Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, April 7, 1900, Page 9

> 9 Oe 660 a 9 ee CHAPTER IV. (Continued.) Twice the young girl read the letter. and then, flinging it upon the blazing hearth, she fell upon her knees with a low, pitiful moan. CHAPTER V. Father and Daughter. Mr. Clive, senior, sat in his handsom« Nbrary, with his pretty daughter on his knee. A walnut table stood beside his, on which, with the magic deftness that characterized all the household ar- rangements at Clive Towers, an ele- gant collation had appeared, immedi- ately upon the master’s arrival. But neither the fragrant Mocha. steaming in the silver urn, nor the deli- cate slices of ham and chicken, had tempted the trayeler’s appetite. And even thoughtless Fannie noticed the shadow on her father’s brow, the grave rececupation of his manner, that all er childish prattle and loving caresses could not remove. For, orved and dignified, almost to sternness, with all the rest of the world, Robert Clive always unbent to his idol- fzed daughter, whose bright beauty and bewitching grace recalled to him eo forcibly the only love of his life—the wife whom he had worshiped with the strong, silent, | jionate devotion thar enly such ures know. For ten years Robert Clive had been @ widower, and until the fair, sweet face of Agnes Clive smiled down upon him from the c¢ ed oaken frame above his fireside, still her gentle im- age remained enthroned within his heart—that heart whose dark Secrets she had never sought to read, whose Jove she accepted y and unques- tioni . whose life she had brighten- ed, even as the summer sunbeam brightens and warms the sur of the waters, whose cold, silent depths it can never hope to reach. “And so you have turned out a full- fiedsed young lady, puss?’ said the father, tenderly, smoothing the long brown hair that rippled over Fannie’s shoulders—her mother’s own dark, silken hair. “School books thrown Nothing more to be y this wise little head? That diploma is alarming—chemistry, bot- any, meteorology. Why, you must be a regular epitome of science, my pet. I wonder if you can say the multiplica- tion table through?” , papa,” pouted Fan, “the idea ing that way to me. little stupid put frac- s got them wrong side up, until Sybil showed me which num- ber went on top. She took the first prize in mathematics, you know, She is nwfully clever. The masters used to say she had a head like a man’s. “Ah, indeed I doubt if this is a re- commendation,” said Mr. Clive, absent- ly. “ Awoman with a man’s head must be something of a monstrosity.” “Now, pa, I don’t mean that, of course,” said Fannie, in an injuréa learned by BY JEAN WARNER. Oe ee = <a 0 ca 800 a a tone. “I only mean that her head is so clear, and steady, and thoughtful—not full of dre ng, and dancing, and flirt- ing, like all other girls.” “Like all other girls, eh?’ said Mr. Olive, laughingly pinching the pretty eheek. “And who is this young lady who secms such an alarming exception j to the rule of her sex?” : “Why, Sybil. Papa, don’t you re- member I wrote you all about my dear- est friend, Sybil Wraye?” “Sybil!” repeated her father, the shadow deepening upon his face, as if the name were musical to him—‘Sybil Wraye! pray, my pet, who is this wonderful Sybil Wraye, who can make such deep emotions in yy little girl's light heart?” “Oh, dear! Papa, don’t you remem- ber I wrote you all about her—a great, long letter, all criss-crossed?” “T remember the letter, I think Clive, with a half-smile; the contents, my dear, the ing you spoke of made them eriss-cr 60 muc “And you couldn’t read it?’ ex- elaimed Fannie, in dismay. “Well, well, I suppose it don’t make much dif- ference, as you can see her to-morrow for yourself.” “What!” exclaimed the father with a etart. the young lady here?’ “Oh, yes, papa. Don’t you know, I told you I was going to bring her home with mes But, oh, dear! I forgot, you eouldn’t read the letter. She is the dearest, sweetest, loveliest creature; and between you and me, papa”’—Fan- nie nodded her head sagely—‘Bertie is more than half in love with her al- ready. It’s the most delightful thing that could have happened to me next,” and the rosy lips parted in an arch smile—‘“next to falling in love myself.” “Nonsense, my dear!” said her father, sharply. “Don’t let me hear you men- tion such a_ ridiculous thing again. you and Herbert are both too young for too young, to think of such serious sub- jects as matrimony. He has his way to make in the world, his own way to make—he must be hampered by no ties as yet.” “Oh, now, dear papa!” said Fannie, coaxingly, “there’s that ugly line I hate to sec come across your forehead. Let me kiss it away. It makes you look just like the picture of Uncle Basil, hanging up stairs.” “Uncle Basil! like your Uncle Basil?” was the hoarse reply. “What do you know of him, child?” “Nothing, except that he must have been very cross and ugly,” laughed Farnie, twining her arm about her father’s neck, “and I don’t like my precious papa to look like him. “You haven’t touched your supper, papa, and Mrs. Wyllis fixed it so nicely fer you. Let me help you to some of these nice ‘herries; you don’t know how delicious they are.” “Nothing to-night, my child—nothing more to-night!” he answered, shortly. “Ring the bell and have th things a 9 0 > 8 0 000 ee ee HER HEART'S SECRET. Or, UNDER A SPELL. 