Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, March 12, 1904, Page 2

| | | Seaueeneee By Tom Gallon | Al Woman © of Cratt DOOOO0OON0o Hoonooooo L] ——EEE QO OOO000O O00 OOAooS0000 CHAPTER I.—(Continued.) “Yes, yes, but with money,” he re- plied, eagerly. “While I had money I could get it every day, but they won’t trust me when I promise to pay them presently. There’s a Chinaman—the second house as you go down into the town—he has a lot. I have felt, some- times, I could break in, get hold of his yellow throat, and make him show me where he keeps it. It’s awful—shame- ful; a poor old man dying for the want of it, and can’t get it.” “Have you no money?” she asked, looking contemptuously at him, where he stood pleadingly before her, with the tears running down his yellow cheeks. “Nothing—not a cent. The last went in food—for her; they made me get food.” “Listen to me. Suppose I get you this stuff—or give you the money to get it—what will you give me?” Her eyes were hard and her words were stern and abrupt, as though she meant that every one should have its effect. “Ah, don’t mock me,” he pleaded, “What have I to give you? I haven’t a thing in the world—except the pipe,” he added, pulling the thing from his pocket and lovingly pressing a finger into the tiny bowl. “I can’t part with that; some day some one will give me something to fill it again.” “[ will give you enough to fill it over and over again,” she said, slowly. “And I only want one thing in ex- change.” She pulled out one of the notes the | hunted man had given her and spread it on the table, keeping one hand upon it. “This is for your wallet,” she said. He glanced at her doubtfully, and slowly shook his head. “They’re not mine,” he said; “they belong to her.” “And she will be dead in ah hour and the papers useless. In an hour I shall be gone and the money with me, and then you can whistle for your opium or your dreams.”’ She took up the note again and began to fold it. “No, no—don’t take it away; let me think!” he cried, eagerly. ‘“You’re right, it’s of no use to her; she can never use it now; it must go—all the property, I mean, to some one else— mustn’t it?” “Exactly—to some one else,” she re- plied. Come, make up your mind; I can’t wait.” “But what do you want them for?” he asked, with the wallet in his ner- vous hands. “That's my business,” she said, with alittle laugh. “In any case it can’t concern you; you are out of it. As I say, this girl of yours will be dead in an hour, and all that you had there will be waste paper. Come—opium for a long, long week in exchange for your waste paper!” { “Yes, yes—my opium; I will buy all he will give me!” he murmured. } “Here, take the thing—give me the money!” He then tottered out of the door, murmuring and chuckling to himself, before she realized that she had suc- ceeded. Then she looked a little help- lessly at the wallet in her hands, and from that to the girl on the couch. Presently she crossed the room and j stood beside the dying girl. “There’s no so much difference so far as age is concerned,” she said, slowly. “Three years, perhaps; that’s a mere nothing. If I can be sure from this old dastard that she’s never been seen, I am safe. It’s aS easy as any- thing could be; a girl is wanted, with certain papers to prove who she is; here is a girl with the papers. The queen is dead. Long live the queen!” The old man came in again, hugging in his trembling hands a little packet. Scarcely noticing her, he began to get ready for his long-delayed enjoyment —molding the sticky stuff to the re- quired form and size, and making ah ready to light it. He thought of noth- ing else—saw nothing else—thought of nothing else. Gradually, while he “began to pre- pare the stuff, breathing upon it eager- ly until it glowed in the little bowl of the pipe and lit up his yellow, grin- ning face, she got from him his name —David Yarwood; that of his daugh- ter, Grace. Looking through the pa- pers in the precious wallet, she saw that everything was in order—mar- riage certificate, birth certificate, old jJetters and diaries. Presently, while he smoked, after refilling the pipe again*and again, the stuff began to have its effect. the pipe dropped from his fingers; he began to talk of old days and old s¢enes—probably because they had been brought to his mind by the happenings of that night. The ‘woman listened eagerly, hoping to pick up a name or a date that should prove useful; but David Yarwood only spoke once of anything of interest to her. “Grace—my wife—dead these many years. She said—said I broke her heart. Grace was a baby—then—and now to-night she—” The heavy head fell forward on his arms and he slept the sleep of the opium eater. The girl on the couch «was still at last; the woman was afraid to go near, because death was a wierd thing in a room so quiet as that. She stole to the door and looked back on the two silent figures; opened the door and looked out at the dawn creeping over the sky. LJ “A new dawn for you, Joyce; you can begin again,” she whispered. “So many things to be forgotten—so many