Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, April 21, 1900, Page 8

ea Or, UND . <> <a ee a ae CHAPTER IX. Op ee An Omen of Ill. Sybil was not down at breakfast ext morning, and Fannie found Her- bert, as well as her father, rather grave and taciturn. Mrs. Wyllis, seated at the head of the table, kept her watchful gray eyes en all, while she seemed to devote her | whole attention to the tea and coffee Before her. “I did have such a dreadful dream last night,” said Fannie, whose flow of | conversation’ was irrepressible. “It; have been that fruit cake of; Mrs. Wyllis. I thought there n earthquake, or something like | ene, for the house seemed tumbling | @bout my ears, and that horrible old picture of uncle Basil was alive, | ecowling and shaking his cane at me. And I thought there was no one near me but Sybil, and uncle Basil held | tight hold of her hand, so she could} not help me—and I was frighfened so | terribly I awoke in a cold perspira- tion. Did you send Sybil’s breakfast! to her, Mrs. Wyllis?” “f knocked at Miss Wraye’s door,” | replied the model housekeeper, “but ehe said she wished for nothing at, present.’ “I feel confident that dear girl is go- ing to be sick,” said Fannie. “She studied herself nearly to death, to be- | gin with, ard since she has been her she hasn't eaten enough to keep a bir alive. I must send for Dr. Bond this very day! Herbert, you must ride; own to the village for him. You gave | chill last night, taking her off to snt Hill when the river mists were | continued Fannie, reproach- | “and now the least yon can do nd cure her.” e flushed at his father’s must inquiring . “T trust there is matter with Miss Sybil?” he an-j; a@wered, with some embarrassment. | “A slight cold, I presum said Mrs. Wryllis, with a scarcely-perceptible lift- ing of her white eyelashes. Wraye looks delicate, but could not be very se “Fix her a cup of coffee, Wyllis, and fet me take it up to her,” said Fannie. tmpulsively, springing from the table, “I must see how she is, anyhow. Aj; little we cream—she don’t like it f a, cut off a wee bit of = ° And the warm-hearted girl arranged a dainty breakfast on the tray, and with her own hand carried it up to her friend. As his daughter left the room, Mr. Clive turned rather stiffly to his son. Who is this young lady, in whee welfare Fannie betrays such remarka- ble interest? Some school friend, 1 presume?” “Miss Wraye was a boarder at Mad- am Fleury’s for the last two sessions,” answered the young gentleman, briet- “anh! a boarder at Madam Fleury's!” repeated the father, thoughtfully. “A New Yorker, then, I suppose?” “Indeed, I do not know, sir,” replied Herbert. “I should suppose not, as the ung lady seemed to have no friends ere.” “Where do her friends reside, then?” ‘was the older Mr. Clive’s question. “Is whe a foreigner?” “TJ should judge not; though, really, @ir.”’ said Herbert, with attempted in- @ifference, “I have never inquired much about Miss Wraye’s birthplace or ante- eedenis. She seems a very gentle ana @nltivated young lady, and I thought it scarcely became me to inquire mere.” f course, of course! Madam Fleu- yeculd not countenance an undesir- Rie intir aid Mr. Clive, reflect- tvely. ‘ » is a woman of very supe- rior judgmenit—” “And of very narrow mind,” inter- rupted Herbert, vexed that, in justice ble person, he was to relieve her from the | sponsibility of protecting Fannie’s friend. “Madam Fleury never count- enances any one, sir, who is not tick- eted in golden letters as one of soci ity’s pets. Miss Wraye, as jshe in- ed you, through me, is not one of these favoreil ones.” “Ah!” the elder gentleman’s brow “there may be a great deal by such a suggestion—a great nie is véry impulsive, and as her temporary guardian, very unwise. My daughter’s should be only such as are— uitable to her position, her such as Miss Clive can ree- as her equals, not protect as There is nothing that so the young mind as darkened: prospec ornize 4nfericrs. quickly degrades tow associations.” Herbert’s brow flushed, and he rose from his seat, as if the words stung Bim. “I have too high an opinion of my sister to suppose that any association gould degrade her,” he answered. “However, sir, you can see Miss Wrave, and decide for yourself whetb- | er she is a fit companion for your daughter. It is a delicate matter, on wich I cannot presume to judge.” He left the room as he