0 Oe ae ot ee > ( cleared away ,and then—then you had better go to bed, my dear. It is late, and I am very tired—very tired!’ he re- peated, wearily. “Poor papa!” said Fannie, with af- fectionate anxiety, “you look very tired. Let me get my cologne and bathe your head, as dear mamma used to do—thai ulways rested you.” “Not to-night!” was the quick answer that came almost painfully from the stern, set lips—‘not to-night, my child I am better alone—far better alone. Kiss me good-night, my dear, and— and”—Fannie was clasped to her fath- er’s breast in a sudden, close embrace— “may your mother’s God bless you, my Agnes’ child!” “I wonder what makes papa so sol- emn?” solloquized Fannie, as She pre- pared for her peaceful slumber. There s something wrong, surely. I haven't seen him this w before since the evening Herbert had that quarrel with a strange man in/the woods. He don’t iike to hear Uncle sil’s name men- tioned, and this unluc tongue of mine is always letting it slip; and yet I know Uncle Basil was very good to papa. He brought him up like his own son, and started him in business, and left him heaps and piles of monex. 1 should think it couldn’t be a very great crime to speak of him; and I did think it would be a delightful thing for Her- bert and Sybil to get married. I’m sure if I leoked all over the world, I coulc not pick out a sweeter sister. But, dear, dear! people do go so crooked, and when it seems just as easy to walk aleng smooth and straight.” And with this conclusion, which was an unusually cynical one for our pretty philosopher, Fannie turned her rosy cheek to the pillow and peacefully slept For a quarter of an hour after his daughier had left him, Rebert Clive paced up and down his spacious libra- ry, with clouded brow and stern, set lips. Then, as if coming to a sudden deter- mination, he pulled the bel! cord, and told the answering servant that he wished to sce Mrs. Wyllis. The housekeeper entered the room ere he w conscious of her approach, and stood, wih folded hands, beside the marble hearth, en which, despite ihe advanced season, a few logs were burning with welcome heat. She cast one of her quick, stealthy glances from beneath the white eye- lashes, at the dark, moody countenance of her master, and the fajntest shadow of a smile rested for an instant around her thin lips; then, in a quiet, respect- ful voice, she asked “Mr. Clive’s pleas- unre?” “Ah! you are here,” he said, pausing in his restless walk. “Be seated, my good W;: if you please. I have something to say to you.” She obeyed lim silently, folding her mittened hands one over the other, and letting her gray eyes fall demurely be- neath their veiling lids. “I merely wished to ask,” said the master of Clive ‘Towers, coming to a ains flurg their silvery spray—over beds of sleeping flowers, and graceful nymphs and roguish fawns hid their marble forms amid clumps of shrub- bery--down the steep river path, artis- tically shielded by dwarf trees and tangled vines, that seemed flung to- gether in one of nature’s most frolick- some moods—over the stone wall thai here marked the boundary of the Clive estate, Sybil fled like a hunted doe. The white wrapper she wore was wet with dew; the Shetland shawl she had threwn over her head and shoulders was heavy and damp. But she did not feel the chill touch of the night air that crept up, laden with mists, from the river. Her cheeks were burning, her head throbbing with a fever heat, that no breeze, no maisture could allay. She had no right, no place, in that princely home, whose stately shadow loomed up so darkly behind her. Nay. perhaps—perhaps she had the truest, best right; but it could never be as- serted, never be acknowledged, never‘ be obtained! It was a right that had been a curse of her past—and she pressed her han:! io her wildiy-beating heart—and would be a more dark and bitter curse to her future. Farnie and Herbert, those two bright, joyous beings who had striven to fling their own glad sunshine over