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About The frontier. (O'Neill City, Holt County, Neb.) 1880-1965 | View Entire Issue (March 5, 1908)
H _ --- A Frozen Law. Philadelphia Ledger: An American and a Scotsman were speaking about the Intense cold in the north of Scot "Why, It’s nothing at all com pared to the colu we have In the States," sa!d the American. “I can recollect one winter when the sheep, Jumping front a hillock Into a field, be came suddenly frozen on the way and etuck In the air like a mass of ice." "But good heavens, man," exclaimed the Scotsman, 'the law of gravity wouldn’t aJlow that!" "We don’t do things by half nt home,” replied the other. The law of gravity was frozen, too!” The Most Forgetful Man. Exchange: A minister’s wife, a doc tor's wife, and a traveling man's wife met one day recently, and were talking about the forgetfulness of their hus bands. The minister's wife thought her husband was the most forgetful man living, because he would forget his notes and no one could make Out what he was trying to preach about. The doctor’s wife thought her husband was the more forgetful still, for he would often start out to see a patient and would forget Ills medicine case ana travel nine miles for nothing. ’’Well," said the traveling man's wife, "my husband beats that. Ho came home the other day and patted me on the cheek and said: ’! believe I have seen V<»\ir face before—what is your name?’ ” Jlgg»—Before a girl la married she gets a flower In her hair. Jagg®—And after she Is murried she gets her hair In the flour. — Mrs. Winslow • boothivq strop tor rii!Hr*a iMthlnci potion* I ho ruoik, rndnctm infinminnoon. n'< ist* pain euro* sit'd eoli". SccRnt * belli* She—Procrastination Is the thief of time. 1 He—There are other watch lifters. WItAT CAI’SES HEADACHE. | From Octoberto May.Colds are the most fre | amenteauaeofHeadache. LAXATIVEBltOMO , QU INI N'Eretnoves cause. E.W.(trove on box 2nc . A Surprising Mistake. Tit-Bits: A short time ago some mem bers of the education committee visited a council school in a provincial town. It was "examination day." and the chairman of the committee, a large and pompous old gentleman, was pres ent. A reading class was called, and a bright little fellow rose, and In a mono tone drawled through a paragraph about a massacre In the time of Nero. "Ah, um!” Interrupted the chairman. "Will you please let that little hoy read that verse again?" The paragraph was given again pre cisely as before. "Ah! um!" exclaimed the wise man. smiling like a pleased chimpanzee; "why do you pronounce that word ‘massaker’ ?" This youngster hung his head and made no reply. "It should be pronounced ‘massa cree.’ ” continued the chairman, benign ly There was a painful silence for a mo- . ment; then the teacher meekly said: "Excuse me, Mr. Jones, but the fault 1s mine. I think, If that word Is mis pronounced, I have told the cluss to pronounce Is •nmssu-ker.' " "Why. sir. may 1 Inquire?" "I believe that Webster, who compiled the great dictionary, favors that pro nunciation." "Impossible, sir!" "Well, that Is a matter easily settled. Here Is a copy of Webster's una bridged. Suppose we refer to It ” The education committee chairman seized the dictionary and hurriedly turned to the word. For a moment his face was a study. Then he removed hts glasses, wiped them on n red silk handkerchief and, replacing them, suld most solemnly: "I am perfectly astounded, sir, that Mr. Webster should have made such a mistake as that." oliTsurgeon 0*0004 Coffee t'oaeed lfande to Tremble. The surgeon's duties require clear Judgment and a steady hand. A slip or an unnecessary Incision may do Ir reparable damage to the patleut. When he found that coffee drinking caused his bands to tremble, an Ills. Burgeon conscientiously gave It up and this Is his story. “For years I was a coffee drinker until my nervous system was nearly broken down, my hands trembled so l could hardly write, and Insomnia tor tured me at night. "Resides, how could l safely perform operations with unsteady hands, using knives and Instruments of precision? When I saw plainly the bad effects of coffee, I decided to stop it, and three years ago I prepared some I’ostum, of which I had received a sample. The first cupful surprised me. It was mild, soothing, delicious. At this time I gave some I'ostum to a friend who was In a similar condition to mine, from bi^e use of coffee. “A few days after. 