Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, October 15, 1904, Page 3

A! S Rianicnia B. PAUL NEUMAN. CHAPTER I. Nearly a hundred and twenty years aso there was on the south coast of Devonshire a s 1° fishing village called Whayre. It was a mere hamleé, consisting of a few cottages straggling back from the shore. The little place stood in a hollow between two hills, each of them fronting the sea, with the bold red face characteristic of the rock scenery on this part of the coast. Behind the cottages, on the slope of the eastern hill, stood a comfortable | looking farmhouse, while further west a road ran between tangled hedges lined with splendid old trees to the} village of Chidley, itself a t place, | but compared with Whayre quite al metropolis. It was a village of the ordinary Eng- dow holes were too suggestive, and vague stories of some dark deed wrought beneath its thatch found a ready acceptance among the supersti- tious villagers. s In such a conservative community it was, therefore, a double shock when | a stranger appeared making inquiries. concerning the “Blood Cottage”—such was the cheerful name it had acquired. Any stranger was, as. such, an object of suspicion, but a stranger who could think of living in that ill-omened hab- itation must be either a “looney” or in league with the Evil One. Nor, it must be admitted, was there much in | the applicant’s appearance to concili- ate his critics. He was tall, but, though big-boned, of a somewhat | pinched and unhealthy aspect. His hair, violently red, was cut round like a mop-head. He usually walked ‘with a curious uncertainty of gait,,the one cireumstance that was held to speak jish type with a winding street of picturesque but in- two houses of more | i i thatched cottages sanitary, one o pretension, and—perched on a hill—a fire old church, long since, {| am sorry i to say, burned down. | ‘The viear of Chidley, at the time to | which th ates was a certain | Dr learned but sociable } » might almost say jovial—old | helor, whose household was under | ctive superintendence of his ! Lucy, or Mrs. Champion | called by courtesy. The | cd the reputation of being one ; best H ot his time; in- Champion's “Collation of the} she ar} of the vi gums” is still, I believe, to be' found in the libraries of theological colleges. He was possessed of a com- fortable fortune, which made him in- dependent of endowments, and beyond an occasional sermon, christening or burying. work he did very little parochial ; Paying liberally an excellent . he conecived that his people ible ground for legi- ainst him. In uie Dr. Champion ve than he knew at From among several appli- decided on the Rey. Elijah Leife, because among his qualifications Ww an ments of Arabie. By time he had ganged his curate’s attainments in this direction he had learned to value him for other and more practical qualities. in physique they were a gerat con- trast. 1 vicar, a man of some sixty- five year short and inclined to} be stout, with beautiful silky white hair, and a complexion very clear, but inclined to the florid. Almost the only sign of the student was a slight stoop from the shoulders: which he had con- racted from bending over his books. kind-hearted, if undemonstra- , though without a touch of stheti perfectly honest and cents he acquaintance with the rudi- tk Mr. Leife was a huge man, well over six feet in height and broad in pro- | portion. He, too, had a stoop which also might, of course, have been due } to study, or it might have been natur- al to him, for even his mother would have been obliged to admit that | “oraceful” was not an adjective to which he could lay any special claim. “Clumsy,” indeed, was the epithet that had most affectionately ciung to him ever sin rzrown, gawky lad pyen the Westminster. tn games he was amiformly unsuccess- ful, though he played them with a res- olution and perseverance which noth- fng but his coiossal awkwardness could have robbed of their dre reward. jul “Leife’s fights’ won him respect and éven a modified kind of admira- tion, for his great strength, coupled with bis pluck, carried him through many a contes ainst skill far great- er than his gwn. Among the fishermen and smugglers --at Whayre the terms were almost ronvertible—these qualities of strength and courage, coupled with his genuine kindness of heart, had soon earned fhhim a considerable popularity. It was; aiso counted to him for righteousness he had chosen to live in Whayre sif rather than in the more aristo- cratic parts of the parish. A comfort- able little cottage just below the farm- honse on the slope was his abode, and there he often shared his pipe and glass with the rough and hardy fisher- men. ual conflict with his majesty’s excis: and only interfered when violence was to he feared. CHAPTER Il. At the eastern end of the hamlet a spur of rock ran out from tke base of the Cap, as