y / » / /_ NERVOUS.HEADACHE MARRED A YOTJN& WOMAN'S HAP PI AoS FOR SEVEN YEARS. Int^rff-rri) With Her Social Dntle* and 1 In cutcncil to t’amo Her lldire ment- How Kho Wan C'urcd. Every sufferer from nervijus headache knows how completely it unfits one for the duties ami pleasures of life. Any little excitement, or over-exertion, or ir regularity brings it on. Sometimes the pain is over flu* whole head. Again it is like a nail driven into the brain, or a wedge splitting it open, ora baud tight ening about it. At one time it is all in the top of tlie head, at another it is all at the base of the skull, t Most headaches can bo traced to some faulty slate r.f tbo blood. When the blood is scanty or charged with poison, and the nerves are imperfectly nourished end tin-digestion weak, one of the cont lii nest results is frequent and severe headaches. The buportant thing is to get rid of the diseased condition of the blood that causes the attack by the use of a remedy that will do the work quickly and thoroughly. What is that remedy ? The experience of Miss Ellen McKenna fur nishes the answer. She says : “ For more than seven years I was a great sufferer from nervous headache mid dizziness. My stomach was disordered, and I became so restless that I could not sit still any length of time. Dizziness interrupted my work greatly. At first the ai tacks were not so severe, but they gradually grew more violent, un* at once. You will see the excellent effect after taking the first dose. Sold b? dealers everywhere. Large bottles 25 cent* and 50 ceuie. 7 TME BEST WATERPROOF CLOTHING IN THE WORLD //,,/A, / KARS TUB TRADE MAIN , MAM M HACK TAB NO SUBSTITUTE ON SALE EVCRYWUC CATALOGUE* TOl showing pull UNeor [. „ A SARMENTS AND HATO A. J. TOWER CO., BOSTON, MASS., U.B.A. TOWCW CANADIAN CO.. LTP., TOWONTO. CANADA. flO.OOO Plants for ISe.J ^^k More gardens ami farms are planted to ^^^B Halier's Heeds than any other in America. Thera is reason for this. BCl w# owM over sera* for the pro- ^^H duotlon of oui warranlril seeds. ■BiSwf) 1 n order to induce you to try thorn, we BtnS^w^P roe »*a jouths following unpre IrAJl Tor IB Oanta Pont paid * jy^pl \ 1QCHI Karly, ■ ftl.wsu.l Lata iabbaeas, BIB HI/ I 1 IXOOO Fla* Julay Taralpa, V j '/ Bl I I f M»0 lUansklea Calory, Hi |£ J xooe Me* Null* Latilira, W Be r I lOOO ApUarit* bales®, Ki w M ) 1000 Kara Latelaa* Itadlahaa, lisSsIll* &> SI 1000 filerleasly BHIIIaat Fiowsra. ^OH Ml A Above sevan packages contain unfit- ^B B dent aaed to grow lo.OOO plants, fur- |B H 1H nlshing bushels of lirllllnut /JM !9 |B Bnwu'i and lota and lots of choice fmXM B IH vegetables, together with our great f Till B HI catalog, telling all about Flowers, VlH fe'i Um Hoses, Small Fruits, etc., all for B BA 15c in stamps and this notice. BB Big 140-page catalog aloue, 4c. wmlnm tOHN A. SAIIER SEED CO, H Mini JJJJjIcnu. La Crosse, Wla. Ml College Football Ethics. New York World: Hy far the blest contribution to the intermittent contro versy over modern college football Is contained in President idiot’s annual report. The distinguished head of Har vard university is a friend of college athletics. There Is no prejudice in his report. His criticisms are founded solely in the ethics of manhood and the age. The main objection to football as It is played lies agalpgt the moral quality. It Is an evil tl.*>® in the Immoderate desire to win games ill-feeling is created between colleges. Then again, the mass play affords temptation to foul play, since violation of the rules may be hid den. Finally, the game has become as similated lo war, as to ils struggles, stratagems and deceptions. Never Done in Oil. Puck: The Portrait Painter—I'm glad to hear you admire my work, Mr. Porkham. Have you ever been done in oil? Mr. Porkham—Not on your life! When ever them Standard guys float anything, your Uncle Hiram dons a cork vest and then keeps oft. Force of Habit. Public Ledger: "I asked that drug ■clerk If he had any 5-cent stamps, and he said ’no,’ but he could give me 'something Just as good.'" "Ah! Force of habit, eh?” "No; he meant it. He gave me two 2s and a 1." LATEST JOKES FROM THE STAGE f'litc (Jnips That Are Doing Duty in Metropolitan Theaters. It Is a fact that brighter and funnier, things are said by actors off the stage, | than when they utter the lines written j I■>" some one else. Take Maurice Barry ! more, for instance. He was talking to two friends about the benefit to he j^'cn at the Academy of Music. One said: i "Say, Barry, what Is the Actors' Order of Friendship?" “Two beers,” replied Barry. —♦ At the Lambs' club the other night Dlxey told a new story about Stetson. He had engaged a song and dance man who was fearfully bad. “The artist-' was just making his