_
•m OWLiLLiJuAiAL'iSDiKEOOis 1
n. IIKNKD1CT,
LAWYER,
OflBco In the Judge Roberts building, north
of O. O. Snrdor's lumber yard,
ONKILL NKB.
J.J R. DICKSON
ATTORNEY AT LAW
linf renoe First National Bank
O'NEILL. NF-B
3. 3. KIMGr
ATTORNEY-AT-LAW AND NOTARY
-PUBLIC -
Office opposite U. 8. laud office
O'NEILL, NEB.
|£A.RNEY STEWART,
PRACTICAL AUCTIONEER.
Satisfaction guaranteed.
Address, Page, Neb
|^K. 1*. J. FLYNN
IMIYCIAN AND SURGEON
Jk Office over Corrigan’s, first door to right
W Niglit calls promptly attended.
M. P. KINKAID
LAWYER
Office over Elkhorn Valley Bank.
O’NEILL. NEB,
J^lt. .1. I\ UIU.IGAN,
PHYSICIAN AND SURGEON,
Office in Holt County Rank building
Orders left at our drug store or at my
residence first street north and half
block east of stand pipe will receive
prompt response, as I have telephone
connections.
O’NEILL. - NEB.
SCOTTISH SHARON,
OF GREYTOWER 163330,
One of the prize-winning bulls oi
the Pan-American, heads the Ak-Sar
Ben home herd of Shorthorns. Young
hulls for sale.
J. M. ALDERSON & SON,
Chambers, - - - Nebraska.
C. L. BRIGHT \
REAL ESTATE AND IN-j
SURANCE. j
» — ‘ ^
* Choice ranchos, farms and town ;
* lots for sale cheap and on easy $
; terms All kinds of land busf- 3
* ness promptly attended to. 3
1 t Represents some of the best 3
J insurance companies doing bus 3
J iness In Nebraska. i 1
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Sp ctaclea correctly fitted and Supplied.
O'NEILL, NEB.
j A. B. NEWELL j
J REAL ESTATE |
O'NEILL, NEBRASKA j
Belling and leaning farms and ranches
. Taxes paid and lands inspected for non
jm residents. Parties desiring to buy or
rent land owned by non-residents give
me a call, will look up the owners and
procure tbe land for you.
O’Neill —
Abstracting Cn
Compiles
Abstracts of Title
^ONLY COMPLETE SET OF AB
STRACT BOOKS IN BOLT COUNTY
O’NEIL,!,, NEB.
HOTEL
„v-JTvans
Enlarged
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Refitted
Only First-class Hotel
In the City
W. T. EVANS, Prop
1 The New Market
Having leased the ba?z Market E
and thoroughly ren vated the £
same we are now ready to sup- f
ply you wiih choice Fresh and £
Salt Meats, Ham. Bacon, Fish, £
in fact everything to he found c >
in a fiirst-class market. YVe £ !
invite your patronage : : : £ j
Le?k & Blackmer
-jj i
Strawberry Shortcake—Before and
After.
3 pie, thou art a goodly thing,
In proper time and place,
3ut In these days of later spring.
Show not thy pasty face.
For what art thou, however filled
With apple, peach or mince,
However fanciful thy build.
Or rich thy many tints,
Compared with that ambrosial dish
With layers made of dough,
iVhich gratifies the wildest wish
Of mortals here below ?
iVhose pastry strata drink up cream
Until they look like foam.
tVhose bruised, delicious berries seem
To taste of youth and home.
Substantial with its biscuit base,
Delicious with Its fruit,
Vo pie can such a dish replace.
With all the world to boot.
IVhen Satan sought to torment man,
And spur him on to crimes,
He did not have to scheme and plan
A multitude of times.
For early sprang there in his mind
A recipe for pain,
SVhlch was full cunningly designed
To drive a man insane.
He built a yellow biscuit dough.
Both sticky, hard and thick.
Put berries over and below.
And lo, he had the trick.