things to be buried. But I wish I knew what'the certain conditions are I have to fulfill.” Securing the wallet safely in her dress, she mounted the horse that was tethered there, and rode off into the dawn of that new day that was rising for her. CHAPTER II. The Prayer of Enoch Flame. While poor Grace Yarwood lay fight- ing that grim battle with King Death, her father dreamed his dreams and was glad, perhaps, that the opium fumes in, his muddled brain enabled him to forget. There was such a lot to forget—so many years he would have been glad to wipe off the slate of life altogether. The girl who lay dying had never known any other companion but her father. Her mother’s marriage had been a runaway one—the mad fasci- nation of an hour, to be repented and wept over for a year or two. In those days David Yarwood had been a hand. some man—with the road &tretching out firm and straight before him; now he was at the far end of it, and all the past lay in shadows behind him. The Grace Yarwood who was dead— the mother of the Grace Yarwood who was dying—had given, up the struggle when her child aws a year old. Her marriage had cut her off from her own family, and she had only her husband to depend upon, and he was a broken reed at best. After her mother’s death the child had wandered about from one country to another with her father, living in some _precaurious fashion and seeing much of a shady, down-at-heels kind of life. Wherever men flocked in the hope to get money with little or no exertion,Mr. David Yarwood was to be found—whether in gambling rooms or in a new rush for gold. He had led forlorn hopes over and over again, sinking lower witn each new venture. Grace was a woman grown by the time they came to that mushroom-like town in Nevada. She was the one woman. in the place, but she was used to that, and thought there was noth- ing strange in it. She had long ago heard, with a curious sort of sorrow- ful pride, of the great place in England from which her mother had fled; she thought of it frequently—dreamed about it, in the squalid surroundings of the place in which she lived. It was only to be a precious dream, after all; yet it was something she could hug to herself on lonely, sleepless nights and in the midst of coarse scenes by day. She loved her father and pitied his weaknesses; yet he was good to think that her mother had been some- thing greater, and had stooped to this man for love’s sake. So far as her father was concerned, she could al- ways excuse that awful habit of his because he had dared so much, and failed so splendidly as she ‘thought; he had not been like other men who |, dwelt in cities and in safety. If now ‘he tried to purchase forgetfulness at a bitter price, she was not the one to blame him. Like her mother before her, all that he did was right in her eyes. She had even seen the papers that told of what she was and what her mother had been; had looked with pride at old photographs and old mini- atures, and had dreamed new dreams about the story that could never con- cern her. Then there came one night when her father had shown her an old newspaper that some man had given him down in the. little ruined town, the night when he would have been content to take the £50 reward, if he could have got it, and asked nothing more. Following that had come a let- ter from far-off England, a letter that asked for her and put fortune within her grasp. And heaven knows some fortune was needed then, for they were in desperate straits: There seemed to be no prospect of getting away from the place that held them, no chance to make a fresh start any- where. The poor old creature, who had never changed in her constant eyes, babbled only of what he might do to get his dreams if he had a little money; the girl thought of that for- tune in far-away England and beat her breast fiercely against the bars of the cage that held her. i That was the beginning of the fever —that, and want of good food and some hope in life; for hope is a very necessary food when one is young. For the first time she gave up; for the first time in all the brave struggle she had made since her childhood she looked round on the wilderness into which she had been brought and gave way to despair. ij There was no one to trouble very much in that place; others were dying, too—principually because there was nothing very much to live for. The doctor—a wastrel, like every one else there—looked upon her case as quite of the ordinary type, and was sober enough to say pretty accurately when she would die; that was all. Her father tore his hair and bewailed his unhappy fete, and then flew for conso- the last shreds of opium that | were left to him; when those were _| gone he sat down and waited for the end. eri 3 On the morning following that dark and windless night he awoke with the old horror of awakening upon him. The dreams were done with; he saw himself, as he had done so often be- fore,( an unclean thing crawling un- away with the refuse of the world. Hearing a moan from the couch, he covered his ears and shrank away from what he knew