exit, singing the last bars of “Where Are the Friends of My Youth?" when Stetson, who was i standing in the wings, said: "Take the rest of the week and find them.” Oeorge Fuller Golden, at Keith's, fells of the man who was sent In haste for the doctor to attend his mother-in-law. "She's at death's door, doctor,” said he, : "and I'm afraid you can't pull her | through.” I John Kernel! says he called on a friend and was treated to the most de licious sausage he ever ate. "I asked them where he got them, and he gave me a pointer.” There arc many new Jokes In the re vised "Evangeline" at the Garden thea ter. Fred Solomon at one stage of the play announces that ho will recite a poem composed by himself. Striking an heroic attitude, he declares: "Mary had a little calf, So she couldn't put on bloomers.” Another version or the prevalent polit ical joke Is heard In the same burlesque, Bigelow, made up as David B. Hill, an nounces that he must take the 12:44 train to Albany. Bigelow—Why, I thought you were a gold man. Bigelow—So I am. Solomon—Then why do you take the 16 to 1 train? —♦— Frederick Bond, In "My Friend from India," gives Perkins a pair of trousers, remarking that they are a good fit. “Good tit for a man of my years," re plies Perkins, "but for any other man they would be a convulsion." —♦— Most of Francis Wilson s jokes 1. “Half a King” pertain to the play. A few of his witty epigrams, however, de serve to be quoted: "A man can say things In four min utes that he would spend forty years in 1 regretting.” "If people would stop to think before they get married, children would be come obsolete.” , Sam Reed, who plays Judge Lynch lt| I "Hue.” was asked by a new acquaint ance If his name really were Reed. "Certainly; why do you ask?" "Well, there are so many actor folks who take facetious names that I thought I mebbe you did, too.” Dick Golden, at Keith's, says an Irish man bet 10 cents he could eat more oy sters than the dealer could open. After swallowing ninety of the bivalves, Pat , laid a dime one counter and said: "Be j dad, you've won. I can't eat any more." Speaking of oysters reminds nte of Dlxey's story of the man who entered a country store on a cold day. A group of loungers were huddled about the stove, and the stranger could not get near | enough to get warm. “Got any oy sters?" he asked thejaToprietor, and re ceiving an affirmative reply said; “Take a dozen on the half shell out to my horse.” All hands crowded to the door to see 1 a horse eat oysters, and the stranger se cured the most comfortable seat. The proprietor returned soon, and said the horse refused to eat the shell flah. "Well, give 'em to me. then,,’ said the foxy vis itor, secure In his resting place. In "Rrlan Boru" Richard Carroll has some bright lines. "I've had enough to drink today,” he says, "but I'll take 1 one more, in case I should be thirsty tomorrow." | “My face Is my fortune," declares I Annie Summerville. "Then you have a blessed small in come,” Is Carroll's ungallant retort. "Getting married is like going around a corner; you can't tell whom you are likely to meet,” says Miss Summerville. "Then I'll go over the roof." In one of his songs Carroll refers to a man who was so lazy his liver would not work. —♦— ! Ezra Kendall at Keith's says he went to a hotel, got into a row with the clerk and was thrown down stairs. While he was falling a policeman who was at tracted by the noise, asked him what he was doing. "Looking for a place to stop,” he said. Ed Favor and Edith Sinclair in their sketch at Keith's exchange bright rep i artee. "She misses her husband," he de clares, "but doesn't tell what she threw j at him." "Why don't you get up early?" she asks. “My brother got up early the other day and found $10." "The man who lost it got up earlier." Fritz Williams is responsible for this; A ventriloquist out of work, hungry and penniless, entered a restaurant anjl ordered dinner. He had with him a dog which apparently gave an order for steak, much to the surprise of the wai : ters. Throughout the meal the dog kept up a brisk conversation, and the pro I prietor of the place made an offer to ; buy the supposed talking canine. A bargain was struck, and $200 was paid the ventriloquist. “Have you sold me?" the dog appeared to ask. "Yes, Jack, | for $200.” "Then I'll never say another | word,” said the dog sadly, as the trick i ster departed. —♦ "Ts this ring valuable?” asks Minnie French of Charlie Evans in “A Parlor Match." | "I should say it Is. I got $75 on it In ! pawn—seventy-five times at a dollar a ' time.” Doing Good. Frederica Bremer. We should not preach so much to people, we should give them an Interest In life, I something to love, something to live for; ; we should, if possible, make them happy, nr put them on the way to happiness— I inn they would unquestionably become * d. [j IN THE SHADOW OF SHAME | j ♦ C.ayright 1901 b, or ol “ Th« Di. ol I ! Destiny.