For let but sage or fool partake
Of that alluring food,
He'll fold himself up close and make
His peace for well and good.
SVith such a mixture once within
The stomach of a man,
Let him renounce a life of sin
And evil if he can.
—Portland Oregonian.
Up to Date.
BY F. H. LANCASTER.
[Copyright, 1902, by Daily Story Pub. Co.)
His letter began abruptly:
“It’s no use, mon ami, I love you.
And when a man loves a woman,
Friendship is but as stones to a starv
ing man. People prate of the possi
bilities of the platonic—and such
things may be. Yes, if each party be
is cold-blooded as a compressed air
machine. You may smile at this,
luestioning: ‘Are not all beings com
pressed air machines?’ My mind does
not run along scientific lines. I take
tittle stock in the ‘brazen Baals' and
talking fetishes’ with w'hich you are
wont to satisfy all deep emotions.
And I love you. Let the saying stand
3ven so long as I live.
“What then? And you would fain
shrug your shoulders. But, think a
moment, friend of mine. You may
burn incense before many altars—yet
what gift can the gods bestow that
shall equal the love of man—strong,
tender, unfaltering? You will say that
For praising my own wares I am close
second to a Jew. True. But a modes
ty that stands between a man and
his happiness is a foolish modesty.
“Do I not know whereof I speak?
Seeing that it has forced me to risk
my all upon a single throw? You
smile—there in your pleasant sea
green serenity—saying: ‘A man’s love
is not his ail.’ Many there be who
will agree with you; yet what says
the inspired Paul of Tarsus? ‘If I
have not love in my heart I become
as a tin pan beaten by sticks’—or
something to that effect.
“Do not answer this for ten days,
mon ami. Give the gods of chance
an opportunity to throw their dice in
my favor. Would to the Lor; l could
load the dice.
“Do not doubt my sincerity, for I
tell you straightly that should you
find it impossible to give me love for
love my life will be worth no more
to me than a bad egg—though the
chances are that I shall go on living
pretty much as the next man does.
Custom and culture, like American
manufacturers, strive steadily to re
duce individuality to a fixed standard
—that if one part be broken or mis
laid its substitute may be readily sup
plied.
“But, dear, though this is true of
the surface, there are myriads of
men striving to content themselves
with shadows instead of substances;
and dear, dear, man of few fears that
I am, my heart fails me at the thought
of such a life—day after day without
you.
“Mon ami, I know well that you
laugh at love, yet I lay my love be
fore you. Know, also, that you have
bitter prejudices against matrimony,
yet I ask you in all seriousness to
become my wife. What reply can you
i I .i
His letter began abruptly.
make? A quotation from the prince
of stoics? I fear so. And yet I am
not so unlovable. Women have loved
sorrier specimens of manhood. Ah,
but. I know, you are not one of those
women.
“O, woman, woman strong of heart
and steady of nerve, why could I
not be content with pleasant talks
and easy relations? Why cannot a
man live on stones that are plentiful
rather than on loaves that are dear?
Curse a pen for a soulless instrument!
Why can I not take you in my arms
and force you to feel the love in
I .
a space with the floodtide of human
wickedness, then to go down, down
to degradation—to a living death— ;
and the blame for it all laid at his
door? The thought was maddening,
i It made him shudder.
Then, as he began more fully to
comprehend the extent to which this
girl's future depended upon him, there
sprang into life in his breast a sud
den, magnanimous resolve to keep
his plighted troth, let the conse
quences be what they would. It would
be a bitter sacrifice, he knew; but |
he owed it to her and to the best of
his manhood.
The resolution brought a strange
peace, a feeling of exultation, to him. i
He was going to escape from this I
thraldom of selflshmess and be a
man. He was going to defy the fury
of paternal anger, the popgun criti
cism of whilom friends, the chilling
ostracism of society, and act an hon
orable part toward the girl whose
heart was so completely his.
After all, his little romance was to
have the trite matrimonial ending.
It was best, too, he thought, as he
stood there, meditatively chewing at
the tip of an unlighted cigar and gaz
ing abstractedly into the half-light
of the street beyond.