spoke, angry and excited. He could say nothing gore; truth, justice, conscience would allow him to say nothing more. His father was right—so every prudient mind would admit. Sybil Wraye, nameless, friendless, as she called herself—shadowed by an 4mpecretrable cloud, and crushed» by ome secret sorrow—was no fit com- anion for his ardent, impulsive sister. adam Fleury had said it; Marian Grey had said it. Nay, had not Sybil herself said it? Had she not told him, the first night of their meeting, that she had no right to be his sister's guest? Had she not, the previous even- ing, bemoaned the folly, the madness, that made her cross their thresholad— break bread at their board? BY JEAN WARNER. othing serious the | “Miss | iously injured by a river mist.” i ~ Ce em 1 —- ER A SPELL. | 000 a _ | And yet—and yet, what’ was the charm about that pure, sweet face, that made it standout purer and fair- er from the very shadows that sur- rounded it? “And an artist, should he paint her, He would paint her unaware, With a halo round her hair.” | It was with something of a poet’s fecling that Herbert regarded Sybil. i Though she was far removed from him forever, though another claimed her | heart and hand, even the pangs of ; | hopeless love and hopeless loss could | not dim in his memory ker beautiful | image. She would always be his ideal | of all that was lov. ely and pure in wo- | manhood—en ideal that from afar he | might worship, though her could never ; hope to win. His heart was sore this morning— : gore with the wound of a first disap- | | pointment. All the other pain seemed | lost in the thought that Sybil was re- | moved from him forever. He had no | right to defend or protect her. She be- longed to another—was pledged to an- | | Other: to cne—the words seemed ‘ branded into his very soul—to one | whom she loved, honored and must | obey. Poor child! perhaps it was peril to | this leved cne that overhung her young life like a darksome cloud; perhaps it was grief at separation; perhaps for- | tune frowned upon a too ambitious , love, or perhaps friends forbade a hap- | | Py union. { | The pain in his own heart made Her- | bert generously sympathetic with Syb- : i's anguish. Love must ever be mer- eiful to love. | He passed into the library. He had | ; always, since his return from college, | had his own desk and chair there. The morning's mail had been brought in, and his letters were awaiting his pe- rusal, There were several from old chums— | one. on delicately-tinted paper, from } & pretty cousin, a begging epistle, and then a rude envelope, addressed in a | | eramped, almost illegible hand, to | “Herbert Clive.” He opened it with some surprise, and | read the following lines : “Sir-I am not one to str’ke in the ! dark, and so I send you this to warn | you that a desperate being, who fears neither God nor man, has taken the law into his own hands and is deter- mined upon justice. Beware of me, | | for I have determined upon my rights at any cost—at apy cost! “—Basil Clive.” “Basil Clive!” repeated Herbert, won- derin. “And wh othe dickens is Basil Clive? The only one I ever heard of died five-and-‘wenty years ago. It can’t be that Fannie’s dream is so quickly rea and the grim old gen- tleran up has really stepped down from his cznvas into life? Fath- er.” and Herbert looked up to his pa- rent. who at that moment entered the room, “I have received a very singu- lar letter from a person who signs him- self ‘Basil Clive.’ ” “Ah!” Mr. Clive bent over his let- ters for a moment, perhaps to conceal the gray pallor that crept over his stern face. “There is a Gesperate sort of character who goes by that name, and has endeavored several times to claim relationshiv with but he is an im- poster, whose pretensions it is much better not to notice. Let me se his let- ter. Herbert handed {t to his father, who | slanced over it quickly, then tore it into and flung it into the waste i | “All “bombast!” he. muttered. “The poor fool has been mad on this subject for years and years.” ange I never heard of him!” said | Herbert. “I preferred that you should neither hear nor speak of ht * continued Mr, Clive, with that darkening of his brow that his daughter disliked so much. “He is nothing to He is a low- born, pred ru And if he or his should ever attempt to cross my } threshold, I would spurn them from it like the dogs they are!” It was a rare thing for