** “An Excel- I T. Filctfcrald M«.lUjr !«„t Kn...," Etc. j CHAPTER XXXII. Next day before rising, Valerius had the morning papers brought him, and hurriedly opening them one after an other, read in all the same account of George Rostock’s progress toward re covery. The comments which were ap pended he left unheeded; only the ac tual state of the patient interested him, and this failed to disturb the calm which had set in upon him as a result of the long hours of mental combat he had endured the previous night. The early afternoon was spent in reading old letters long stored away for something they contained in them selves, and which he now burned. And as his eyes dwelt upon them it seemed as if old friends came back, old days returned. Various chapters in his life opened out before him as a book; some almost forgotten, others remembered well, but seen now in a new light—a light which had come too late. And as the flames consumed each separate sheet It was as though a year of his existence had escaped his grasp, had changed to ashes and turned to nothingness, until but a memory re mained of that past which had seemed so eventful, freighted as It had been with a thousand incidents of the in ward, rather than the outward life. This task was in itself a wrenching of the past from the present; a fare well to what had been and might be never more; a burying of/ the dead. And the pain which it brought lay deep in his heart, but was accepted by him as part of that which he had set himself to accomplish. Outside the world was full of gloom, for a dense fog had settled over the city since morning—a fog which the electric light of his rooms was scarcely able to scare. Once or twice he went to the windows and stared over the park, where all things were vague and indistinct; the trees, the seldom and »iow (Hissing nguies, vne cans wiui their lighted lamps. To the lunch which was served with the same regularity as if nothing of vital importance was happening, he sat down and ate with appetite, then con tinued his work. When the early editions of the evening papers were handed him he turned to one part and read of George Bostock's gradual re covery. a fixed expression on his face. And presently, late In the afternoon, lie went out. His man had some diffi culty In finding him a cab, for the at mosphere was now black and heavy, bo that traffic became dangerous, if not impossible. But having secured a hansom, Valerius drove to Sir Pugin Tate’s house in Harley street. The famous surgeon being well known to him. Valerius determined to call upori him and receive from Sir Pugin a statement regarding Bostock which might Itnplletly be relied upon. Sir Pugin’s footman admitted that his master was at home, but feared he was engaged. Valerius wrote some words upon a card, which he asked the servant to give his master, the result being that Galbraith was shown into the library, which the surgeon entered a moment later. "I hope you will excuse me, Sir Pugin," Valerius said as he shook hands with the surgeon. "I fear I have disturbed you, but I promise not to keep you many minutes." “Pray sit down." "Thanks,” replied Valerius, whose excitement was beginning to overcome his studied calmness. "I came to learn from your own lips the truth of the statement made regarding George Bostock.” The surgeon glanced at him with surprise, noting which Valerius hurried to say: "I am much concerned in the case; Mrs. Dumbarton, you will perhaps re member. is my cousin." "Yes, I know that——” "And a great deal I cannot now ex plain hangs upon the death or recovery of the man who has confessed to mur der.” Pugin. “Therefore, I went to hear your opin ion as to whether George Bostock will live or die.” "Unless something unforseen occurs, the man will certainly recover." Galbraith heard this reply stated in an authoritative voice; heard it with a tension of the nerves, with a tight ening of the heart. It was the answer he had expected to receive, yet its pronouncement produced upon hint a despair such as criminals may feel when the anticipated death sentence Is passed upon them. "That is your conviction?" Valerius said in a slow, hoarse voice. “Certainly. The loss of motor power is gradually disappearing, and it’s quite plain that consciousness is re turning. Tomorrow or next day he may be able to answer questions." "Tomorrow or next day?" repeated Valerius. "I expect so." "That settles the question, Sir Pugin." "It has been a particularly interest ing case to me." "I am sure it has; it could not fail to be." "By one of those unexpected