1 met him and he was full of praise for Postum, declar ing he would never return to coffee but *tl ‘k to I'ostum. We then ordered a full supply and within a short tlmo my nervousness and consequent trembling, as well as Insomnia, disappeared, blood circulation became normal, no dizziness nor heat flashes. “My friend became a Postum enthu siast. his whole family using It ex clusively. “It would be the fault of the one who brewed the Postum, if It did not taste good when served. The best food may be spoiled if not properly made. Postum should be boil ed according to directions on the pkg, Then It Is nil right, anyone can rely on It. It ought to become the national drink." “There's a Reason.” Nairn given by Postum Co.. Rattle Creek Mich. Read The Road to Wellville,' In pkgs. I ,_THE_— Story of Francis Cludde A Romance of Queen Mary's Reign. I BY STANLEY J. WEYMAN. i 1_—-- --—... * He paused. Had the fire died down, or was it only an imagination that 'the shadows thickened round Lhe bed . behind him and closed In more nearly . on us, leaving his pale grim face to S confront me—his face which seemed I the paler and grimmer, the more satur nine and all mastering, for the dark j frame which set It off? "He did this,” he continued slowly, ! "which came to light and blasted him— he asked us the price of his service in betraying me his brother's estate.” "Impossible!" I stammered. “Why, Sir Anthony" "What of Sir Anthony, you would ask?” the chancellor replied, interrupt ing me, with savuge irony. "Oh, he was a papist, an obstinate papist! He might go hang—or to Warwick jail." "Nay, but this at least, my lord, is false!" I cried. "Palpable false! If my father had so betrayed bis own flesh and blood, should 1 be here? Should I be at Coton End? You say this hap pened eight, years ago. Seven years ago I <Ame here. Would Sir Anthony"— “There are fools everywhere," the old man sneered. "When my Lord Hert ford refused your father’s suit, Ferd inand began—it is his nature—to plot against him. He was found out and execrated by all, for he hnd been false to all. He fled for his life. He left you behind, and a servant brought you to Coton End, where Sir Anthony took you In," I covered my face. Alas, I believed him! I, who had always been so proud of my lineage, so proud of the brave traditions of the house and its honor, so proud of Coton End and all that belonged to it! Now, If this were true, I could never again take pleasure In one or the other. I was the son of a man branded as a turncoat and an Informer, of one who was the worst of traitors! I sank down on the settee behind ine and hid my face. Another might have thought less of the blow, or, with greater knowledge of the world might have made light of it as a thing not touching himself. But on me, young as I was, and proud, and as yet tender, and having done noth ing myself, it fell with crushing force. It was years since I had seen my father, and I could not stand forth loyally and light his battles as a son his father's friend and familiar for years might have fought it. On the contrary there was so much which seemed mysterious in my past life, so much that bore out the chancellor's accusation, that I felt a dread of Its truth even before I had proof. Yet I would have proof. "Show me the let ters!" 1 said harshly. "Show me the letters, my lord!” “You know your father's handwrit ing?" "I do." t knew It, not from any correspond ence tuy father had held with me, but because 1 had more than once exam ined with natural curiosity the wrap pers of the dispatches which at Inter vals of many months, sometimes of a year, came from him to Sir Anthony. 1 had never known anything of the con tents of the letters, all that fell to my share being certain formal mes sages, which Sir Anthony would give me, generally with a clouded brow and a testy manner that grew genial again only with the lapse of time. Gardiner handed me the letters, and I took them and read one. One was enough That my father! Alas, alas! No wonder that 1 turned my face to the wall, shivering as with ague, and that all about me, except the red glow of the tire, which burned Into my brain seemed darkness! I had lost the thing l valued most. I had lost at a blow everything of which I was proud. The treachery that could flush that worn face opposite to me, lined as it was with statecraft, and betray the wily tongue into passion seemed to me, young and Impulsive, a thing so vile as to brand a man's children through generations. I turned. Now I saw only the water and the dark line of trees which fringed I the farther bank. But above these the | stars were shining. | Yet In my mind there was no star | light. There all was a blur of wild pas sions and resolves. Shame and an angry resentment against those who had kept me so long in ignorance—even against Sir Anthony—were my upper most feelings. I smarted under the thought that I had been living on his charity. I remembered many a time when f had taken much on myself, and he had smiled, and the remembrance stung me. I longed to assert myself and do