to be his work, Then feverishly he began to fill the little pipe again and to make prepara- tions for lighting it; saw the unquiet figure on the couch, dropped the pipe and covered his face with his hands. “When she dies,” he whispered, “when she goes straight to her God, she'll point to me down here and say what I was, and what I am, and what I dragged her down to. And God on his throne will judge me—now, before I've time to do anything—to say any- thing. And they’ll strike me down— send me to the place I’ve dreamed of and awakened in so often. She’s going now—nothing can hold her back. And her mother will be there—in heaven— it will be a double condemnation for me. If I could only get away!” Coward-like, and feeling that he stole out of the place and got into the air—fearful of he knew not what. Running sometime’, and stumbling as he ran, he got away as far as he could and dared not go back. “T’ll go back when she gets quiet— when she cannot stare at me with her mother’s eyes and show me what I have done,” he muttered. “It hasn’t been my fault; everything has been against me—from fhe first.” Meanwhile the Fates had decided, somewhat tardily, to fight for Grace Yarwood. It was a little late in the day, perhaps, but then the Fates have a curious way of doing things, without apparent rhyme or reason. And the instrument employed on this occasion was a curious one. While the girl lay in the little wood- en house a man was coming ont of the world that lay round about the ruined town in the wilderness, and was mak- ing straight towards her. There was no settled purpose in his mind, and there never had been; he might almost be called one of Nature’s children, so much was he a part of the landscape through which he came. An old man of great stature—with deep-set eyes that had looked on life and on death fer many years and had not been been afraid; a man with a long beard that swept his great chest; a creature of the wilds in his picturesque dress. Even in that benighted town they knew him, as all the countryside knew him—Enoch Flame. He was a survival—som®thing from out of the past that did not join hands with the civilization of the present. He was reputed to be rich in knowl- edge of herbs and other strange things and to have learned much lore from the Indians with whom he sometimes wandered. Every now and then he made his appearance in some ont-of- the-way place, and remainei there un- til the time came for him to vanish as suddenly and mysteriously as he had appeared. People were a little afraid of him, as a matter of fact, although there was little enough to fear in, him. He came into the town with his ma- jestic stride, and with his grave and dignified method of salutation to such as he met. They had seen him theer before, and now, ing at the begin- ning of a‘ dreary day, with no promise of excitement in it, he was quite wel- come. The previous day had had its excitement in the coming of the men who were hunting for a certain Mr. Owen Jaggard, wanted for the murder of a man he had shot down, in cold blood; and the few stragglers left in the town, having once tasted of ex- citement, as it were, longed for more. Truth to tell, old Enoch Flame had little to say to them; accident alone had brought him into the place. He gravely smoked in the bar of the one saloon, and told them such news of the countryside as they had not heard; then he inquired concerning them- selves. It leaked out, quite casually, that one or two of the inhabitants had been down with fever, but were recovering —seve, that is, for those who had died. Then one man drawled out something about old Yarwood’s daughter—said to be dying in the little house the other side of the town. The man added, as an item of néws, that she was expect- ed to be gone by that time, if their own. doctor was to be depended upon; and he had not made a mistake yet. “A woman?” asked the old man. “I had not heard of her. Is she young?” He was informed that ste was a mere girl—that she lived alone with her father; it was added that the fath- er was a hard lot ior any one to have live with. Before the drawling utter- ances of the various men were half over Enoch Flame was striding up the long street of the town on a mission. He found the little place and went in—and in a moment he had set to work upon what seemed a hopeless task. His own experience had taught him that it was a mere matter of touch and go for Grace Yarwood; indeed, at the first sight he felt that he had come too late. Of the father of whom they had spoken he saw nothing; the girl had apparently been deserted. But the old man, with that simple faith that came near to the sublime, set about the fight that was before him, undaunted. From a curious little bag of soft leather, ornamented with Indian work- manship, he got out certain herbs and simples. Some he brewed and some merely burnt; and he might have been the aged priest of some strange cult, unheard of in civilized places, as he stood there, bending over his work and muttering softly to himself, and occa- sionally glancing at the girl. Once