turns I have been enabled to save bis life, for whleh I don’t suppose he’ll thank i me," said the surgeon, well pleased with himself. “Why did you save him'"’ asked Va lerius in a voice that sounded full of reproach and full of pain. "Why did yon save him?" "Because it was my duty," replied Sir Pugin stiffly. ’’It was not for me to take Into consideration what mlgh* happen on his recovery, but to bring him back to life, if possible." "And you have done your duty.” re marked Galbraith, with covert bitter ness as he rose to take his leave. "I have done my duty," repeated the great man, somewhat puzzled by his visitor's tone and the expression of his face. "Forgive me for having troubled you, Sir Pugin. Thank you, and good night,” said Valerius, as he quitted the library. He drew the collar of his coat around his neck as he descended the steps and made his way to the cab that awaited him. Through Its windows lie could see little save the yellow, hazy lights of street lamps and the black figures of wayfarers wrapped and muffled, that for a second passed into narrow circles of radiance and disap peared again into blackness beyond— phantom-like figures that turning neither to right nor left with bent heads, hurried on their course, j The dense fog muffled all sounds, and ! hung black, heavy and almost palpable, j like a vast pall covering a silent city ; of the dead. Something there was in the murky atmosphere that harmon ized with the resolution he had taken which now as the hour for Its accom plishment drew near, heavily weighed upon his spirits and filled his heart with fear. Though the cab drove slowly as a funeral coach, he thought it car tied him to his home with needless haste. He dined lightly, and drank but lit tle wine that evening; then passing into his study he gave orders that he was not to be disturbed. Electric light strove to brighten this cosy room with its thick carpet and heavy hangings, its bookshelves con taining rare and handsomely hound vblumes, many of them first editions and presentation copies from their au thors. Fencing foils he had brought from Toledo hung over, his portrait, and around the library were othercurl osities he had gathered in various cit ies and continents—an ivory idol smuggled from a Persian temple; a Turkish scimitar, which had severed a Christian head; a funerary statuette in green glazed pottery he had un earthed in Egypt, a mosque lamp of ancient date; a scarab of the time of Amenemhat II. Each had some pleas ant recollection attached to it; all he valued. Therefore he looked upon them with sad eyes, reluctant to say farewell. As he lay back in his chair before his desk, the despair that blinds hope, fetters joy, and crushes vitality, came upon him; but striving to rise above these feelings, he set himself to his task. He had already destroyed such traces and mementoes of his past life as he deemed too sacred for other eyes to look upon when he had gone. And next he made a will leaving pensions to his servants, dividing his valuables among a few friends, and bequeathing all else he possessed to Olive Dum barton. It was hard that while in the enjoy ment of vigor and vitality he should make preparations for what was to happen a few hours later, when men would count him among the dead. He was intelligent enough to know life could not end here, and the dread of what might come was full upon him. Yet he did not flinch from his pur pose. With overwhelming sadness he he gan a letter to his cousin, whom he might never see again, and whom he addressed now for the last time. And while he wrote, the pain and despair within him grew until tears blinded his eyes and fell upon the page. More than once he laid down the pen as if unable to continue, and then again be gan, eager to finish his task, yet re luctant to say the final word fare well to her he loved. And this was wlmt he wrote: "My Dear Olive: I begin by im ploring yod to forgive-me for the cruel wrong I have done you, which now', ut this late hour, I am going to repair. When a few days ago you said George Bostock had not committed murder, your woman’s instinct was right; your faith in him was justilied, for it was I who killed your husband. “When, on the night I dined with you before leaving England, you told me of his return, X was filled with un easiness, not knowing what steps such a scoundrel might take to persecute and defraud you. 1 ought to have re mained by you, 1, your only male rela tive, but my desire for pleasure was too strong for my sense of duty, and I went. While in Paris my anxiety increased, but even then I debated with myself as to whether I should return or continue my journey. I decided on the latter, and then wrote and posted to you the letter