the hill on that side was eatied, to distinguish it from the Bon- nel on the west. This spur rose seven or eight feet above the shore and formed a small plateau some thirty feet in length and ratner more in depth. Here,-from’ time immemorial, had stood a dilapidated, cottage. Orig- inally, no doubt, it had been spruce and clean, but that must have been in Like his viear, he looked with a | blind or tolerant eye on their perpet- | in his favor. His speech was slow and hesitant, and his accent was not that of the countryside. Farmer Burden, however, to whom the cottage belong- ed, was not so exclusive or so preju- diced as the fisherfolk, and in answer to the stranger's application told him that the place was barely habitable because of its situation, but that, if he liked to try for himself and patch it up, he might live there rent free for a couple of years. The offer was ac- cepied with an awkward mumble of thanks. And what’s the name I’m to call you by?” asked the landlord. The stranger took from his po®ket a piece of chalk and slowly printed on the table in large letters: “RUFFIDGE.” “Ruftidge—that’s the name,” he said. “It might be—well, it might be better, and perhaps it—it might be worse, but such as it is—well—make the best of it.” And he gave a queer sort of sigh. “Oh, come, man,” said the jolly farm- er, clapping him on the shoulder, “drink a glass of good ale, and don’t quarrel with your christening.” in spite of his peculiarities, the new- comer soon began to live down his un- popularity. Even his eccentric choice of a dwelling was forgiven him when it was found that he was willing to pay for assistance in the patching-up process. e proved to be wonderfully clever in his contrivances, and seemed always able to find his way out of any difficulty. But when the work Was fin- ished and the place made decent, he went back to his landlord, rubbing his face with one hand and halting worse than ever in his speech. “Lve been a—a fool, Mr. Burden,” he Said, “and how it didn’t—well—how can’t make out.” “Oh, that’s about the last thing that eyer does strike a man,’ laughed the farmer, “What I mean is,” went on the oth- er struck me before that the place is What am I to do with half a dozen rooms?” “Let them, if you can find a tenant,” answered Mr. Burcen, smiling at the improbability. . “No,” stammered Ruffidge, “that wouldn't be fair to you, and—well, after what you've done for me, too. T'll tell you what I thought of—of do- i The cottage will go in halves as —well, as easy as an apple. ll put it all right that way, and then maybe you can find a tenant for the other half.” So it was settled, and a very neat little garden in front by a low paling and dividin the cottage into two smail ones. For himself he kept the half nearest to the Cap. Starting from that side, there was first a shed, then the door, and, next to the paling, the parlor. On the other side of the pal- ing was another parlor window with the door beyond. Over his own door “Anchor Cottage,” because, as he said, it was the place where, after many wanderings, anchor. A In such little communities every man’s affairs are considered the prop- erty of his neighbors, and great was the curiosity as to the newcomer’s past history and. present circumstances. Some men might have resented the during the first six months, he was subjected, but Ruffidge seemed quite as ready to answer as his neighbors were to question. He was Yorkshire born, he told them, and, as a boy, had been employed on some new canal works, but while on a visit to an uncle in Hull, he was pressed for the fleeet | and served his majesty (God _ bless him) for nigh twenty years on the | frigates Sea Gull and Alecto. He had been lucky in his prize money, and | when he was discharged, with an in- ternal injury which the surgeons pro- nounced incurable, he found himself quite comfortably provided for. On returning to his native place he found that both father and mother were the days of remote antiquity. For many, mauy years it had been aban- doned, probably because it was not fbeyond the range of winter seas, but fis decaying limbers and, gaping win- dead, and that a tidy sum was wait- ing for him in the lawyer’s hands. “I'm a lonely man, friends (except for a couple of nevvies on the seas),”” he would say, “and a stricken, but it’s it dian’t strike me before is what [| er, slowly and laboriously, “it—it nev- | much too—well, much too big for me. | job Ruffidge made of it, severing the ; he painted in large letters the name | he had at last come to | constant cross-examination to which, | iece of luck to have found a snug little harbor like this.” So gradually the ungainly York- shireman grew into the good graces of the fisherfolk, wore down their preju- ‘dices and disarmed their hostility. Nor was his popularity confined to chureh’ services with a regularity as surprising as it was edifying. For