something to wipe off the stain. But should I accept the bishop's of fer? It never crossed my mind to do so. He had humiliated me, and I hated him for It. Longing to cut myself off from my old life, I could not support a patron who would know and might cast in my teeth the old shame. A third reason, too, worked powerfully with me as I became cooler. This was the con viction that, apart from the glitter which the old man's craft had cast about it, the part that he would have me play was that of a spy—an inform er. A creature like—I dared not say like my father, yet I had him in my mind. And from this, from the barest suspicion of this, I shrank as the burned puppy from the fire—shrank with fierce twitching of nerve and sinew. Yet If I would not accept his offer it was clear I must fend for myself. His threats meant as much as that, and I smiled sternly as found necessity at one with inclination, f would leave Coton End at once, and henceforth I would fight for my own hand, I would have no name until I had made for myself a new one. This resolve formed, I turned and went buck to the house and felt my way to my own chamber. The moon light poured through the lattice and fell white on my pallet. I crossed the room and stood still. Down the middle of the coverlet—or my eyes deceived me—lay a dark line. I stooped mechanically to see what this was and found my own sword lying there, the sword which Sir An thony had given me on my last birthday. • But how had it come there? As I took if up something soft and light brushed my hand and drooped from the liilt. Then I remem bered. A week before I had begged Petronilla to make me a sword knot of blue velvet for use on state occa sions. No doubt she had done it and had brought the sword back this even ing and laid It there in token of peace. I sat down on my bed, and softer and kindlier thoughts came to me—thoughts of love and gratitude, in which the old man who had been a second father to me had part. I would go as I had re solved, but I would return to them when I had done a thing worth doing, something which should efface the brand that lay on me now. With gen tle fingers I disengaged the velvet knot and thrust it into my bosom. Then I tied about the hilt tho old leather thong, and began to make my prepar ations, considering this or that route while I hunted for iny dagger and changed my doublet und hose for stouter raiment and long, untanned boots. I was yet in the midst of this when a knock at the door startled me. "Who is there?" I asked, standing erect. For answer Martin Luther slid in, closing the door behind him. The fool did not speak, but turning his eyes first on one thing and tlten on another nodded sagely. “Well?” I growled. “You are off, master," he said, nod ding again. "I thought so." "Why did you think so?” I retorted impatiently. AL in nine IOI uic .yuuiig Ul [US to fly when the cuckoo begins to stir,” he answered. I understood him dimly and in part. “You have been listening,” I said wrathfully, my cheeks burning. “And been kicked in the face like a fool for my pains," he answered. "Ah, well, it is better to be kicked by the boot you love than kissed by the lips you hate. But Master Francis,' Master Francis!" he continued in a whisper. He said no more, and I loked up. The man was stooping slightly forward, his pale face thrust out. There was a strange gleam in his eyes, and his teeth grinned in the moonlight. Thrice lie drew his finger across his lean knotted throat. "Shall I?” he hissed, his hot breath reaching me, "shall I?” I recoiled from him, shuddering. It was a ghastly pantomino, and it seemed to me that l saw madness in his eyes. "In heaven’s name, no!” I cried. “No! Do you hear, Martin? No!” He stood back on the Instant, as a dog might have done being reproved. But I could hardly finish in comfort after that with him standing there, al though when I next turned to him he seemed half asleep and his eyes were dull and lishy as ever. “One thing you ear. do," I said brusquely. Then 1 hesitated, looking round me. I wished to send something to Petronillu, some word, some keep sake. But I had nothing that would serve a maid’s purpose and could think of nothing until my eye lit on a house martin's nest, lying where I had cast it on the window sill. I had taken it down that morning because the drop pings the last summer had fallen on the lead work, and I would not have it used when the swallows returned. It was but a bit of clay, and yet it would serve. She would guess its meaning. I gave it into his hands. "Take this,” I said, "and give it privately to Mis tress Petronilia. Privately, you under stand. And say nothing to any one, or the bishop will flay your back, Mar tin." CHAPTER III. The first streak of daylight found