the polished Mr. Clive to use such rude and forcible language, and Herbert looked up at his father in mute surprise. But a fairer picture than he had ex- pected to see met his gaze. Just on the threshold of the library stood his sister, her beautiful face bright with dimpling smiles, and one white arm thrown around the ‘slight, syIph-like fornr of Sybil, who, with her graceful contrast ne's bloom: loveliness. “Here she ivy, papa!” cried the petted darling of the hy ehold. “I made her eat some br t, ands he feels ever so much hetter. Sybil, this is the dear, darling old duck of a father that 1 have told you so much about; and, papa. this is the dearest friend I have in the whole werld—Sybil Wraye.” Courteous gentleman that he was, Mr. Clive, senior, was obliged to rise and acknowledge so naive an introduc tion. “Tam happy to meet my little daugh- ter’s friend,” he said, stepping forwa and holding out his hand to the girl, whose delicate beauty at once disarmed even paternal criticism. But the Cark frown still lingered around his brows, and Sybil, glancing into that stern ,haughty countenance, | paled and shuddered, and, ere he could touch her had, fell fainting at Robert Clive’s feet. CHAPTER xX. Doetor Bond. When Sybil recovered her conscious- ness she found herself on a sofa in Fannie’s sitting room, and that young ‘lady bathing her head alternately with tears and eau-de-cologne. | “She’s dead! she’s dead! Oh, Wyl- lis, tell eer. tel me, Is she dead?? “on ;—very sick, Aaah ce te | in a ah eget eh ae a ee Seried Fannie, to whom a swoon was HER HEART'S SECRET suggestive of immediate dissolution. Sybil, Sybil! carling Sybil, do ‘speak to me once again! Oh, Wyllis, ‘look how white she is! Will’ Herbert never come back. with the doctor? Sybil—” ~“Be quiet, Miss Fannie’—the low, sibilant voice seemed to startle our he- roine from her momentary torpor, as though it were the hiss of a snake— “do be quiet! It is only a faint. See, she { scoming to nicely now? Take a little of this brandy, Miss Wraye. Now you feel better, I am sure,” “Yes, better—much better!” gasped Sybil. “I am quite recovered now.” She passed her hand slowly over her brow. “What was it that frightened me so?” “I'm sure I don’t know,” answered Farny, hysterical between joy ana grief. “You were just going to speak to papa, and fell right down, as if he had struck you; and you frightened me out of my very wits, you precious, precious darling!” coneluded the im- pulsive girl, emphasizing each adject- ive with an embrace. “Yes. I assure you, my dear, it was nothirg but a swoon,” said the house- keeper, gently. “It was quite unneces- sary to send for the doctor.” “Dear me, Mrs. Wyllis! I don’t be- lieve that you would get excited if any one were dying,’ said Fannie, petu- lantly. “Of course it was necessary to send for a doctor, and I am very hap- py to say here comes Dr. Bond now.” The doctor entered the room as she spoke. He was a queer-looking little j man, with snow-white hair plaited in an old-fashioned que down his back, and he was arrayed in the primitive | stvle of knee-breeches and shoe-buck- les. He had lived for nearly forty | years in a quaint little vine-wreathed cottage about a quarter of a mile from the Towers, and although his practice was comparatively small, his vigorous pen had made him known far and wide as a man of deep thought and extend- ed culture. He had a brisk, caustic manner, that caused him to be generally feared rather than loved; but those who had | experienced his kindly aid in sickness, or felt his delicate sympathy in sorrow, were proud to number the old doctor among their mose cherished and val- ued friends. He entered the pretty boudoir with his usual quick step, but started and paused sudéenly at sight of the white-; robed, golden-haired figure upon the lounge. “Good God!” he muttered, long-drawn breath; ‘who is that?” “Oh, doctor, I'm so glad you have come!” said Fannie, springing to meet him. “I was so afraid you might be eross and cranky this morning, and send Dr. Reef in your place, and I wanted you to see Sybil yourself!” “Sybil!” repeated the doctor, his face © that had the ruddy hue of a winter !apple, paling vigorously. “Sybil!” who you call by that name, is it that child?” “Why, this is Sybil,” said Fannie, fondly stroking her friend’s beautiful hair—“my dearest friend, Sybil Wraye; | and she has been real sick—awfully | I