her shad- owed life—who would not see, would not recognize, the barrier that separat- ed them—bad taken her by the hand, and, despite her own will, led her inte the flowery paths in which they trod. Oh, heaven! what cruel, evil fate was it that made her their enemy—their en- emy by birth, their enemy by blooa, their enemy by a dark and awful vow 2 dreadful vow, to which the dead had borne witness, and that echoed still, in all its first fierce passion, through the sterms and changes of five-and-twenty ATs? shudder convulsed the young girl’s frame, as she paused for a moment in her rapid flight to take breath and look around her. She was at the foot of the hill on which Clive Towers was situated, and the broad river rolled in silvery waves almost at her feet—that same rivel whose tossing waters she and Herbert had watched on the first night of their acquaintance, a brief thrce weeks ago. He had said then that some intuition told him that they would be warm friends yet; and were they not friends? andstill befere the hearth, “if you have been annoyed by any intruders here during my absence? I have rea- son to believe that that ruffian, who calls himself Basil Clive, has returned to this part of the country, and I fear may be bent on further acts of vio- lence.” “Indeed, sir, I am sorry to hear it,” was Mrs. Wyllis’ meaning reply. “N we have not been annoyed in any w: as yet; though, really, sir, as far as my humble judgment goes, you were too lenient before—far too lenient. You should not haye suffered so dangerous a character to escape so easily.” “I hoped and believed that I was done with him forever,” Mr. Clive went on, in an excited tone; but the fellow seems to h my th like an eyil fate. Only th v rning I received an other threatening letter, couched in the most ambiguous terms. He dares to menace me through my children.” “Ah! empty werds, sir!’ answered the housekeeper, scornfully. “How ean such a wretched being harm you or yours? Have you not prospered, in spite of his threats and curses, in the past? How can they affect your chil- dren in the futures” “T -have prospered—yes,” answered Mr. Clive, thoughtfully. “I have never feared aught for myself; yet, as we grow old, Wyllis, and look back upon the path we have trodden, the bravest cf us sometimes tremble for the young feet that must ccme along the un- known ways; and the shadows we have passed through unharmed seem dark and terrible when they hang over the tender beings whom we would shield from even a passing cloud. If I couls buy off this vindic.ive being with hal! my fortune, I wou'd give it gladly for for peace and rest.” “Have ycu offered to—to compromise with him, sir?” “Aye; but he will accept no compro- mise,” was the bitter reply; “nothing but what he calls justice—full and con.plete justice.” “He is mad,” said Mrs. Wyllis, com- posedly. “Aye, he is mad!” repeated Robert Clive, fiercely. “Let him dog my path- way as he will, he shall never wrest from me my children’s birthright! Let him do his best to poison the cup of life whose fullness and sparkle he has always envied; let him plead as he will for his child! His child! What is his child to me? What is his child’s fu ture, compared to the future of mine? some low-born, low-bred, nameless out- cast, unfit to breathe the same air, to tread the same ground, -with child of mine!” Who was the white-robed figure that gliding, noiselessly, by the half-closed door, caught these words? What cruel bard did they conceal that gave wings to her filght? CHAPTER VI. A Companion Picture, Over the velvety lawn, where fount- Aye, that pale, agonized face, that quivering lip, added more than friends. Had she been mad, or dreaming, for the past three weeks? What feeling was it she had allowed to creep into her heart? What Lethe-draught had she tasted, that she had dared, even for one brief instant, to think of hap- piness—she, Sybil Wraye, the nameless outcast, unfit to breathe the air, te break the bread, to tread the ground, with the happier ones of earth? How these stern, haughty words had stung her! What a poisoned dart they had left in her already tortured heart! But it was no time to brood over them now. The imperative summons she had received that evening must be obeyed. In the graveyard by the river, someone awaited her who must not wait in vain. She had a dim recollection of tho vlace. She had been taken there once before, years and years ago, when a nameless grave had been opened, ana. in the solemn stillness of a summer midnight. her mother had been laid away to rest. She could not be far from the spot now. Aye, those dark old yews. stretching out their heary branches just beyond her, shaded the moss- ‘own gate that led to the family bur- ial place of the Clives. It had long, ago been abandoned by the family at the Towers. Old Bas'] Clive was the last of the mburied there and his grave was green w’th the sun shine and showers of five-and-twenty years. The dark old gravestones were crum- bling away, and the grass grew long and rank; only the stout fence, whose timbers defied the attacks of time, and a certain terror that surrounded the spot. prevented the grave yard of the haugkty Clives from being turned into a pasture or picnic ground. The present Mr. Clive did not ever recognize the bit of wildwcod as a por tion of his property. 