I me already footing it through the for est by paths known to few save the woodcutters, but with which many a boyish exploration had made me fa miliar. From Coton End the London road lies plain and fair through Strat ford-on-Avon and Oxford. But m> plan, the better to evade pursuit, was instead, to cross tile forest in a north | easterly direc tion, and passing by War wick to atrike the great north roat 1 between Coventry and Daventry ! which, running thence southeastward ! would take me as straight as a birr • might fly through Dunstable, St. A1 bans and Barnet to London. My bag gage consisted only of my cloak, swore • and dagger, and for money l had bu i a gold angel and a few silver bits o f j doubtful value. But 1 trusted that tld store, slender as it was, would meet m: - . charges as far as London. Once ther ? 1 must depend on my wits either fo - j providence at home or a passag f j abroad. l I Striding steadily up and down hll ?' for Arden forest is made up of hill . and dells which follow one another a therefore I hid my face In the cor ner of the settle, while the chancellor gazed at me awhile In silence, as one who had made an experiment might watch the result. "You see now, my friend," lie said at last, almost gently, "that you nuiv be base born In more ways than one. 'But be of good cheer. You are young, and what I have done you may do. Think of Thomas Cromwell—his father was naught. Think of the old cardinal—my master. Think of the duke of Suffolk— Charles Brandon, I mean. He was a plain gentleman, yet he married a queen. More, the door which they had to open for themselves I will open for you—only, when you are Inside play the man and be faithful." "What would you have me do?" I whispered hoarsely. "I would have you do this," he an swered. “There are great things brew In the Netherlands, boy—great changes, unless I am mistaken. I have need of an agent there, a man. stout, trusty, and, In particular, unknown, who will keep me Informed of events. If you will be that agent, I can procure for you—and not appear in the matter myself—a post of pay and honor in the regent's guards. What say you to that, Master Cludde? A few weeks, and you will be making history, and Colon End will seem a mean place to you Now, what do you say?” I was longing to be away and alone with my misery, but I forced myself to reply patiently: “With your leave I will give vou my answer tomorrow, iny lord, "I said as steadily as I could, and I rose still keeping my face turned from him. "Very well," he replied, with appar ent confidence. But he watched me keenly, as I fancied. "I know already what your answer will be. Yet before you go I Will give you a piece of ad vice which In the new life you begin tonight will avail you more than sil ver, more than gold—aye, more than I steel—Master Francis. It is this. Be | prompt to think, be prompt to strike, I be Flow to speak! Mark it well! It is a simple recipe, yet It has made ine ! what I am and may make you greater. - Now go!” I 1I | pointed to the little door opening on the staircase, and 1 bowed and went | out. closing It carefully behind me. Or I the stairs, moving blindly In the dark 1 fell over some one who lay sleeping there and who clutched at my leg. 1 I shook him off, however, with an ex , elamation of rage, and stumbling dowr , the rest of the steps gained the opet elr. Excited and feverish. 1 shranl i with aversion from the confinement o I my room, and hurrying over the draw , bridge sought at random the long ter | rate by the fish pools, on which tin i moonlight fell, a sheet of silver, broket only by the sundial and the shadows o i ’he rosebushes. The night air, weep ing chill from the forest, tanned nr • chec ks as 1 paced up and. down. On i way l bad before me the manor hous —the steep gable ends, the gatewa tower, the low outbuildings and cor ■ stacks and stables—and flanking thes ) the squat tower and nave of the i hun t do the wave and trough of the sea, only less regularly, I made my way toward Wootton Wawen. As soon as I espied its battlemented church lying In a wooded bottom below me I kept a more easterly course, and leaving Henley-in-Arden far to the left passed down toward Leek Wootton. The damp, dead bracken underfoot, the leaf less oaks and gray sky overhead—nay, the very cry of the bittern fishing in the bottoms—seemed to be at one with my thoughts, for these were dreary and sad enough. But hope and a fixed aim form no bad makeshifts for happiness. Strik ing the broad London road as I had purposed, I slept that night at Ryton Dunsmoor and the next at Towcester, and the third day, which rose bright and frosty, found me stepping gayly southward, travel stained indeed, but dry and whole. My spirits rose with the temperature. For