want you to cure her, Di.) sick. Bond.” “Sybil Wraye?” repeated the old gen- tleman, drawing near his patient with a strange softness in yolce and man- ner— what can the old doctor do for Sybil Wraye?” There was something so kind and, friendly in the old man’s tone that the | sorrow-stricken girl lifted her soft gray eyes to him gratefully—those wonder- ful eyes that were the windows of Sybil's hushed and hidden soul. But ere she could speak, Mrs. Wyllis folding her mittens over and over one another, in her feline fashion, softly said “Miss Wraye was nervous and weak this morning, and had come down stairs “against my advice. She overtaxed her strength, and the conse- quence was that she fainted from the unnecessary exertion.” “Ah!” said the doctor, laying a fin- ger on Sybil’s pulse, “overtaxed her strength, eh?—overtaxed her strength. Are you subject to these fainting fits, my dear?” &N the first I ever had.’ ’ “And you were not frightened, | shocked. excited in any way?” “Oh, good gracious, no!” answered Fannie, eagerly. “Why, we were both speaking, as quietly as possible, to papa, when Sybil frightened me to death by tumbling over right at my feet.” “No—that is,” Sybil hesitated, “I felt a little nervous at meeting Mr. Clive; and—and—” “Humph! yes,” said Dr: Bond, thoughtfully; “a little nervous—a little nervous. Fevered pulse, flushed cheeks, quick breathing. My dear child, you must keep quiet, or you'll be very sick indeed. Give her this,” continued the old gentleman, scrib- bling a prescription hastily on a torn leaf of his pocket-book. “Darken the roem and keep her quiet, or, Miss Fan- nie, yeur friend will be seriously sick, indeed. I will step around this even- ing and see how she is. Meantime, remember—quie*, quiet, quiet. No fuss, no talk, no trowble. Fret and worry kill half the world, and physic the oth- er half.” muttered the doctor, as he left the room, “That doesn’t either kill or cure: but it will serve my purpose. It will ease, for a while, at least, that | peor little throbbing brain. Sybil,» eh? Sybil! And, great heavens, what a likeness! Sybil. Wraye! And, who the dickens is Sybil Wraye?’ * Herbert was waiting outside, where the doctor's old cob stood nibbling the terrace grass. His face was pale and perturbed, and a duller eye than Dr. Bond’s would have noticed his un- wonted agitation. “Is she seriously ill, doctor? Is there jreally any cause for alarm?” he asked, seriously. “What happened to madden that child nearly into brain fever?” asked the dector, with a shrewd glance from his deep-set eyes. “You've been mak- ing love to her, young man. Now, con- fess it.” “I de confess it, sir,” answered Her- bert, proudly. “There is nothing to be ashamed of in my devotion to Miss Wraye, although that devotion is, I know, utterly hopeless.” Humph! Hopeless, is it?” said the doctor. “What’s in the way—friends or fortune?” “Her own heart,’ was the sad reply. “She loves and is betrothed to anoth- er.’ with a. “Sybil Wraye? Ah, well, my dear, | had | ’was the low reply. “This is) -“Oh, that's the way the wind lies, is it? Cheer up, my boy! There’s as good fish, in the sea as ever were caught. Cheer Wp! There’s nothing much the tter with the young lady. Betrothed to another, eh? Told you so, did she? When?” “Last night,” answered Herbert, lowering his voice. “I wanted to speak to you confidentially, sir, knowing that you would be a prudent adviser, os well as skilled physician to the young lady. I fear there is some severe an- guish or fear pressing on her mind that may unsettle it. What that sorrow is, I do not know, nor have I now any right to inquire; but, by a lucky chance, I was down by the river last. night, and saved her from suicide, on which she seemed madly bent; and her at- tack this morning makes me doubly anxious about her. I fear, indeed, that some secret sorrow is driving this girl mad.” The doctor's brows knit in a per- plexed frown. “Secret sorrow, eh? Romantic fol- de-rol! Why, the girl’s nothing but a baby, sir!” “She is eighteen,” answered Her- bert, gravely; “and at eighteen a wo- man is no longer a child.” “So much the worse, young man—so much the worse. She ought to be, if she isn’t. Bighteen fol-de-rol! She ought to know no more of secret sor- row than of Syriac; she ought to think of nothing but ruffles, ribbons and rolly-poolies. Your sister’s the sort of a girl for me; but I’ll wager my head