and book which reached you that unhappy night. No sooner, however, than I had done so, than the heartlessness of my conduct in leaving you unprotected became plain, and I determined to return and see for myself what course he had taken. As my stay might be brief I left my luggage behind and did not re turn to my house, then in charge of a caretaker. "On arriving at Charing Cross 1 stayed at the Eagle Hotel, and after a late dinner set out foi Hixton road with the intention of surprising you. Reaching there I caught ,i jht of a man walking stealthily up and down in front of your house. My first im pulse was to accost, my second to watch hint, for which purpose 1 with drew to the opposite side of the road. He disappeared, bat finally returned, when I saw him open the gate. By this time I had recognized him as Dumbarton, and going over, I caught hold of his shoulder and tiling him aside. Bitter words followed: he struck me and 1 clutched him by the throat, suddenly 1 felt a sharp pain in my left shoulder, when. In a moment of passion, I snatched the knife with which I was stabbed from his hand, and struck him with it in the breast. “Startled by what i had done and by the fear of Us consequences. I rushed from the spot, until hearing a servant's cries and seeing a policeman, l paused. Had Her Hypnotized. Mrs. E. Zee—My husband never told me a lie. Mrs. Wise—Then you married a hyp notist. First Comedian—Dis large bump lells me dat you are to soon leave your happy home and take a long trip. Second Comedian—Dat 3 rlgnu and summoning all my presence of mind, coolly directed him to the spot. I did not know what had happened, nor did I dare return. In the morning I learned all. when my grief for your situation and remorse for my act prompted me to confess, but my cow ardice overcoming this impulse, I per suaded myself that you could not fail to prove your innocence, and that I need not suffer for my deed. I there fore returned to Paris. None knew I had been in England. 1 had not given my name at the hotel, and I assured myself I should never be suspected. “On reaching Paris 1 immediately started for Brindisi, whence I tele graphed to you. The dastardly part I had played in permitting you to bear the blame, followed; but again and again I told myself your Innocence could and must be proved without my confession. And then I hoped that now being free you might give me the love It had been my lifelong desire to ob tain. So when the woman Mezza ap peared I felt convinced the blame might be shifted on her husband, who I suppose had returned to his own country, where he would probably nev er be found. And this hope proving false, Bostock’s confession assured me you need not suffer nor I confess. "Imagine then my despair on find ing you would not believe him guilty; that you would have his confession proved, and that you loved him. I hated him for the noble example he had set me, and because he had suc ceeded where I had failed in winning your love. All this drove me mad, and I said such words to you as l would now give all the world to have left unsaid. Then came news of the sec ond operation and his recovery, when I resolved to set you and him free from all imputations of guilt by my confession, and then to evade the dis grace and punishment I have not the courage to face. “I know my life has been a waste, and I feel It might have been other wise. but I loved pleasure too much and tasted happiness too little, for the happiness I sought in my youth 1 was never able to gain. I see now the fault was wholly mine, for had rny love for you been great, and strong, and noble. It would not have failed to win your own. I have brought trouble, sorrow, and disgrace upon you, and little as I deserve your forgiveness I hope you will not refuse It, made, as It is, in this, my last hour. mviviiui, emu (,’ui uun lilt, la 1110 last request of one who, though he has deeply wronged you, loves you with a deeper and better love than he has ever felt before. I die in the belief you will not withhold it from me. Fare well. dear Olive, farewell. God bless you now and forever.” He read through the letter, w hich he carefully sealed, and then, that it might reach her without fail next morning, he went out and dropped it into a neighboring letter box. As it fell with a thud into the receptacle, it seemed as if he had sealed his fate. Feeling his way through the dense fog, he re gained his study and then sat down to write a second confession, giving the necessary details which would prove the truth of his assertion. This which was intended for the public, he directed to George Coris. Everything was done now save the most important of all, but from this he did not flinch; all preparations had been made. From