a time I put the past behind me and found amusement in the sights of the road—in the heavy wagons and long trains of pack horses and the cheery greetings which met' me with each mile. After all, I had youth and strength, and the world be fore me, and particularly Stony Strat ford, where I meant to dine. There was one trouble common among wayfarers which did not touch me, and that was the fear of robbers, for he would be a sturdy beggar who would rob an armed foot passenger for the sake of an angel, and the groats were gone. So I felt no terrors on that account, and even when about noon I heard a horseman trot up behind me and rein In his horse so as to keep pace with me at a walk, step for step —a thing which might have seemed suspicious to some—I took no heed of him. I was engaged with my first view of Stratford and did not turn my head. We had walked on so for 50 paces or more before it struck me as odd that the man did not pass me. Then I turned, and shading my eves from the sun, which stood just over his shoulder, said, "Good day, friend.” "Good day, master," he answered. He was a stout fellow, looking like a citizen, although he had a sword by his side and wore it with an air of im portance which the sunshine of oppor tunity might have ripened into a swag ger. His dress was plain, and he sat a good hackney as a miller’s sack might have sat it. His face was the last thing I looked at. When I raised my eyes to it, I got an unpleasant start. The man was no stranger. I knew him in a moment for the mes senger who had summoned me to the chancellor's presence. The remembrance did not please me, and reading in the follow’s sly look that he recognized me and thought he had made a happy discovery on finding me I halted abruptly. He did the same. “It is a fine morning.” he said, taken aback by my sudden movement, but af fecting an indifference which the sparkle in his eye belied. "A rare day for the time of year.” "It is,” I answered, gazing steadily at him. "Going to London? Or may be only to Stratford?" he hazarded. He fidget ed uncomfortably under my eye, but still pretended ignorance of me. "That is as may be,” I answered. “No offense, I am sure,” he said. I cast a quick glance up and down the road. There happened to be no one in sight. "Look here!” I replied, step ping forward to lay my hand on the horse’s shoulder, but the man reined back and prevented me, thereby giving me a clew to his character, “you are in the service of the bishop of Winches ter?” His face fell, and he could not con ceal his disappointment at being recog nized. • “Well, master,” he answered re luctantly, "perhaps I am, and perhaps I am not.” “That is enough,” I said shortly. "And you know me. You need not lie about it, man. for I can see you do. Now, look here, Master Steward, or whatever your name may be” "It is Master Pritchard,” he put in sulkily, "and I am not ashamed of it.” "Very well. Then let us understand one another. Do you mean to interfere with me?” in; gnrineu. wen. 10 De plain, I do," he replied, reining his horse back an other step. “I have orders to look out for you and have you stopped if I find you. And I must do my duty, sir. I am sworn to it. Master Cludde." “Right,” said I calmly, “and I must do mine, which Is to take care of my skin.” And I drew my sword and ad vanced upon him with a flourish. “We will soon decide this little matter,” I added grimly, one eye on him and one on the empty road, “if you will be good enough to defend yourself.” But there was no fight in the fellow. By good luck, too, he was so startled that he did not do what he might have done with safety—namely, retreat and keep me in sight until some pa3sersby came up. He did give back Indeed, but it was against the bank. “Have a care!” he cried in a fume, his eye fol lowing my sword nervously. He did not try to draw his own. “There iif no call for fighting, I say.” “But I say there is,” I replied blunt ly “Call and cause? Either you fight me, or I go where I please.” “You may go to Bath for me!" he spluttered, his face the color of a tur key cock's wattles with rage. (Continued Next Week.) Stamp Recalls Legend. From the Kansas City Star. Switzerland has Issued a new series of postage stamps, one of which pos sesses unique interest. The subject of this is little Henric, the son of Wil liam Tell, the marvelously accurate cross-bowman of Burglen. The story is familiar to all. Tell was at the fair at Altdorf and was arrested by the men of Gessler, the cruel governor of the canton of Uri. who suspected the cross-bowman of disloyalty. Little Henric had been persuaded to run away to the fair by his mischievous cousin Philip, and the latter offered an indiscreetly public Insult to the emblem of authority that Gessler