1d teok no heed of its neglect or desolation, though his own parents lay buried ther Sybil’s mind was too clear and strong to be influenced by superstitious fear. but she could not repress the feeling of natural awe that erept over her as-sh> crossed over the moss-grown threshold of the gate that led into this abode of the dead. High above all the other tottering monuments rose the granite shaft. “Sacred to the Memory of Basil Clive.” and beneath it stood a man whose tal! athletic form seemed as strong and en- during as the granite itself—a man whose bronzed face and dark, fierce eyes brightened and softened inte wordrous tenderness as Sybil, with a low cry, half joy, half pain. sprang into his arms and called him “Father!” “My brave girl!” he answered, in a voice whose deep tones quivered with emotion. “I knew. you would not fear to come, though we have to choose strange and lonely meetings, my Sybil. It will not always be thus, my darling —twill not always be thus.” “You are in danger here,” she said. clinging to his bosom, and lifting her pale, anxious face to his. “Oh, father. dear father!—why did you come here tc seek me? Let us fly—let us both fly far, far away, where we can find safe- ty and peace!” * “Safety and peace!” he repeated, bit- terly. “Those are not words for me, or for you, either, Sybil. Justice and right is our motto, child, and right—justice and right, at any cost—at any cost!” “Has not the.cost been to great al- ready?” she whispered. “And the gain. where is it? Oh, papa, papa! think of vour homeless wanderings, your law- less life!’ Think of me, friendless, lone ly. fersaken, haunted by day and by night by fears I dare not shape inte words! Think of your cheerless age. my blighted youth! Has not the cost been already far, far too great?” “Let him who must pay the reckoning look to it!” was the fierce reply. “We must not stop to count the cost. Sybil. Not a pain, not a sorrow, not a fear of yours, but shall be repaid a thousand- fold! Only trust me, my darling. List- en to me, obey me. It is only of your future I think—for your future I plan. My own ts darkened, hopelessly; you are the only gleam of hope and sun- shine left to gladden my troubled way.” “Then take me with yon, papa!” she t cried, eagerly. “Oh, if I can brighten your life, soothe your sorrows, take me with you; and, far away from here, in some happier land, we can live un- imown and unnoticed, blessed in each other's love, satisfied in each other's company, seeking nothing else, papa— nothing, nothing else. Life is too short to waste in endless warfare, in endless struggles. Dear papa, let us choose at last, safety and peace!” “Is it my child who speaks?” was the stern rejoinder—“my , Sybil, whose heart and soul I have striven to mould into a counterpart of my own? Or has the’ soft wind of luxury made a change- ling of the only being I have left to love? It would be my fate—my dark, evil fate—to lose even my child! Go “rem me, then, if you will; choose your own way; separate your cause from mine; live in safety and peace with the pampered children of fortune; but be child of mine no more! My ways are ways of struggle, and darkness, and peril, but I have fcllowed them only to lead you into the light. I can travel them alone, for the past will have its stern duties even though the future may have lost its hopes. Go! Leave me, Sybil; you shall want for nothing. Lawless and homeless though your father be, he can provide for you amply and generously. Take your own way. There!”