The rhythmical beat of well-timed
footsteps at the lower end of the
warehouse platform, the soft frou-frou
1
He saw his arm go around her—that
Jim’s.
of feminine attire and the rich tones
of a deep masculine voice broke in
upon his abstraction. As the pair ap
proached, he heard the woman say:
“How surprised everybody will be
when they learn of our marriage.”
"One, especially,” laughed the man.
“You mean Jack? Poor fool, I have
treated him shamefully,” she laughed.
“Still, I think I have paid him in hi3
own coin, and paid him In advance,
for he was too aristocratic to marry
one so far beneath him. You know,
Jim, I’m not exactly in his class.”
“You’re a thousand times better,” he
replied stoutly.
The girl laughed at his vehemence.!
“At any rate, I must write and thank
the foolish fellow for the many pres
ents and-” The dulcet tones?
trailed off into indistinctness.
He saw his arm go round her—that
Jim’s. He saw their radiant faces and
heard the happy, heartless laughter,
as they passed under the light at thq
end of the platform, less than a rod'
from where he stood, cold and dumb,:
amid the hiding places of the shadows,
a pent up tornado of fury raging in'
his heaving breast.
The story, such as It had been, was
ended.
THE GRAVE OF ST. PATRICK.
Stone Placed Over Resting Place of
Ireland's Saint.
After ages of neglect the traditional
resting place of the remains of Ire
land’s patron saint, in the cathedral
graveyard at Downpatrick, has been
covered with a memorial stone. The
stone is rough, weather-beaten bowl
der of granite, weighing about seven
tons, from the mountain side of Slieve
na-Dargie, where it rested at a height
of 600 feet. Upon the upper surface of
this bowlder is carved an Irish cross,
faithfully reproduced from one cut on
an equally rough, unhewm stone found
on the Island of Inisclothran, one of
the islands of Dough Rea, where St.
Diarmid founded his famous eccles
iastical settlement amout the middle
of the sixth century. Under the cross
the name “Patrie” is cut in Irish char
acters, copied from the earliest known
Celtic manuscripts. This simple treat
ment is considered to be the nearest
approach to the form of monument
which would have been constructed
about the year 469, the supposed date
of the saint’s death. The movement
was initiated by Mr. F. J. Biggar, of!
Belfast, who was warmly supported by
all classes and creeds.
Mrs. Kendal’s Hobby.
Mrs. Kendal’s great hobby is the
collection of tiny articles, and in her
boudoir she has a cabinet filled with
all sorts of things in miniature. Some
few years ago an admirer sent her a
little bunch of silver keys less than
half an inch long, and she has a pair
of shoes carved out of a cherry stone,
a packet of cards with which the fab
rles might play, and the smallest pair
of gloves that have ever been made,
as well as some of the tiniest dolls
that have ever been seen, and a set
of chessmen in a chess table that
a breath might blow away. The col
lection grows every year, for Mrs.
Kendal’s friends are aware of her
hobby, and whenever they come
across anything very small they send
it to her, while some make almost
microscopical articles to give her as
birthday presents. . ^
The Iowa Cowboy.
.When the land was wild and the country
new
And the crop fields only, fenced around.
When snakes were plenty, and horses
few.
And the pastures without met© or
bound,
The farmstead cowboy—boy indeed—
The youngest, worker, and by that grace,
With only his own bare feet for steed,
Was a shrewd observer, skilled to traoe
The truant cows to their lurking place.
His sight was keen, and the tell-tale
track
Of the spotted cow with the broken
hoof.
Or the tender-footed heifer’s rack.
One light, three heavy, would leave
* him proof
In the dust or sod, and point the way
That the grazing herd had strayed at
will
In Its aimless wanderings that day;
And lead to the spot where they dallied
still.
In some sheltering grove, or beyond the
hill.
If the day were spent and the gloaming
fell,
And the breeze stilled down at even
tide,
Trained was bis ear for the leader's bell,
Pulsing the air o’er the country side,
Never mistook he its far-off tone.