or twice he almost stopped and bent anx- jously near to discover if she still breathed; then went on again with re- der heaven, and fit only to be swept’ ed, in his own simple, barbaric fash- fon, to get the fever out of her. With the coming of a new day, while yet he did not know whether he had conquer- ed or failed, there came creeping back to the house the, wretched figure of David Yarwood. f Flame looked at him as he came in, and summed up the man and his vice in that one glance; then went on with his work. The father watched him curiously for some time, and presently asked in a quavering whisper what he was doing. a 9 “With God’s help, bringing the dead back to life,” was the solemn answer, It was given to the prophets of old to do it; there may be yet one prophet left in the wilderness. You are her father?” “Yes. time.” “And will be ill again,” said Enoch Flame. “Out of my way; sit down over there and be quiet. David Yarwood managed to get hold of his pipe, and of what remained of the little packet of opium. . Flame watched him gravely while he set about the task of lighting it, but said nothing. Presently Yarwood dropped into slumber, and the other man, seat- ed beside the girl, turned from him and watched his patient. There must have come some change in her, for he sat for a long ti:ne look- ing.at her intently. The opium-smoker muttered sometimes in his uneasy sleep, and flung his arms about on the table; Enoch paid no attention to him whatever. Suddenly, in the dignified and simple fashion in which he did everything, this strange old man fell upon his knees beside the gaudy couch and folded his hands and lifted his closed eyes toward the ceiling. (To Be Continued.) I—I have been ill—a long OLDEST JOCKEY IN THE WORLD. Alston Gibson, Who Rode Andrew Jackson’s Truxton. A letter was received here to-day from Alston Gibson of Galena, Ala., asking co-operation from horsemen for making his 115th birthday a suc- cess. Gibson is the oldest living jockey in the world. Early in the nineteenth century he rode Gen. Andrew Jack- son’s famous horse Truxton in many victories from a quarter mile to four- mile heats, and history records that Gibson’s victory on Truxton in the $5,000 match with Irving Plowboy, mile heats, was responsible for the duel that followed the controversy be- tween Generals Jackson and Dicker- son. Gibson has been retired from the saddle for many years. He joined for- tunes with Davy Crockett in a pioneer expedition and had an acquaintance with Daniel Boone. His wife is still living and is past ninety pears of age. —Memphis, Tenn., Special to Boston Herald. PARIS HAS MASSEUR FOR DOGS. Price Quoted for “Putting Wrinkles on Bull Dogs’ Faces.” Thé5 latest queer Paris profession is a masseur and orthopedist for dogs. The tariff advertised this week in- cludes: Putting wrinkles on bulldogs’ faces, 80 francs; making straight tails curly, 20 francs; removing superfluous hair (per hour), 5 francs; changing color of coat, 30 francs; changing drooping ears to erect ones, 20 francs; making bulldogs’ fore paws crooked, 100 francs.—New York Herald. OBEY THE POPE BY EVASION. Ladies Wear Tuckers With Decollete Gowns Until Ball Begins. Pius X. has been reported to disap- prove of, the women’s decollete dresses when prelates are present. Conse- quently at a dinner last week of the Austrian embassy to the Vatican sev- eral of the cardinals asked the hostess to set a good example by wearing a chimisette. All the women did the same as the ambassador’s wife. Most of the guests, on going to the big ball afterwards, first removed their tuckers. —New York Herald. Towsers’ Gentle Voice. “Naomi,” he said, softly, as he gazed at the moon above them,’ “isn’t the evening beautiful? Do you know, strange fancies throng my mind on a night like this. Every zephyr seems to bear gentle voices, perhaps from the spirit world. Do you hear such voices? Silence for a moment. “I think I do, George.” “What do they sound like to you?” “They are very indistinct, but they make me think that papa and brother Henry are calling the dog.”—Tit-Bits. He Obeyed. “Did you deliver my message to Mr. Smith?” asked the merchant. New Office Boy—No, sir; he was out and the office was locked up. “Well, why didn’t you wait for him, as I told you?” “There was a notice on the door, sir, saying ‘Return at once,’ so I came back as quick as I could.—Cassell’s London Journal. ——— Rather Soft. “Yes,” he declared, “I think one grows to be like the things he eats.” “You mus. have been brought up on marshmellows,” she suggested.—Chi- cago Record-Herald. The Oath Useless. Jagway—Could you swear off drink- ing if you wanted to? Toperly—Sure. But what’s the use of needlessly perjuring yourself?