had erected in the market place. Philip escaped, but Henric was seized, and Gessler promised Tell his freedom if he would shoot an apple off the boy’s head. Otherwise he would be slain. Tell thereupon directed Gess ler to kill him as he would not take the chance of injuring the lad. But the governor declared that if Tell did not try to do as he was bid both father and son would be slain on the spot. Seeing that Gessler was determined in his wicked purpose Tell selected two arrows. One he thrust In his girdle and the other he fitted ta his bow. The apple had been placed on the boy’s head, and the father turned and faced him. There was an instant ol suspense, then the sharp twang ol the bowstring, and the apple was fairly pierced by the arrow. Tell hac saved his boy’s life and his own. Gessler, thwarted in his purpose turned to Tell and asked why he had placed the extra arrow in his girdle i and the crossbowman replied: I j “For thee, tyrant! My next marl : j would have been thy bosom, had . ' i failed in my first.” , The new Swiss stamp shows Henrii ' armed with hts father’s crossbow ani s with the arrow-pierced apple in hi: ’ hand. The other stamp of tin » series shows Helvetia with the Alp: mountains in the b-t.kground. j Brazilian coooanul palms live fron » 600 to TOO years. IS TETRAZZINI A SECOND TP'LBY? ALL NEW YORK ASKS Twenty Yearn She Sang in Public Without Exciting Great Applause. NOW HER VOICE THRILLS Eyes Always Seek Those of Her Man ager When on Stage—He Even Answers Her Phone and Opens Mail. New York, Special: Is Tetrazzini an other Trilby, and is her manager Sig. Bazelli, another Svengali, who hypno tizes her as she sings? These questions all of musical New' Yorlc is asking. For 20 years this singer, who as brought the music lovers of the world's two greatest capitals to her feet, sang in obscurity, one night here and one night there in different cities in differ ent countries. She was .not a great singer then, she attracted no attention. And then her manager secured for her an engagement to sing in Covent Gar den, London. For eight months she rested. And then she walked upon the stage as one in a dream, and, looking straight at Sig, Bazelli, she sang as never worn-1 an sang before. Such applause! Such rapture! Ir. one day her fame had spread throughout. London, She came to New York for the pres ent season, under contract with Oscar Harnmerstein to sing with the Man hattan Opera company. She burst in brilliance on wondering New York. Men of experience and gravity pro claimed her greater than Patti, and they asked each other: "Who could have wrought these miracles in the voice of a woman who sang to obscurity for 20 years? Why did she never sing until she met Bazelli? Does she only sing her best now when under his control? And why is It that only since his reign over Tetrazzini lias she' startled the world?” Eyes of a Svengali. The mysterious Bazelli, with eyes black, briiliant. piercing—eyes, with mystery lying deep in them and cun ning gleaming through them like fire through glass—faces her each night as she sings. She is nervous and til at ease as she stands in the wings await ing her call, if anyone speaks to her on the way from her dressing room to the wings she is thrown into a state of nervous distress. She seems afraid that her voice will tail her. She walks out timidly and as she stops her eyes search the faces in front of her for that of Bazelli, and then she begins to sing, looking straight into the eyes of Bazelli the while. At first her voice is like the thin, peevish trebles of a cross child, and the lower notes have an automatic tuaiity like the first asthmatic wheezing of a phonograph before it breaks into the full swing of the record. It is as If she has not yet come under the hypnotic spell of her master. But she watches him and his eyes, with the strange hypnotic power, peer into hers. And then there flows those amazing high notes which one has described as the coloratura fireworks that ffil the listener’s mind with visions of fall ing blossoms, rockets breaking softly in a dark sky, silverthroated nightingales thrilling rapturously in dark woods, and meadow larks rising ecstatically to greet the sun. r-\ UI315M313 i mprQSSiviTSt, Another tells of her performance as fol lows: "When she comen on the stage In "Rlgoletto" or ' 1 -a Travlata' she babbles on In the prattle anti cooing of infancy. She suggests the vaudeville stage more than the dignified land of grand opera. Then of a sudden comes the change, and she pours forth tones golden, ringing, of intoxicating beauty. “ 'Look at me in the white of the eyes, Svengali used to say to Trilby. And Tetrazzini looks Into [he whites of Ba zelli's eyes as she sings. She leaves the stage exhausted and