—he pointed up the steep hill, on whose summit rose the stately cres' of Clive Towers—‘“there, through peril, privation, death if need be, lies mine!” “Oh, father, father!” she cried, in tones of quivering pain, “what crue) words are these? You are the only be- ing on earth who I dare—dare to love— you, whose wrongs have been my wrongs, whose sorrows have been my sorrows, whose life has been my li ‘Take me to your heart, father! Oh, let no shadow or suspicion cast me out of that one sure resting place! Take me toe your heart, for, sorrow or in glad- ness, I am your child—your Sybil— yours, only yours “Minc—only imine! he repeated, clasp- ing her in his strong arms. “Mine—on- ly mine! Remember that, Sybil. Mine, vntil honorably and proudly, in your own naine and from your own fireside, { can give you to another, noble and worthy enough to claim. the daughter of Basil Clive. Until our work is done, our purpose gained, you are mine—only mine! And now to business, dear; for my own time is short. I must be far from here before the dawn. Tell me all you have learned while in my cne- mys house. You have done well and wisely, so far. You heve gained en- trance into the foeman’s camp. You have not a woman’s wit unless all the weak spots in the fortifications are known to you. Tell me all—all! Su my dead father’s curse falls in some way upon the sunlit pathway of Robert Clive? Surely the shadow is not all— all mine?” And the dark eyes flashed with a yin- dictive fire, as Basil Clive drew his daughter to a seat on the base of the monument beside him, and listened ea- gerly for her words. Fer more than an hour they con- versed together in low, agitated tones; and when at length they arose, Sybil’s face wore a white, wan expression of despair that would have touched any heart not scathed by the smouldering fires of a long-cherished hate. “Go back to them, child,” said Basil Clive, as Lis tall form towered up in the shadow of the granite monument. “You must go back to them! It is not the time to falter and shrink now. Go back to Robert Clive’s threshold, and curse the bread he eats, the air he breathes, with the presence of the in- nocent being he has 60 cruelly wronged! If you have kept your eyes shut and your ears closed, hitherto, let them be alert and vigilant now. I have striven, fairly, openly, to gain justice at his hands. I have tried by threats and violence to wrest it from him. Now we must meet him with his own weapons—falsehood and fraua, We must steal our rights, since we may not win them. Here, above my fath- er’s ashes, I renew the oath taken five- and-twenty years ago! Hate, undying hate, against the man that has wronged me and mine! Hate that shall live in my blood as Iong as a drop of it flows in living veins! Hate that shall burn forever and forever, until quenched by ample and unsiinted Just- ic (To be Continued.) THE LAST RESORT, \ Grim Tragedy Which Fotlowed Close ef New-found Happiness. “Helen!” called a man in a muffled voice, as he pushed open the door' to the squalid apartment at the top of the tenement. “What? You, George?’ “Yes, dear. Get up; rub your eyes! Look what I have brought!” The man lit a eandle and pushed a small table to the side of a bed. Then he threw upon it one roll of bills afer another and handfuls of gold until the top was iterally covered. “Leok, my poor girl! It’s money— reat meney! Touch it! Take some of it in your hands! Rub your eyes and count it Ten thousand dollars! Think! All ours! What happiness! Starva- tion, ruin, the street, the morgue, were hefore us this morning. Now we're saved; we shall—” The woman stared at the money and then into her husband’s face. “Where did you get it?” “Oh, that’s all right. I got it easily enough—I mean, I won it. Yes, dear, won it. Of course, you don’t under- stand. At play, my little.girl. At the gaming table. Last chance. Just like a novel, my pet. I risked everything on the turn of a card; no, I mean the cast of a die. No, hell; I mean on the fall cf a ball. And there’s the money. It will buy foed and fire. Take it— isten! Somebody’s on the stairs! Hide the money! Put out the light! Good-by, Helen. I'll never be taken alive!” When the police burst open the door 2 moment later to arrest the mur- derer they found much money on the table and a pale-faced, girlish woman dead upon the pillow. In the yard back of the tenement, five stories below, they found the body of a man.—Philadelphia Times. The March of Invention. “T’ve no doubt a good many people will listen in vain for Gabriel’s trump- et when he finally comes.” “How so?” “Because he’s pretty sure to use a megaphone.”