that in six months from now some | young fellow makes a fool of her, and | sets her to thinking of love, moonshine | and secret sorrows. Bah! it makes me sick. Sorrow comes quick enough, young man, and dark enough, and ugly enough, without a pack of young fools playing at it before their time. Now. what the deuce has this golden ; haired baby to do with secret sorro | And the doctor rubbed his nose in way that showed he was quite excited. “I cannot tell you, sir,” Herbert add- ed. sadly. “I am not in her confidence. I only know that there fs some trouble of which she cannot or will not speak, preying on her mind, and driving from it all peace or happiness.” “Humph!”’ grunted the doctor. “Where are her father and mother: They'd better take her home and set her to making pinafores! She’d best go home, sir—best go home.” “J do not think she has father or mother.” answered the young man, thoughtfully. ,“She never sjpaks of either.” “Sister, brother, uncle or aunt, then,” | said the doctor. “Mooning around these | hills isn’t good either for body or mind. She'd better go home at once, and I'll tell her so.” | “I fear her home is not a congenial | one.” answered Herbert. “I fear the sorrow that seems darkening her young life may have its mainspring there; I fear—God knows what I fear! But I would that I could feel assured that Sybil had one trae friend in the world —one heart that beat for her as purely and unselfishly as mine!” “You're a fine young fellow,” said the doctor, blowing his nose violently on a huge bandanna—‘a very fine young fellow. Shake hands! I wish I had a son like you. Most of the milk- sops, nowadays, go about as cross and | pettish as spoiled children if a girl hap- pens to say no to them. You stand up to it like-a man, and it shows you're the right mettle. The truest lover is always the truest friend. I was in love myself, sir, once—laugh at me, if you please—but I was genuinely in love forty odd years ago. It a young love and a foolish love, and it turned out to be a very unhappy love, for the girl didn’t care-a snap for me; but it was the beginning and end of love to me. It made me what I am—a sour, crabbed, cross old fellow. But it left one place in my heart soft enough to beat in sympathy to a tale like yours. You can trust me, young man; I'll be a friend to that little friend of yours in there. I'll try to find out her tronble, whatever it is, and help her, if I can: and I won't do it altogether for your sake, either. Look here!” The old doctor drew a worn old leath- er case from his vest pocket as he spoke, and, cpening it, showed it con- tained a smaller one of velvet an‘l gold. Touching a spring, the last case flew open, revealing a picture within—a picture exquisitely painted on ivory— a lovely girl in the first bloom of youth. Herbert gave one glance of swift sur- prise at the picture, and then ex- claimed : “Svbil! Sybil! it is Sybil Wraye her- self!” Not Sybil Wraye.” answered the old man, gently. “No, no, sir—this beau‘ ful form has been mouldering in the dust for five-and-thirty-years. This is Sybil Lee, the weman I loved, as she looked when I loved her. Our lives drifted apart; I could never find her— never could trace her, after that one brief summer that witnessed my first and only dream. I have heard whis- pers of an unhappy marriage, of a sub- sequent desertion, but she was too proud, too reserved to let her sorrows rench even friendly ears. I have never hdard from her, never seen her, since the evening I poured out my love-tale in her ear; and gently, kindly. deli- cately, she rejected my suit. This like- ness I painted from memory, when her image was- still fresh and un- dimmed in my mental eyes. It was an ideal of loveliness that of late years I had learned to think only an ideal, un- til to-day. Before you spoke to me I was only that little child’s friend be- cause of the wondrous likeness she bears to Sybil Lee.” (TO be Continued.) ~ The First Essential. “TT understand you hope to make a great musician of your son?” “Yes, indeed.” “Whom have you selected to teach him?’ “Oh, we haven't advanced that far yet. At present he’s giving all his | time to the doctor, who guarantees to make his bair thick and luxuriant.”