— Town Topics? ie newed courage. All that night hej CASUS BELLI ‘A STRONG ‘never left her; all that night he work- CASE Girl Justly Angry at Her Rival’s Joy ; Over Ghost Story. “What a horrid creature Milly Smith is!” said the girl in the blue blouse. “She is,” assented the girl in gray, “bat how——” “How did I find it out?” said the girl in the blue blouse. “Why, we spent our holidays at the same house! The way I came to grief with her was this. We decided to give a ghost party one night. You sit in a dark room and tell ghost stories in turn. The person thet tells the most blood-curdling one gets a prize. Of course the incidents are all supposed to have happened to you personally, but——” “Why, goodness, how delightfully creepy!” “So it is. Of course I wanted to create a good impression, especially as Harry was there that week, and that Smith girl was fairly haunting his footsteps. Somehow I couldn't manage to think or to dream of a good one, Finally, the day of the party, 1 went to see my laundress about my dress—we were all to wear white, you know. To my joy I found on her man- telpiece an old dog-eared book of ghost stories. I borrowed it at once and took it home in triumph, and that evening I told one of the stories from it, of course making myself the heroine. It began with my arriving at the country house late at night, you know, and being given a bed ina haunted room——” “And waking up conscious that something was in the room. I know.” “Yes. Well, it was a great success, and I felt that the prize was mine, when that Smith girl stopped talking to Harry and began to applaud. And what do you think she said?” “Something awful, of course.” “Clasping her hands, she said: ‘Oh, how delightful! And did it all really happen to you?’ ‘Of course it did,’ I said. ‘How perfectly charming!’ she cried. ‘My old nurse used to tell me that story when I was a very little girl, and I shall enjoy it so much more now that I know you were the he roine!” Just His Luck. “I had never had any luck on the races,” said Mr. J. H. Jonah, “nor in games of chaace. In fact, my ‘num- ber’ is all wrong one way or another, and if anybody proposes a scheme where it’s win or lose you can betsky that it is little Jimmy Jonah to lose. Just now I am referring to Tivoli pool. Ever lay it? In that game, you know, the table slants and is stud- ded with little prongs projecting about two inches. There are three holes, through which, if the ball drops, you are enabled to make large scores. The object of the projections is to embarrass the ball and to pre- vent it from going into the holes. But there is no need to particularize, since what I am talking about is bad luck. The other evening I met up with three South Side friends and we had several games with Tivoli pool, 25 cents each in the pot, high- est score to win. Well, sir, you shoot six times each during a game, and in sixteen games I held the lowest score. Then i got mad. I offered to go into’a pot at a dollar each, winner to be the person who made the lowest score. They jumped at it. Need I say what kappened? Try as I would not to score, I rolled the highest that anybody had made in any game that evening. Luck? I can’t figure it out anyway.” His Prayer. Chaplain Hale no longer asks Sena- tors to join with him in repeating the Lord’s prayer at the morning devo- tions. This arises from ,the fact that when he did make the request there was no response. This circumstance was the basis of a report, printed in some newspapers, that none of the senators knew the prayer. The report in turn became the source of no little anxiety to Dr. Hale. “Can it be possible that such a de- plorabie condition of affairs exists?” he asked more than one senator, and he was apparently much relieved by the assurance given him that the newspaper report was without founda- tion. “1d just like to see the test made,” said Senator Tillman when he heard the story. “I fear they’d all be like two fellows they tell about down in South Carolina. They were in peril of losing their lives by drowning, when one of them insisted the other should pray, notwithstanding his com- panion remonstrated that he did not know how to pray. . “Just pray anyhow,’ said the other, whereupon the one said: “Lord, make us thankful for what we are about to receive.’ ”—Washing: ton Post. Faithful to His Friends. One thought had he, to live his life, To link with joy its utmost ends, But in the thickest of the strife He was faithful to his friends. Cared not he for right nor ‘wrong, Honor’s call nor Guty’s way; He but lived among the throng, Lived among them for a day. ‘Thus he lived and thus he died, Yet each one now his life defends; For we saw the rule applied, He was faithful to his friends. Rough and tempest tossed the road, Crooked was the path he trod; Oft he staggered "neath the load, » And swore loudly at his God. But after all his varied years No reason he to make amends; He left no payment in arrears, He was faithful _to his friends. —Henry R. B. Briggs. Deer Make Pretty Picture. A Middlesex, Vt, farmer, while drawing logs two or three days ago, saw a group of eight deer on a mea- dow about a mile and a half south of the village. He describes the animals as sleek and in good condition, and says they made.a picture well worth looking as. : te Ee Ss w A Kitchener Anecdote. Lord Kitchener was determined that the Indian army, while under his com- mand, should be in a condition to meet any emergency. When the de- tails were submitted to him for the maneuvers at Attock, he approved them generally, but strongly objected to one suggestion. It had been pro- posed that the troops to take part in the operations should be told off, as usual, so they -might be in readiness to move when necessary. “Why give them notice?” was Lord Kitchener’s inquiry; “and why warn staff officers? It is surely all important that the army of India should be ready to move anywhere at a few hours’ notice. Let there be no published program and no issued orders; let the condi- tions of actual warfare be imitated as closely as possible.’ Nothing, therefore, was allowed to be known, beyond the fact that the maneuvers were to take place in the country round Peshawur, the ground upon which there would be certain to be mobilization of forces in the event of any trouble arising on the frontier.— London World. A Physician’s Advice. Yorktown, Ark., March 7th.—Dodd’s Kidney Pills must not be confounded with the ordinary patent medicine. They- are a new discovery, a specific for all diseases of the Kidneys and have been accepted by physicians only after careful tests in extreme cases. Dr, Leland Williamson of this Place heartily indorses Dodd’s Kid- ney Pills “as a remedy for the vari- ous forms of the diseases of the Kid- neys, pains in the back, soreness in the region of the Kidneys, foul-smell- ing urine and cloudy or thickened con- dition of the urine, discharges of pus or corruption, Gout, Rheumatism, In- flammation and Congestion of the Kid- neys and all kindred complaints.” Continuing, he says: “I could mention many cases in which I have prescribed Dodd’s Kid- ney Pills with success. For instance, Mr. Robert Weeks, farmer, malaria, haematuria or swamp fever three times, kidneys weakened, continual pain and soreness in back, which made him very nervous, had a little fever and sometimes chilly. Urine changeable, but generally very high- colored; an old chronic case who had taken much medicine with little ef- fect. After taking Dodd’s Kidney Pills about- six weeks he was entirely cured and had gained fifteen pounds in weight. The last time I saw him he was the picture of perfect man- hood.” More Important. Chollie is going in for automobiling, don’t you know.” “Indeed! And who’s his maker?” “Weally, I cawn’t say. Of course, it’s one of thdse high-priced ones, don’t you know.” “I don’t mean who makes his ma- chines, but who makes his clothes?”— Cleveland Plain Dealer. Billion Dollar Grass. When we introduced this remarkable grass three years ago, little did we dream it would be the most talked-of grass in America, the biggest, quick, hay producer on earth; but this has come to pass. Agr. Editors wrote about it, Agr, Col- lege Professors lectured about it, Agr. Institrte Orators talked about it, while in the farm home by the quiet fireside, in the corner grocery, in the village postoffice, at the creamery, at the de- pot; in fact wherever farmers gath- ered, Salzer’s Billion Dollar Grass, that wonderful grass, good for 5 to 14 tons per acre, and lots of pasture besides, is always a theme worthy of the farm- er’s voice. Then comes Bromus Inermis, than which there is no better grass or bet- ter permanent hay producer on earth. Grows wherever soil is found. Then the farmer talks about Salzer’s Teo- sinte, which will produce 100 stocks from one kernel of seed, 11 ft. high, in 100 days, rich in nutrition and greedily eaten by cattle, hogs, etc., and is good for 80 tons of green food per acre. Victoria Rape, which can be grown at 25c a ton, and Speltz at 20c a bu., both great food for cattle, also come in for their share in the discussion, JUST SEND;10c IN STAMPS and this notice to John A. Salzer Seed Co., La Crosse, Wis., for their big cat- alog and farm seed samples, (W. N. U.) Brief, but Pointed. “Do you think,” began Growells, as he sawed away at his breakfast bacon, “that the time will come when men will cook?” “Not in this world, my dear,” calm- ly rejoined the feminine end of the scene.—Chicago News. Ask Your Dealer For Allen’s Foot-Kase, A powder. It rests the feet. Cures Corns, Bunions, Swollen, Sore, Hot, Callous, Aching Sweating Feet and Ingrowing Nails. Allen's Foot-Ease makes new or tight shoes easy. At all Druggists and Shoe stores, 25cents. Ac- cept no substitute. Sample mailed Frem Address Allen S. Olmsted, Le Roy, N. Y. Passing of Time. “How the winter days do fly.” “Don’t they Time goes as fast as a load of coal.—Detroit Free Press. PERRIN’S PILE SPECIFIC, The Internal Remedy that will cure absolutely any case of Piles. Insist on getting it from your Druggist. "During leap year a great many girls are afflicted with palpitation of the heart. PUTNAM FADELESS DYES do not stain the hands or spot the kettle, ex- cept green and purple. He who courts martyrdom weds no crown. The happy man cannot help being helpful. Mrs. Winslow's Soothin; For children tee! ', Softens the gums, reduces tm bh ‘wind a bottle. Mercy to the guilty is malice to the innocent, m : rs, 7 ? = es r a f | fe Sn e . aa i f —4 | | —- ’ | | | —-t