this, however, he took small credit when the curate called upon him. “It’s just a promise I once made to the chaplain,” he said, deprecatingly, as though apologizing for some harm- less eccentricity, “when I thought I was—well—as good as shark’s meat, as you might say. But a promise is a promise, and has got to be kept— that’s what my poor old father used to say when he gave me the buckle of his strap.” In spite of this explanation, Mr. Leife took to the vicar a most favor- able report of his’ new parishidner. Then Mrs. Champion called and was delighted with the neatness and clean- liness of the cottage. “It’s the service, ma’am,” said the tenant, modestly. “In some ways it’s as good as schooling, though—though in others—” Herve he raised his huge hands with a most expressive though awkward gesture, and the good lady was pru- dent enough not to ask for any par- ticulars. CHOPTER Ill. Rather more than a year after ihe appearance of Ruffidge another stran- ger startled the village gossips. There had been a fair at Eppleton, and the same evening, about seven o'clock, a man came trudging through Chidley and pulled up at the Blue Ball. He was a noticeable figure, and there were few village boys to whom his ap- pearance would not have suggested a stone—from a safe distance. For he himself was hardly taller than a well- grown lad of fourteen, but extraordi- narily wide across the chest. With his abnormally short neck and high shoul- ders there was about him more than a suspicion of deformity. His face was small and sharp-featured, but his fore- head was broad, -and underneath shag- gy eyebrows a pair of keen, dark eyes shone forth restless and aggressive. He wore a beard cut short and trim- med to a point, and: gold rings glis- tened in his ears. Altogether there was a foreign look about him, but his accent when he spoke was unmistak- ably English. In a loud, imperious voice, he called | for a pot of beer, and drained it as | though his throat were purched. When | he had finished he strode over to the fireplace and straddled with his back to it, as if he were lord of the manor, at the least. dozen yokels and fishermen in the par- lor, and among them Ruffidge. “& bedroom, landlord,” he cried, “and mind that the sheets are cleaner than your mug.” The landlord looked at him, with every symptom of strong disfavor. “This is only an alehouse,” he “We have no beds for strangérs.”” “Then take the score out of that, you lying varlet,” roared the stranger, aid. | instantly flying into a furious | and flinging upon the bench a shilling | from a handfull of silver he pulled out of his pocket. Then, taking his chauge, he looked round with great contempt | on the stolid faces turned toward him. “What's the: matter with the moon- | struck clodpoles in this maggoty v: | lage?” he shouted. “Here's a gentie- man been to a dozen houses offering good silver for a week's lodging, and | not a hand to close the bargain. Do you all sleep six in a bed that haven't a room to spare for a travel- er?” 1 “Nay,” said the Ja:.dlord, halting be- tween constitutional mistrust of a stranger and respect for the _ silver, this is no place for the fashion like Lyme or Weymouth,and if ’tis, as you | say, a maggoty village, why seek to | stay in it?” upon me, knave,” cried the little man, : swelling himself out, while his eyes be- ‘gan to flash ominously. “Better men, 'and stronger, than.a fat, saucy scul- lion, have I laid on their backs.” * ; There was a laugh at this, for Bid- well, the innkeeper, was something of |a be'ly himself. He felt the necessity | of a vigorous self-assertion. | “Come, master, you haye a_ free | tongue, if in other ways providence i i | hath dealt hardly with you. But have a care lest it bring you into trouble. | i mthese parts we love not uncivil strangers.” ‘This was an astute speech, and it | was plain by the grunts of approval | that it had rallied the natives to the | landlord’s side. Upon the stranger, | however, it made no impression. | “Love or hate of a parcel of biimp- _ kins, what is it to me? Ah, does tnat | prick you, my valiant potlickers? | for this time an angry murmur had | arisen. “Surely I haven't read your | faces amiss? Look here’— Je stepped out into the, middle of the room and pulled off his coat. “Now,” he cried, after a pause, dur- ing which he opened his shirt at the neck and drew up his sleeves, display- ing great, hairy, muscular arms, “will any of you noble citizens of Chidley wrestle a fall with me for a week's lodging? finger at the landlord, who was edg- ing towards the door, “for Come, you are a good six inches taller and a couple of stone the heavier. Pluck up heart, man, and show that a bully isn’t always a coward.” Again the little laugh went round the room at the landlord’s expense, and one man said: “Take him on, Bill; he’s no match them. From the first he attended the There were some