— Catkelic Standard and Times. | Making the Bluff Good. “Show me a prizefighter,” said the long-haired man, as he leaned against the bar, “and I’ll show you a loafer.” “Is that so?” exclaimed a burly fel- low behind the stove, jumping to his feet. Well, 'm a prizefighter~see?” “Of course,” ‘said the other, as he backed toward the door, “and I’m a Inafer.”— Chicago News. NEW YORK REPUBLICANS. Name Delegates-at-Large to the Na- tional Convention. New York, April 18.—The Republican convention for the election of delegates at large to the national convention at Philadelphia, named two United States senators, a governor and the second in command of the Republican state or- ganization as their choice for delegates at large. Then they complimented the newspaper profession by naming as electors the proprietor and editor of a Buffalo newspaper and the proprietor and editor of a Rochester newspaper. The men signally honored were Sena- tor.Thomas C. Platt, Senator C. M. Depew, Gov. Theodore Roosevelt, State Chairman B. B. Odell as delegates at large and Edward H. Butler of Buffalo and IF’, A. Mitchell of “Rochester as electors at large. The convention demonstrated that so far. as individual delegates went they were not quite de- cided in their preferencts as to wheth- er Gov. Roosevelt should be a candi- date for governor of for vice president, or whether they wanted T. L. Wood- ruff for lieutenant governor again or vice president. When the temporary and peruano chairmen suetnnees the candidacy of Gov. Roosevelt for a second term, the convention went wild with enthusiasm, ‘but when Mr. Sher- man coupled the names of McKinley and’ Roosevelt the applause and en- thusiasm was still greater. So it was inypossible to diagnose the attitude of the delegates toward the governor. It was apparent, however, that the gen- eral trend is toward the renomination of Goy. Roosevelt and the pusbing of v. L. Woodruff for second place cn the national ticket. HEATH WILL SOT RESIGN To Take Care of the Republican National Campaizn. New York. April 18.-—-A special to the Herald from Washington says: First Assistant Postmaster General Heath. has not resigned to devote himself to the work of the Republican national committee as has been stated. Mr. Heath has no present intention of re- signing. What he may do after the campaign opens is a matter he will not talk about. It is a matter of regret among leading Republican politicians that Senator Hanna will not be chair- man of the committee during the com- ing campaign. There is_no one in whom the president and Republican leaders generally, would have more confidence than in Senator Hanna, but the state of his health is such that he does not feel equal to the responsibility of managing the campaign. Mr. Heath is one of those most talked of as Mr. Hanna's — successor. Representative Dick of Ohio, who is secretary of the national Republican committee, is also spoken of for the position. MANNA NOT A DELEGATE. Will Leave That Honor for Some One Else. Washington, April 18.—The Post pub- lishes the following: Senator Hanna will not be a delegate to the Republic- an national convention. This fact made known at the capital yesterday oc- easioned considerable comment, but in- vestigation shows that no special sig- nificance is to be attached to the sen- ator’s decision. He will be at the con- vention anyway as the chairman of the national committee, in which ca- pacity he will call it to order, and as the honor of being a delagate at large was one numerously coveted he will not seek it this year. There is no prob- ability that he will change his deter- mination. HANNA QUITE iLL. Despite Denials, the Senator Has a Bad Attack of Grip. New York, April 18.—A special to the Herald from Washington says: Sena- tor Hanna returned to Washington last night from Fortress Monroe, seriously ill with grip. He has a high fever and his friends are much alarmed. The senator's physician does not consider the case dangerous, and although he realizes that the senator is quite ill he hopes to be able to prevent any serious counplications. TO DISSOLVE TRUST. Attempt Will Be Made to Break Up Wall Paper Monopoly. New York, April 18.