Grandmother did live in a big hous OTHER, dare do that again. You may call me Tante’; that is the only concession [I will make.” Once when she was talking to a gen- tleman, I said: “Grandmoth—"' (Ouch! She pinched very hard) — Tante, won't you tell me a story about when you were young?” Great hes still harder, am?” “Mother is over forty,” T murmured. “Well, your mot! ns, child,” pinching me how old do you think I cr is considerably older than myself,” she answered shorts ly, I told her mothers were terward that I thought always older than their daughters; but she said that was a very old-fashioned and absurd idea. And yet, for all that she seemed so young and frivolous, Grandmother was evidently capable of deeper thoughts. One evening as we sat in the garden alone, gazing up at the quiet stars, I asked her, pointing up to the sky: “Grandm—Tante, is heaven up there? What is heaven, Grandmother?” She drew a long sigh. “Heaven, my child, is a place where you don’t con- tinually have to ‘play the game’—for comicbooks.com