Throbbing, cobbing, "Here, out here!’*
No clucking cow-bell save his own,
Sob as it might, filled his soul with
cheer,
For the sobs to laughter turned on his
ear.
All that wore feathers, down and wings,
He knew their voices, calls and ways.
Fish of the brook, four-footed things.
Tadpoles, snails, well-digging crays,
Ants, and tumble-bugs, and toads,
Crickets, hornets, bats and bees,
He had sought out thrir abodes
And could tell you the names of all the
trees;
They were his chums, were all of these.
Old-time cowboy, long grown gray!
Bounding bronco, and buckskin suit
Fringed and mounted In brave array,
With a cartridge belt, and a gun to
shoot,
Were not the outfit, then, when you
Were In the business. You’d to wear
A wheat-straw hat—was the crown burst
through?
A cotton shirt, blue jeans a pair,
And one suspender to hold ’em there!
Old-time cowboy! Not as of yore
Comes to your ears the sound of bell,
Telling you of the herd once more,
Yet you may hear a deep-toned knell
Sounding out ’neath a village spire
Now and then, and here and there
Telling its tale to the sunset’s fire.
Leading some brother’s spirit where
All the herded joys of his future are.
—John B. Kaye in Boston Journal.
The Soliloquy of a Fool.
BY DAVID ABBOTT PIATT.
It was an unsavory quarter, wher*
the night hung heavy and dark over
a narrow section of smoke-grimed, 111
odored street, and the handsome, well
dressed young man, pacing moodily
to and fro in the shadows of the ware
house at the end of the square, looked
and felt just about as much out of
place as he really , was.
His was the old, old story of a man’s
surrender to the fatal fascinations of
a pretty face, and he was wondering,
with increased irritation, why he had
ever permitted himself to become so
miserably entangled with that portion
less, positionless girl. He was won
dering, too, why he had not long since
revolted from the stifling atmosphere
and prevalent uncleanliness of this
wretched locality—he who had always
reveled in the little refinements and
luxuries of an idle and wealthy so
plety. He was disgusted with him
self, with the world, with everything
and everybody, save Clara. She was
blameless. He pitied her.
Theirs had been a sweet little love
story. But it must end now. He
could not go below hfe social plane
for a wife without remaining there
with her—he could never elevate her
to his own station—try as he might.
Such a mesalliance could not result
otherwise than in lifelong misery for
them both, for when the fictitious
strata of romance should slough away
and grim reality begin to peer through
the threadbare happiness that re
mained, discontent, aye, disloyalty,
would come, with mutual recrimina
tions speeding in its wake. Yes, he
had reasoned it out logically, con
clusively, and in such a manner as
to excuse himself from blame at every
turn.
He wondered how she would take
It was an unsavory quarter.
it. No doubt she would be heart
broken, but time would heal the
wound with the balm of forgetfulness.
She was too proud, he knew, to do
anything stupid, so he had no fear of
exjxrsure to embarrassing publicity.
Still, his imagination kept opening
up new and decidedly unpleasant
fields of conjecture. More than one
girl had suicided under similar con
ditions. What if Clara were brought
home some day, the sweet voice
stilled and the merry brown eyes
scaled forever? What If she were
driven out into the world to buffet for
my heart-beats and on my lips? Why?
Because of that greasiest of all greasy
altars—propriety. You hare burned
much incense upon It. Did It ever
occur to you that It came high?
“Well, when all is said, I love you.
What are you going to do about it?”
He sealed the letter without paus
ing to read it over and shot It into
the shute.
What would she do about It? His
*-eart answered him promptly enough.
Yet he allowed hope to drag him
through ten days of sickening uncen
talnty. Luring him on with the mem
ory of those faded letters he had
once pondered over, wondering how
on earth a woman as wise as bis
mother could have allowed herself to
slop over so in sentiment and bad
spelling. This was before he began
to crave such a letter. A letter that
called his dearest on each third line
and spoke much of undying devotion.