—At the annual of the Wall Paper company a strong effort will be made to dissolve the company, better known as the wall paper trust. Some of the directors as- sert that the organization has never been a success owing to the fact that it raised the price of wall paper to fig- ures where competition was made pos- sible. EFFORT THIS VICTORY LED TO DEATH. Drank Quart pf Whisky on a Wager and Died in Thirty Minutes. New York, April 18. — Stanislaus Dzieniclawitz, aged twenty-four, sat with a merry party in a saloon in New- ark. An argument arose as to a man’s capacity for whisky, and the man with the long name made a wager he could drink a quart of the stuff with- out stopping, except to take breath. He did it, and his friends rejoiced greatly over his victory for half an hour. Then he suddenly grew ill fell in convulsions to the floor, and soon died. The whisky had produced apoplexy. Melba to Marry. Paris, April 18—Mme. Melba is here and has admitted that she will marry Haddon Chambers, the Australian play-wright, within the next two weeks. Replying to questions, she said: “My divorce from Mr. Armstrong de- lights me. I am imniensely relieved. It is what I have logned for. I have never had any time to live in those aw- ful Dakota and Texas places. Now, all is done. As for me, I will soon marry Haddon Chambers. I never thought of marrying Herr Joachim. Why, he is eighty.” Newspaper Man Suicides. Lexington, Ky., April 18.—D. T. Bax- ter, aged fifty-four, one of the best- known newspaper men in the state, committed suicide during a fit of mel- ancholia. He stabbed himself several times in the breast with his scissors, ang ies fired a bullet bites his ear! Twenty-Four Persons Drowned. Crook Haven, Ireland, April 18.—The French, fishing” boat Hoche has foun- dered off Crook Haven in a storm, twenty-four “persons being drowned. Glad She’s Still Alive. “Is it true that Mrs. Dragger reads such exhauagtive club papers?” “Exhaustive? Of course, nobody ever Says. anything, but when she gets through every woman in the club breathes as if she had crawled through a tunnel a mile long.”—Indianapolis Journal, The Secrets of Planets Revealed. The telescope which is now in process of construction is expected to bring the moon within a mile’s eyesight of this world, and to reveal the secrets of the planets. It may cause as great @ change in the world’s thought as Hos- tetter’s Storfach Bitters does to suffer- ers from dyspepsia, constipation, liver or kidney troubles. Papa Knew. Johnny—What is a bore, papa? Papa—A bore is a person who tells you so much about himself that you get uo chance to tell him anything about yourself.—Baltimore American. Stomach Troubles in Spring Are THAT BILIOUS FEELING, bad taste in the mouth, dull headache, sleepless- ness, poor appetite. No matter how careful you are about eating, everything you take into your stomach turns sour, causes distress, pains and unpleasant gases. Don’t you understand what these symptoms — signals of distress—mean ? They are the cries of the stomach for help! It is being overworked. It needs the peculiar tonic qualities and diges- tive strength to be found only in HOOD’S Sarsaparilia The best stomach and blood remedies known to the medical profession are combined in the medicine, and thousands of grateful letters telling its cures prove it to be the greatest medicine for all stomach troubles ever yet discovered, Not Good Eating. The prime minister was idly turning the pages of a book of proverbs and pithy sayings which he had found among the effects of the late mission- ‘ary. I wonder what this means?” he said suddenly. “One man’s meat is another man's poison?” “Perhaps.” replied the cannibal king, “it refers to the fact that the cigarette smoker is not edible.”—Philadelphia Press. PATENTS. List of Patents Issued Last Week to Northwestern Inventors. Thomas Cruse, Helena, Mont., ex- tracting gold and silver from their ores; Peter A. Hoven, Madison, Minn., cart; William H. Memminger, Rosemount. Minn., apparel apron; Hugh Miscamp- bell, Duluth, Minn., concrete mixec; John O. Naistrom, Minneapolis, Minn. disk harrow; Arthur Smithson, G. A. L. MeIndoo and W. 'T. Perry, Sedan, Minn., vehicle. Merwin, Lothrop & Johnson, Patent Attor- neys, 911 & 912 Pioneer Press Bldg., St. Paul Shakespeare Lucky, too. Smiles—I’m glad I wasn’t Shakes- peare. Giles—Why are you? Smiles—Because I should be dead now. ziles—Yes, that is true; and Shakes- peare would be forgotten.—Chicago Johnson’s Pure Cider Vinegar, made by aging cider in barrels. Ask your grocer for it. F. C. Johnson, Kishwaukee, ILL If they had musie at a lynching, of eourse it would be string music. iy Safe. Send 5 stamps for Catalo No Fire, Seats Boar ST. JOSEPH, MICH, ‘TRUSOOTY BOAT MFG. CO. HUSK, CUT mo SHRED THE CYCLONE: nusker { |