half- | o, | but free himself he could not. >i he seemed on the verge of suffoca- you | “Try not to flesh your coarse wit | You”—pointing a derisive | choice. | “And for that reason I'll have noth- ing to do with him or his challenge,” exclaimed the prudent landlord, who was already half in the passage. “Much honor I, Will Bidwell of the Blue Ball, should get by wrestling in my own house with a humpy who looks like a ,mountebank, if, nothing worse.” “Stop!” shouted the stranger in a terrible voice, and sprang toward the speaker, but he had vanished. The little man looked round with a bitter smile. “One run away, five left. Will any one of the five wrestle with me for the honor of Chidley, a week’s lodging and this pretty bauble?” And he laid a guinea on the bench. Still no one answered. There was something unnatural (or so it seemed to them) ‘as well as menacing in the strange figure with the great, square shoulders and the glittering eyes. After waiting for a time, the smile growing more contemptuous every mo- ment, he began ticking them off, one by one, met in each case by a sullen and embarrassed silence, till he came to the last, who happened to be Ruf- fidge. “Frightened, too?” he asked, scorn- fully. “Ruffidge’s face worked in an extra- | ordinary way, from which no stranger could possibly have drawn any safe conclusion. At last, after one or two vain attempts he succeeded in mak- ing him self intelligible. “For the honor of Chidley, and— well—they gave me a_ lodging and | more—at least—well—in Whayre. | You—you look like a strong man, though—well—you're none so big, and I—I'm not what I was, and stricken, | too, but—well—I’m none so weak, so there.” And slowl yand awkwardly he rose, took off his coat, and stood out on the floor to meet-his opponent. “Any hold,” said the stranger; “both shoulders on the floor is beaten.” And without waiting for any sign of assent, he began to creep in and paw round his man, quick and agile as monkey. . stock still, his arms held out stiff as sign-posts, and an expression of be- wilderment on his face that would have been very diverting to the spec- | tators had they been in any mood for | appreciating it. But it was impossible | for them to forget that he, a compara- tive stranger himse!f, was meeting a 'ehallenge which had been first ad- | dressed to and declined by them, and | they were secretly ashamed of them- ‘selves. They would have gone out and ; washed their hands of the whole af- fair, but curiosity, and the love of any- \ thing in the nature of a fight, held them. Even the landlord watched the s of events through a crack in | The contest was surprisingly, disap- | pointingly brief. After a minute's fencing the litthe man made a suaden dart and caught the other by the waist and left arm—an extraordinary hold. | Then, giving this arm a twist, he ' foreed it up and back against the vic- .tim’s -own neck. Ruffidge struggled desperately, but all to no purpose. | The veins stood out across his temples and the sweat poured down his face, Just as | tion his adversary suddenly withdrew }the arm that was holding him up | round the waist and seized his right | leg by the crook of the knee. as if to clutch at something to save himself, and then crashed | his back, his adversary on top of him. The conqueror jumped up, walked over | to the bench, pocké@ted his guinea and | put on-his coat without another glance at his vanquished foe. Ruffidge sat up on ue floor, looking a bit dazed, for | he had struck on the back of his head | when he fell. Then he, too, rose, and | there was an ugly scowl on his face. | Of this the other appeared to take no | ross the | notice at all, but, looking a room, inquired in a quiet, | , tone: “Are you going to back out or keep What about that week's siness-uike | your word? lodging?” “At this Rufii \ly relaxed into what he probably in- ‘tended for a smile. and, still rubbing his head, he answered: | “Well—that was a rare triek—and . | keep my word, but I live “That will do for me,” said stranger. “Come, gnareh.” And picking up Ruffidge’s coat, he the second time. * * * * * Such was the coming of Weasel | John, for so the boys—with whom he | | was speedily at war—nicknamed him, j and indeed the name was not inapt. | The week during which, by the terms of their dvel, Ruffidge was to lodge him, passed and found them apparcnt- ly firm friends. Then they went up ' together io the farmer and proposed ; / that John Broad—ihis was the name ‘he gave—should pay the sum of one | pound a year for the half cottage. Mr. | Burden was not favorably impressed by the appearance or manner of the i applicant, but he considered that was /a matter which affected Ruffidge more | than any one else, and it occurred to | him that he might as well have a trifle for rent. It was the old tenant to whom the arrangement seemed to | give the greatest satisfaction. He ap- | peared