For ten days. Hope held it tantaliz
ingly before him—fine writing on tint
ed paper. Then her letter came. Per
fectly correct; mortally cold. He shiv
ered slightly as he ripped open the
envelope and unfolded the crackling
sheet. But he set his teeth and forced
his attention through the formal open
lng.
“Anent your Interjection toucliin
stones and loaves, I would sugges
that were paving stones eatable they
- a
He drew forth again that thin, type
written sheet.
would be no more plentiful than bread
and would be quite as highly prized.
"And, my friend, do not let Kipling
lead you astray as regards brazen
Baals and greasy altars. They have
their uses and so long as they be
confined to their own sphere they
stand for good. For you will admit
the truth of this trite saying: ‘There
Is no virtue that may not by exag
geration become vice.’ To overdue
Is the crime for which humanity
stands convicted. The dumb brute
alone knows how to let well enough
alone. An ox could give Plato or
Aristotle lessons in philosophy. Still
we have been bitten by the bad bug.
Ambition, and the fever Is In our
veins. We must go on or go down.
‘No backward path,’ through the high
ways of the world. Only to keep the
face steadily toward the goal and
stamp on so sturdily as we may—
stamping alike over burrs and blos
soms.
“Brutal, you will say. Yet It Is the
sesame of success. And, after all,
while there are stars overhead why
should be trouble ourselves about
the silly snowdrops under foot? A
misplaced tenderness is surely weak
ness even as misdirected strength be
comes brutality. Well, as you per
ceive, I stand in need of beans and
my thoughts do not come clearly.
“Concerning that other matter you
mention: You have evidently exam
ined the situation more carefully than
I have yet been able to do, so I rest
upon your Judgment Is the wisest
course to be pursued.
“And this, I believe, answers yours
of recent date. Nothing has hap
pened since I saw you last, so I have
no news save, that to Judge from
present appearances, I shall not be
burning Incense this afternoon upon
that greasiest of altars.”
It was several hours from afternoon,
but the man got up hurriedly and be
gan looking around for his hat.
Out in the park by the fountain he
drew forth again that thin, typewrit
ten sheet. Crisp, correct and ever so
cautious. Had he published It, she
would have stood unconfessed. For
a moment he thrught of those letters
of long ago, scented with violets and
overflowing with sentiment. A letter
that any careless eye might read with
one smile for the gush and the spell
ing. But this, this was for him alone.
He alone could read the delicious
meaning so cunningly hidden between
those rigid lines.
Good heavens, how could he wait
until the afternoon?
And then it occurred to him that he
need not wait.
Infant Market in Hungary.
The orphanage at Temesvar, in
Hungary, holds an “infant market”
once a month, at which all the chil
dren at the orphanage will be on
view, and at which persons desirous
of adopting one or more of them can
inspect them and take their choice.
The first of these markets passed off
very successfully. Thirty children
were on view—boys and girls between
the ages of 1 and 10 years. Nineteen
of them were adopted, five boys and
fourteen girls. Most of them were
adopted by fairly well-to-do people,
and one foster-mother went straight
to a lawyer’s office and made her
newly-adopted child heiress to her
fortune of £20,000. — Pearson’s
' Weekly.
Oonsvmption
The only kind of consump*
tion to fear is “ neglected
consumption.”
People are learning that con
sumption is a curable disease,
It is neglected consumption
that is so often incurable.
At the faintest suspicion of
consumption get a bottle of
Scott’s Emulsion and begin
regular doses.
The use of Scott’s Emulsion
at once, has, in thousands of
cases, turned the balance in
favor of health.
Neglected consumption does
not exist where Scott's Emul
sion is.
Prompt use of Scott’s Emul
sion checks the disease while it
can be checked.
Send for free sample.
SCOTT & BOWNK, Chemists,
409-415 Pearl Street, Ness York,
joe. and $i.ooj all druggists.
PB
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ORIGINATOR TIN FOIL SMOKER PACKAGE
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