Wheeling Sunday Register

IN THE STORE WINDOWS.
Men Rarely Look in on the Exquisite Displays of Rare Lace.

The greater window of one of the greatest establishments in Olive street—a famous resort for fair shoppers—was filled to its capacity with a veritable cloud of the dainty and delicate, lace edged, fluffy things that well dressed women wear, and two comfortably attired gentlemen stopped to admire the display.

Men that had business and those that had none or were expecting some, shot an open eyed wondering stare at the now thoroughly interested pair and twisted their necks as far as they dared to see how long they would remain before the window.

The ladies did the same, save, as well bred folks, they did not look to the rear after the window was passed, but though they might have stopped to admire the exhibition of pretty things they evidently deemed it bad form under the existing conditions.

"There's a 'point,' and a bit of pure old Irish point, and I'll stand a bowl of punch if you can tell me where that came from."

"Bracken, but I can place my finger on the spot on the map of the east coast of Ireland where that bit of lace was made."

"Ah! they're nimble finger'd lasses, there at Carrickfergus, right in the heart of the linen country"

"Near Belfast, you know, Dick, and where the best of flax is grown, scutched and made into the finest of threads and linen like sheeny silk."

Then they moved off together and the elder one remarked the attention their stop had created, he laughingly added:

"I've been selling those fine lace goods for years, in some of the greatest establishments of this country, for a big Belfast concern, and I find the men shoot past such a window as if it was a sin and a shame to stop and admire the delicate laces, and if they did, not a woman would look in the window while they were there."

—St. Louis Post-Dispatch