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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<l finally
became so acute that I was on the point
of relinquishing my membership in the
different organizations to which 1 be
longed."
‘•What saved you from that necessity?"
"A very simple thing ; the call of a
member of one of the clubs,who strongly
advised me to try Dr. Williams' Pink Pills
before giving up. I acted on her sugges
tion at once.and after steadily using this
great blood and nerve remedy for two
months, my headaches and my dizzi
ness entirely disappeared.
Miss McKenna is secretary of the
Associated Indies' Guild, ami resides at
No. 48 Wait street, Roxbury. Mass. Dr.
Williams’ Pink Pills have cured many
hundreds of similar cases, and can lie
confidently recommended to drive all
poisons from the blood and to give nee.ded
strength to the nerves. Every druggist
keeps them.
ft Cutes Colds, Conch*. 8ore Throat, Croup, Influ
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You will see the excellent effect after taking the
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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.