—Cleveland Plain Dealer. THE FILIPINO BUFFALOS. The Wild Ones When Tamed Exhibit Marvelous Strength. The wild buffaloes of the Philippines come from the interior, where many natives spend their time in capturing and taming them. It takes a long time to tame the wild creatures and break them into service. Some old bulls ab- solutely refuse to be tamed, and they show their resentment for capture up to the time of their death. Most of those in service are born and bred in captivity, and the young calves are very easily trained for use. Still enough of the wild caraboas are caught every year to keep the stock from de- generating. They take to civilized life much more readily than our American bison, resembling in this respect the true water buffalo of India. The strength of these animals is marvel- ous. In respect to size, strength and ponderousness, they resemble the ele- phant more than any other creature. They simply haul anything that is hitched behind them, and it is the shaft or traces that break if the load cannot be moved. Across all sorts of rough and miry country they pull the load. Although they have not the sure foot- ing of the mule in climbing steep and rough mountains and hills, they are better in the soft, miry lowlands which compose so large a portion of the Philippines. When angered and running away they dash across the country with their heavy loads as if it were so much light, flimsy cotton. Not only are they then regardless of what is behind them, but also of what may rear itself in front. Be it a river, a fence, ditch or jungle, or another cart, the maddened animal plunges blindly through or across it, and never halts until disabled or its anger bas evaporated. In the latter case it then suddenly becomes a meek and docile as before. If whipped for its mis- deeds, its meek eyes seem to ask why it is punished, and they look as inno- cent as those of a child or a deer. A BLIND RAILROAD PORTER. Handles Freight, Pats Ont the Switeh Lights and Seals Freight Cars. There is a blind negro employed at the Yazoo & Mississippi Valley station at Shelby, Miss., who is certainly 2 wonder, says the Memphis Commercial- Appeal. The darkey’s name is Marshall Bright. He is totally bereft of the power of sight. Notwithstanding this physical hindrance Marshall attends to all the duties of a porter around the station. He handles freight, puts out switch lights and seals freight cars as correctly as any person could do who is blessed with good sight. In fixing the switch lights in the evening he adjusts the flame of the lamp by pass- ing his finger over the blaze. His sense of touch is so acute that he can tell just when the lampwick is prop- erly adjusted. Bright has been em- ployed around the station for a num- ber of years and although he is con- stantly around the railroad tracks he has had but one mishap. Several years ago, before he became thoroughly fa- miliar with the trains, he was brushed off the track by a slowly moving train. He was not hurt, though, by the acci- dent. Japanese Gardening. The Japanese have the art of dwarf- ing trees to mere shrubs, and of culti- vating plants in a similar way. The people take great delight in their miniature gardens, which require a special gardener to keep them down to desired limits. The author of “On Short Leave to Japan,” writes: “A Japanese garden is generally about ten yards square, and in this small space is found a park and demesne, with lake, summer house, temples, trees, all eomplete, and all in keeping with the dimensions available, The lake is four feet long and full of small gold- fish. On the border stands a pine trea, exactly eighteen inches high and fifty years old, beneath its shade is a tem- ple carved out of one piece of stone, the size of a brick. On a lofty crag of some two and a-half feet stands a fine maple tree, perfect in form and shape, fifteen years old and twelve inches high. We bought three of these miniature trees later—a maple, a pine and a bamboo clump—each about fifteen years old and eighteen inches to two feet high, growing in shallow dishes. We were told of a complete garden, contained in a sbal- low two-dozen wine case. Everything was complete, down to the fish in the lake, a sheet of water only a few inches square, and the foot bridges over the watercourses. Tea houses there were, and numerous trees of various kinds, each about six inches high. Old-as the hills these, but full of vitality, and ye* never growing bigger.” Religious Fanaticism. A dispatch from Apaldoorn, Hol- land, gives particulars of a terrible tragedy arising out of religious fan- aticism. There exists in the neighbor- hood a peculiar sect, and its members decided to offer up a sacrifice to God, preceded by a service of praise, in which twe young girls led the singing. While the service was proceeding, one of the congregation, a peasant farmer, seized his woman servant and killed her, following this up by murdering the two girls and his wife. The wor- shipers made no attempt whatever to interfere with the fiendish work, and even gazed calmly on while the mur- derer washed his hands in the blood of his victims. He has since been ar- rested by the police. At the Poker Club, Sam—‘I do jes’ hate a bad loser.” Pete—“Dat’s all right; but I’d radder | play wif a bad loser dan wif any kind of a winner.”