delighted at having been able to express his gratitude in a tangible form. “You were very—well—very kind to me, Mr. Burden,” he stammered. “I said to myscif, some—well—some day Ruffidge, on the other hand, stood | The big | | man tottered, flung out his righi arm : down on | ‘s face underwent ; some severe contortions, bat ultimate-_ the | helped him on with it in so vigorous | and unceremonious a fashion as to | nearly stretch him on the ground for | IT may be able to pay you back. Now ft can do some—something, and glad Iam. Thank you kindly.” “Thank you, Ruffidge; you've given me a tenant I'never expected,” said the farmer, cordially, as he dismissed the strange-looking couple. * ie ca * * How the great feud began no one could ever tell With certainty, though there were just about as many theo- ries as villagers. Some declared that Ruffidge had never really forgiven the | humiliation put upon him in the ale- house. Others alleged the violent and overbearing temper of Weasel John as amply’ sufficient to account for the quarrel. Yet another account was that the difference arose over so tri- fling a matier as the use of a small store cupboard which was arranged for the common use of both tenants. But, whatever its origin, its reality was soon patent to every one in the village. Instead of being constantly together they never exchanged a word, for Weasel John’s stream of expletives was met by the other with a stony si- lence. Towards outsiders, however, the tactics of the two were reversed. From the first Broad had never sought to make friends; nay, that is far too mild a way of putting it. It almost seemed as though he took pains to do the opposite. A civil question was usuaily met with silence or an ugly oath, while a soft answer was only taken as an invitation for an venomed gibe. In this quarrel, therefore, it was natural that he should stand alone. Ruffidge, on the other hand, had laid himself out to be on good terms with all his neighbors, and for loquacity could hold his own with the most in- veterate gossip. He made no secret of the quarrel, but was never very precise as to its origin. “One story’ll hold till the other one’s told,” he would quote, with a solemn nod, “but it isn’t what began it, so much as what he’s said and done since. That's what no man who calls himself such ought to put up with, and, peace- able as I am by nature with my friends, he’s gone a bit too far, and, come what may, I've done with him for good and all.” (To Be Continued.) BENEDICT ARNOLD RELIC. An Anchor Recovered From Quebec Expedition. Those gf us interested in early American history, whether absorbed at school or acquired by maturer read- | ing, recall Benedict Arnold, his bril- | lianey and treason, perhaps more viy- {idly than almost any prominent figure | of the Revolution. The students of those times recall | that Washington sent him w 1,100 | soldiers on the ill-fated expedition to Quebee in 1775, by the way of the Kennebec and through the forests of | Maine. Two miles below Gardiner, in | Colburn’s yard, his command halted ! long enough to construct 200 bateaux, | with which he proposed to transport ; troops and supplies through the north- ern waters. : | A week ago J. Rafter and Abbot | Lord, Gardiner business men that fish | the river for sport, brought up in their | great sturgeon get, directly opposite | where the batteaux were built, an / anchor, or grapnel, which is undoubt- edly a genuine Arnold relic. The stock is some four feet long, and carries five curved arms welded to its base. It was evidently fashioned of wrought iron over an anvil. These anchors were thrown out ahead of the bateaux, by which means they were pulled through rapids and water. For 129 years the anchor remained in the waters of thee Kenne- bec, to now come to light, a mute but | eloquent reminder of the man who be- trayed his country.—Lewiston Journal MISCEL “WE END.” Pretty Harvesting Customs in Devon- * shire, England. Formerly in Devonshire the reapers, when they had finished, would weave a ring of wheat. Holding to this, the harvesters would form a circle and shout together, “We een!” (we end), after which one bore the ring to the house and had the privilege of k | ing the first maid he met. That euri- ous practice has passed, and others as ' gentle with it. Nevertheless, there is still the harvest dinner, where the squire, be he gentleman or noble, sits down with his “hands” and drinks from the same ale jug. That custom shows no sign of decay.—Everybody's Magazine. No School at All. “So your boy is going to be a doc- tor, is he? What school of medicine?” “Huh!” said Uncle Hank. “It ain’t any school at all. He's attendin’ a medical college, by jinks.”—Chicago Tribrne. | Sorely Perplexed. “What a beautiful lunchedn,” said the gues! answered Mr. Cumrox, moth- er and the girls say it’s all right. But | you aren't enjoying it.” | ; I'm a little embarrassed. I’ve | peen standing over here trying to 'make out which are the edibles and which are the decorations.”