Bazelli goes to her. assists, almost carries her into a car riage, and takes her home. One can read ily picture Bazelli saying to her after one of these triumphs, as Svengali said to Trilby. "Sleep my pretty one, and the next she knows she is in bed, liretf unto death, quite unconscious of the fact that she, whose voice had once been laughed at, had Just sung at a concert where flowers and jewels had been Bung at her feet In her hearer’s mad enthusiasm. Slg. Bazelli receives all the callers of I,a Tetrazzini, even though they be her relatives or intimate friends. He opens all her letters and answers those that In his estimation are worthy of response. He answers her telephone-arid speaks Im patient, authoritative English to all in quirers for the well guarded, hedged about diva, who six months ago was only known as a plump and prattling prlma donna in second class musical centers. In the early days of his ascendancy over the prlma donna the man whom many insist is a Svengali always sang with her. He sang Borneo and Alfredo, Faust and all the other parts which fur nish tenors, love songs and opportunities to stand close by and gaze Into the so prano's eyes. Du Maurier. describing Svengall's in fluence over Trilby, wrote: "And then he turned his attention to Trilby and told her—the tone deaf, whose singing at that lime was ‘too funny for laughter,’ as ‘some things are too sad and too deep for tears'—and you shall see nothing, hear nothing, think of nothing but Svengali, Svengali, Svengali!" And Trlbly shuddered and said: "He reminds me of a big, hungry spider, and makes me feel like a fly!'' A Wife in Bondage. Tit-Bits: He was that rare and great jy-to-be-admired person, a real live duke, and he holds sway over many workers. To give him his due. he is a good master, and for the most part I his kindness is greatly appreciated by his retainers. But Boh Willet is a laborer with dem ocratic proclivities and marked distaste ! for work, and recently his ducal master determined that one thing to do with Bob was to dismiss him. Whereupon he did so, and Bob came to the conclu sion that the tli^e had now arrived when the pride of the peerage should | be humbled. The difficulty was to think of something sufficiently biting, for the I duke was a good master, as has been i | remarked. Then an inspiration flashed 1 j on Bob. The duke's duchess had been i , appointed a Iadv-in-waiting to the i ■ queen, and this was Bob's opportu-.ity. ' "All right, yer grace,” he said, "I'll I go. But I'll take heart to say this: Though I'm a poor man, I've never had 1 j to send my missus out to service, ami i that’s more'n some people can say." I A TEMPERANCE WORKER. Says Pe-ru-na is a Valuable Nerve and Blood Remedy. MISS BESSIE FARRELL MISS 3 ESS IE FARRELL. 1011 'Third Ave., Brooklyn, N. Y., is Pres ident of the Young People’s Christian Temperance Association. She writes: “Penroa is certainly a valuable nerve and blood remedy, calculated to build up the broken-down health of worn-out women. I have found by personal ex perience that it acts as a wonderful re storer of lost strength, assisting the stomach to assimilate and digest the food, and building up worn-out tissues. Jn my work I have had occasion to recommend ft freely, especially to women. “I know of nothing which is better to build up the strength of a young mother, in fact all the ailments peculiar to women, so T am pleased to give it my hearty endorsement.” Dr. Hartman has prescribed Peruna for many thousand women, and he never fails to receive a multitude of letters like the above, thanking him for the wonderful benefits received. Man-a-Lin the Ideal Laxative. Just That; Dinks—You should lay up somethin* for a rainy day, old man. Winks—A rainy day doesn’t bother me. What I want is enough surplus to enable me to face a few cold waves. Johnny's Little Joke. Johnny—George Washington wuz er great man. de fader of his country an’ all dat, hut jest de same yer kin bet. yer sweet life I’m glad I w’uzn’t him. Tommy—Why not ? Johnny—’Cause lie’s dead. WE PAY HIGH PRICES FOR FUR* and hides, or tan them for robes, rugs or coats. N.W.Hide & Fur Co., Minneapolis. Holy Tea. Bellman: A young Englishman with a title and a healthy appetite recently went to spend a f<?w days at a monast ery In Switzerland. By chance he ar rived on a Friday, when the fare was especially frugal. He had little to eat that day and went to bed hungry. Dur ing the night, as is their custom, one of the fathers went to the cells with a benediction, “The Lord be with you.” which, of course, he said in Latin. When he came to the door of the vis itor’s cell he knocked and said, “Dom inus tecum!” “Who’s there?” cried the young Englishman. 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