—Puck. Immunity Comes High. “What makes the new magazine cost so much?” ‘ “I don’t know. Maybe they have to pay people not to write war articles for it.”—Indianapolis Journal. The Ideal Man. There is much rivalry between col- leges as to which will produce the ideal man. By this they mean a strong and ‘intellectual men. Health will demand first. consideration, for upon that de- pends all. Hostetter’s Stomach Bitters wili keep the bowels regular and the stomach healthy by curing stomach dis- orders. It also prevents malaria, fever and ague. A good many people who go on them stage have no reason to be proud of ~ their goings-on. SS <= { Spring Annually Says Take Heood’s Sarsaparilia In the spring those Pimples, Boils, Eruptions and General Bad Feelings indicate that there are cobwebs in the system. It needs a thorough brushing, and. the best brush is Hood’s Sarsaparilla, which sweeps all humors before it. This great medicine eradicates Scrofula, sub- dues Salt Rheum, neutralizes the acidity which causes Rheumatism — in short, purifies the blood and thoroughly renovates the whole physical system. “We have used Hood’s Sarsapa- rilla and it has given the best of satisfaction, especially as a spring medicine. It builds up the general system and gives new life.” Dwicut Cc. Park, Whiteland, Indiana. 4 00 <DD> 6 00 <4 60 E> $00 A> 00 <a> 400 <> 000 EE 000 408 So 000 <> 000 a 000-<a 000 ae 00 SI 001 EE OF OF) EO Pa Ba ee orp orem ee | ‘ His Possessions. The rich and rapid young man was not succeeding very well in his suit with the poor but sensible young woman he was anxious to win. “But, Fannie,” he urged, “I have fifty thousand a year.” “Fifty thousand what?” she respond- ed. “Bad habi Detroit Free Pres Swanson’s 5 You have heard of DROPS Rheumatic Cure, still you are suffering from Rheumatism and other * diseases that this remedy so surely cures. Many of your friends have ad- vised you to use it, and yet you hesi- tate before giving it a trial. Why de- lay any longer, and why waste any more money and time? You will cer- tainly find what you have sought in vain for, and we are confident it will do for you what it has done for others*_ similarly afflicted. If all knew what thousands know of the efficacy of 5 Drops as a curative as well as pre- ventive of any ache or pain known to the human body, there wouid not be w= family in all America without a bottle» of Swanson’s 5 DROPS Rheumatic Cure. You can try it for the small amount of 25c, on receipt of same will send you a sample bottle; or, send us a Dollar and we will send you a large bottle prepaid by express, con- taining 300 doses, 5 DROPS is the name and dose. Free from opiates in any form. Absolutely harmless, a child can use it as well as an adult. For further particulars write Swanson Rheumatic Cure Co., 160 Lake St. Chicago. x ‘ Proper Procedure. “Who’s that in the parlor?” asked Mr. Crumso. “It is Mr. Biggins, an old flame of Margaret’s” replied Mrs. Crumso. “An old flame? Put him out.” LABASTINE 4s the original and only durable wall coating, entirely different from all kal- somines. Ready for use in white or fourteen beautiful tints by adding cold water. »? ADIES naturally prefer ALA® BASTINE for walls and ceil- ings, because it is pure, clean, durable. Put up in dry pow- dered form, in five-pound pack- ages, with full directions, LL kalsomines are cheap, tem- porary preparations made from, whiting, chalks, clays, etc., and stuck on walls with de- caying animal glue. ALABAS- TINE is not a kalsomine. BEWARE of the dealer who § says ho cansell you the “same thing” as) ALABASTINE or “something just as good.” He is either not posted or is try- ing to deceive you. ND IN OFFERING something he has bougnt cheap and tries to sell on ALABASTINE'’S de- mands, he may not realize the damage you will suffer by @ kalsomine on your walls. * ENSIBLE dealers will not bi @ lawsuit. Dealers risk one by selling and consumers by using infringement. Alabastine Co. own right to make wali coat- ing to mix with cold water. HE INTERIOR, WALLS of - every church and school should be coated only with pure, dur- able ALABASTINE. It safe- guards health. Hundreds of tons used yearly for this work. E N BUYING ALABASTIN®S, stomers should avoid get- fin cheap kalsomines under different names. Insist on having our goods in packages properly labeled. UISAN yf wall paper UISANCE of Kuabrina it ean be used on plastered wails, West an at Stuck 8m, Ac can It does not rub or scale off, LISHED in favor. Shum Sti imitations. Ask paint er or Orugeist for tint ‘Write us for interesti free. ALABASTIN. n Ri Mich. E i # ; <« f