—Chicagg Journal. ‘Right Next Door. Casey—I see be the paper thot a man named Higgins av 24 Harmony court was struck by an autymobilo yistid’y an’ killed. Cassidy—My, my, but thot was a narrow escape for our frind Flannery, Casey—How so? Cassidy—Sure, Flannery lives at 22 Harmony- court.—Philade!phia Press. A mirthless laugh is like the smile on the face of the dead.» (Calumet Baking Powder A wonderful powder of rare merit and unrivaled strength. A Tyrant. “Pa, what is a tyrant?” “A tyrant is one who governs you without your choice, and who makes you do without your choice, and makes you do what he wants without regard to what you want.” “Oh, I see. You and ma are tyrants, aren’t you, pa?” STATE oF Onto, CrTY OF TOLEDO,! 95 bas. Lucas Counry. Frank J. CHENEY mi oath that he {s sentor partner of the firm of F. J. Camxey & Co., doing usiness in the Clty of Toledo, County and State aforesaid. and that said firm will pay the sum of ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS for each and eve: case of CaTannu that caunot be cured by the use Hat's Catanan Cunx. FRANK J. CHENEY. Sworn to before me and subscribed in my pree ence, this 6th day of December, A. D. 1886. aia A. W. GLEASON, sean { Norary Pusuto. Hal's Catarrh Cure is taken Internally and acts irectly on the bloud and mucous surfaces of the system. Seud for testimontais, free. . J. CHENBY & CO., Toledo, O Sold by all Druget: Se. Take liall’s Family Pilis for constipation. Kill Desperadum. “Do you know,” remarked the pessi- mist, “I think that I have experienced every kind of misfortune except hang- ing?” “Well, you shouldn’t be discour- aged,” rejoined the optomist. “It is always desirable, you know, to re member the old adage, ‘While there’s life there’s hope.’” The moon is the most powerful agent in producing the tides on the earth; it also produces some slight va- riations in the earth’s magnetism. So far as science has been able to investi- gate there is-absolutely no change in the weather which can be attributed to the moon, although half or more of mankind seem to believe that the moon does have some control over the weather. All such beliefs, including the time for planting gardens and for going fishing, are mere suppostitions— the survivals of an age of ignorance.— St. Nicholas. WHAT ROME THINKS THE POPE'S PHYSICIAN DORSES AN AMERICAN REMEDY. EN- Dr. Lapponi Uses Dr. Williams’ Pink Pills In His Practice Because Re- sults Meet His Expectations. Dr. Lapponi, the famous physician to the Vatican, whose name has re- “a cently come so greatly to the front on account of his unremitting atten- tion to His Holiness, the late Pope Leo XIIl., and the high esteem and confidence with which he is regarded by the present Pope, His Holiness, Piux X., is a man of commanding genius. He is more than a mere man of science; he is a man of original and independent mind. Untrammeled by the “etiquette” of the medical pro fession, and having used Dr. Williams’ Pink Pills for Pale People in his prac- tice with good results, he freely avows the facts and endorses the value of this remedy with an authority which no one will venture to question. Dr. Lapponi’s Letter. “I certify that I have used Dr. Williams’ Pink Pills in four cases of the simple anemia of develop- ment. After a few weeks of treat- ment, the result came fully up to my expectations. For that reason 1 shall not fail in the future to extend the use of this laudable preparation not only in the treat- ment of other forms of the cate- gory of anemia or chlorosis, but also in cases of neurasthenia and the like.” (Signed) GIUSEPPE LAPPONI, Via dei Gracchi 332, Rome. The “simple ‘anemia of develop- ment” referred to by Dr. Lapponi is, of course, that tired, languid condition of young girls, whose development to womanhood is tardy and whose health at that period is so often im- periled. His opinion of the value of Dr. Williams’ Pink Pills for Pale Peo- ple at that time is of the highest sci- entific authority and it confirms the many published cases in which anemia and other diseases of the blood, as well as nervous diseases, such as ner- vous prostration, neuralgia, St. Vitus’ dance, paralysis and locomotor ataxia have been cured by these pills. They are commended to the public for their efficiency in making new blood and strengthening weak nerves. After such an endorsement they will be ac- cepted by the medical and scientific world at their full value. The financial editor is not necessar- ily pedantic, but he is apt to indulge in quotations. Some mothers spare the rod and spoil the slipper. G@les Instantly stope the pain of Burns and Scalds. aS and soe y arageihira” esis without scars, by 5.W. Cole Ob. Black River alle Wis wees KEEP A BOX HANDY BEGGS’ BLOOD PURIFIER catarrh of the stomach.