a drawer in his desk he took a bottle of chloroform, and held it between him and the light. There was more than sufficient there to send him into a sleep from which in this life there could be no awakening. He thought it strange he should feel so calm and collected now, in contrast to the disturbance he had suffered before finally resolving to seek death. The strong odor of the drug nearly intoxicated him as he raised it to his lips and then sat it down once more, lest he had left undone anything which he might remember and wished to do when it was too late. No, nothing had been forgotten, and with regret he rec ognized that there was nothing to de lay his last moments. He took the bottle again, lifted it slowly, then with a sudden effort boldly swallowed its contents. His life had now practically come to an end; the drug must soon begin to paralyze his brain. As he passed a mirror he started at his refieel ion as though he had seen a phantom. Then he deliberately looked into the glass at the face which a little time hence would bear small semblance to its present aspect. He could not help recognizing that it was comely, while his rounded throat and broad shoulders showed strength. And he remembered how women had smiled on him, how men had welcomed him, how readily friendship had been extended to him, how the world had been a pleasant plate to him, the world he was voluntarily quitting. He crossed the room to a couch on which he Hung himself, thinking now of Olive and ol' the surprise which awaited her next morning when he would have gone.where? lie closed his eyes weari;y, and presently opened them without being able to tell how long they had been shift, and all un willing to lose a moment of the con sciousness that was left to him. olive would surely feel sorry, and she would forgive and pity him, and remember him when others forgot. A warm, soothing feeling was passing through his veins; he felt himself sinking through an abyss of darkness, and tin n suddenly started to wakefulness as it he had received a shock. And now tame the terrible con sciousness that be was going ie !,i> death, that nothing could save him .that he could retain his fading senses no longer. Then he became absorbed into.dark ness, -ileiu. y,n surging as if with bid den life a suffocating and appalling darkness through whic h he sank clow n and down, and down 10 death. (Continued Next Week.) English Coed Encugh. New York Times. Professor Adidpl Cohn of Columbia university ivcer.il;> in discussing ike teaching of Fienci and German im the public schools, s.i i< that the attitude of a good many pc o pie on that subject was explained t* him aptly by a remark he had on. iverhea: it in a street c ar. Two eld» » ty Irish women were talking a ..am Lheir children, when one lemaio ‘I won’t let my chid be lauy. I i inch. ’ “Why not?" inquired the other. “Sure,” replied the first, “if Kn ip was good enough for St. Paul to \vn„ the bioie in it’s r< i enough for n.c. Why It Was a Bacti-t Fish. San Francisco Argonaut: Dining recent Baptist convention held 1 Charleston. Rev. Dr. George Greene » Washington strolled down to the bai tery one morning to take a look ac 10s the harbor af Fort Sumter. An oi negro was sitting on ihe sea wa 11 ns ing. Dr. Greene watched the Ion fisherman .and finally saw him pu. up an odd h oking fish, a c ross betwem a toad and catfish. “What kind of a F>h is that, id man? inquired Di. Greene. “Dey calls if de Baptist fish.” refill the fisherman, as fie tossed u away . deep disgust. 'Why do they call it rim Bupii fish?” asked the minister. “Because dey spoil so soon after d< comes outen de water,’’ answeted i fisherman. ■ft mm, ■ MMMftanftMMftMMVftaaMMMwnna Changed Hi* Mind. Lippi ncott's Magazine; A tramp, ! dirty and ragged to the last degree, called at a house on the door of which was a doctor's sign. A large, rather masculine-looking woman opened the door. " 'Scuse me lady,” said the tramp, “but I just called to ask If the doc tor had any old clothes he’d let me have. You see. I'm kind o’ bad off fer all kinds of clothes an’ I’d be much i obleeged fer anything the doctor could let me have, an’ I ain’t pertickler as to ! the fit.” The woman smiled and made reply: "I am the doctor!” “Sufferin’ Moses!” ejaculated the tramp, as he made a beeline for th« gate. Found at Last. Alston, Mich., March 13th.—(Spe elal.)—After suffering for twenty years from Rheumatism and Kidney 1 Troubles, and spending a fortune In doctors and medicines that brought him no relief, Mr. James Culet of this place has found a complete cure for all his aches, pains aud weakness, In Dodd’s Kidney Pills. Naturally Mr. Culet feels much elated over his cure and gives great credit to the remedy that gave him health. “Yes,” Mr. Culet says, “My Rheu matism and Kidney Troubles are all gone and I feel like a new man. Dodd's Kidney Pills did It. Before I used them I spent a small fortune on doctors and one remedy and another. I cheerfully recommend Dodd’s Kid ney Pills to anyone suffering from Rheumatism or Kidney Trouble.’ Dodd’s Kidney Pills always cure sick kidneys. Healthy kidneys taka all uric acid—the cause of Rheuma tism-out of the blood. That’s why Dodd's Kidney Pills always cure Rheumatism. __ m __ Force of Habit. There was once a penman so queer He wrote on a typewriter clear; And when he w'as through, Pray what did he do But hang it up over his ear. —New York Su.i. COMMISSIONER GARFIELD'S RE. PORT. It Is Found to Be Favorable to tbe Great Packers. The report of Commissioner of Cor porations Garfield on the beef Indus try, Hfter about eight mouths’ Investi gation In Chicago and elsewhere, shows that there has been an enormous amount of exaggeration In the state ments that have appeared for some time past in regard to the beef busi ness. This Investigation was set on foot by a resolution of the House of Representatives adopted March 7, 1904, and the ascertained facts after a most rigid examination of the methods and general conduct of the business are contained in a report covering 808 pages. Us figures and tables conclu sively show that the popular hellef in enormous profits made by the large packers, such as Armour & Co., Swift & Co. and Nelson Morris & Co., and In the exclusive control of the busi ness which many think they enjoy, is really without foundation. The report made to President Roose velt by Commissioner Garfield is real ly the first official statement of the ac tual conditions of the beef business that has been made, and as all the con clusions arrived at are based, as shown , by him. upon data officially obtained, fl there seems to be no reason why they should not be regarded as reliable and In all respects trustworthy. This report shows why the price of both cattle and beef advanced to the highest level ever known after the short corn crop of 1901, and states that because of the decrease in number of cattle and also In decreased weight, “the high prices of beef which caused so much complaint among consumers at this time were attributable wholly to these abnormal cattle prices..” All the figures of the live weight and live cost of all dressed beef cattle were obtained from actual killing rec ords and all Information of every kind obtained by the Commissioner was voluntarily and freely offered by the packers, all hooks of record and papers connected with the business having placed at his disposal. To make certain that the results of the investigation should be absolutely accurate, the Commissioner states that a double method of ascertaining profits was adopted, and, without going into detail here, it Is found that the conclu sion arrived at shows an average profit of 99 cents per head. The Commis sioner says “the close parallelism in the results of the two methods of ascer taining the profits confirms completely the correctness of the general conclu sions.” It is clearly established that “western packers do not control more than half of the beef supply of the United States.” the conclusion of the Commissioner being that the business done by them amounts to “about 45 per cent” of the total slaughter of the country. The whole report Is extremely inter esting and well worthy of careful pe rusal. As an official report it may ha regarded as worthy of confidence and It certainly leads the reader to th# conclusion arrived at by the Commis sioner when he states that "the capital ization of none of these concerns if i excessive as compared with its actual Investment” and that from thorough ! and rigid examination of original en i tries in hooks and papers to which ha had access there was also “indirect evl i dence that the profits of the packers : In their beef business are less than ia frequently supposed,” as shown by J comparison between the total profits I and the total amount of sales. n Unusual. Public Ledger: "He has really written a very remarkable novel." j "In what respect?” "It 1's simply impossible to dramatize | It.” A New Idea. Philadelphia Press: "What on earth I has come over Meekley? He was al most impudent to me this morning.” "I'll tell you. He answered the adver 1 tisement of a correspondence school of : Jiu Jltsu last night and arranged to ■ take the course." Six months behind time, but still per severing. says the London Express, i George M. Schilling of Pittsburg, who Is walking around the world In seven i years for a £1,000 wager, has arrived In | Liverpool. He left New York In 1897. ! penniless and wearing a newspaper | Milt.