Nebraska Newspapers

    j The Crime of C"«F-"
the Boulevard
ce —m ——— —MMWBP—
CHAPTER XV.
And now, after having accused Dan
'tn of lying, believing that he was act
ing a comedy, after smiling disdain
fully at that common invention—a vow
which one could not break—the per
ception of a possibility entered the
magistrate's mind .that this man might
be sincere. Hitherto he had closed his
heart against sympathy for this man.
iThey had met in mutual hostility.
The manner in which Jacques Dan
tin approached the question, the reso
lution with which ho spoke, no longer
resembled the obstinate attitude which
he laid before assumed in this same
room.
Reflection, tho prison—the cell, with
out doubt—a frightful and stilling cell
—had done its work. The man who
had been excited to the point of not
•peaking now wished to tell all.
“Yes,” he said, “since nothing has
happened to convince you that I am
hot lying.”
“I am listening to you, said the
magistrate.
Then in a long, close conference
Jacques Dantin told M. Ginory his
•tory. He related how from early
youth he and Rovere had been closo
friends; of the warm affection which
had always existed between them; of
the shams and deceptions of which he
had been guilty; of the bitterness of
his ruined life; of an existence which
ought to have been beautiful, and
which, so useless, tho life of a vlveur,
had almost made him—why?—how?—
thr< ugh need of money and a lack of
moral sense, descend to crime.
This Rovere, whom he was accused
of killing, he lcvod, and, to tell the
truth, In that strange and troublous ex
istence which he had lived Rovere had
been tho only 'rue friend whom he had
known. Rovere, a sort of pessimistic
philosopher, a recluse, lycanthropic,
after a life spent in feasting, having
■surfeited himself with pleasure, recog
nized also In bin last years that disin
forested affection is rare in this world
and his savage misanthropy softened
before Jacques Bautin's warm friend
ship. He continued to search for in what
Is called pleasure and what as one's hair
whitens becomes vice, in play, in the
uproad of Paris, forgetfulness of life, of
the dull life of a man growing old,
alone, without home or family, an old,
•tupld fellow, whom the young people
look at with hate and say to each other,
•Why Is he still here?' Rovere more
and more felt tho need of withdraw
ing into solitude, thinking over his
adventurous life, as bad and as ruined
as mine, and he wished to see no one—
a wolf, a wild boar In his lair. Can you
understand this friendship between
two old fellows, one of whom tried In
every way to direct his thoughts from
blmself and the other waiting death In
a cornqr of his fireside, solitary, un
sociable}.'’
' Perfectly. Go on.”
And the magistrate, with eyes rivet
ed upon Jacques Bautin, saw this man,
excited, making light of this recital of
the past, evoking remembrances of for
Jrotten events, of this lost affection—
ost, as all his life was.
"This is not a conference. Is It not
eo? You no longer believe that It is a
comedy? I loved Rovere. Life had
(often separated us. He searched for
'fortune at the other end of the world.
I made a mess of mine and ate It in
Paris. But we always kept up our re
lations, and when he returned to
■Franco we were happy in again seeing
•each other. The grayer turned tho
buir, tho more tender the heart became.
( had always found hint morose—from
his twentieth year he always dragged
after him a sinister companion—ennui.
He had chosen a consular career, to
live far away and in a fashion not at
■all like ours. I have often laughingly
<oaid to him that he probably had met
■with unrequited love; that ho had ex
perienced some unhappy passion. He
said no! I feigned to believe It. One
Is not somber and melancholy like that
without some secret grief. After all,
■there are others who do not feel any
igayer with a smile on the Ups. Sad
HesfS Tsh'6 sfgll. Neither Is gayety!”
1 VSls face took on a weary, melan
choly expression, which at first aston
ished the magistrate; then he experi
enced a feeling of pity. He listened,
eilent and grave.
"I will pass over all the details of
our life, shall 1 not? My monologue
would bo too long. The years of youth
{■assed with a rapidity truly astonish
ng. We como to tho time when we
found ourselves—he, weary of life, es
■iablished In his chosen apartments In
the Boulevard de Cllchy, with his
paintings and books, sitting In front of
his fire and awaiting death, I continu
ing to spur myself on like a foundered
horse. Rovere moralized to me. I
Jeered at his sermons, and I went to sit
bv his fireside and talk over the past.
One of his joys had been this portrait
of me, painted by Paul Baudry. He
tiad hung It up in Ills salon, at the
corner of tho chimney piece, at the left,
and he often said to me:
“ 'Bost thou know that when thou
are not here I talk to It?’
“I was not there very orton. Pari
sian life draws us by its thousand at
tractions. The days which seem In
terminable when one is 20 rush by as
on wings when one is 00. One has
not even time to stop to see the friends
one loves. At the last moment, if one
Is right, one ought to say: llow 1
have cast to the winds everything pro
clous which life has given me. How
foolish I have been—how stupid.’ Pay
no attention to my plillosophims—the
cell. Mazas forces one to think.
"Ono day—it was one morning—on
returning from the club where I had
passed the night stupidly losing sums
which would have given Joy to hun
dreds of families, I found on my desk
a message from Rovere. If one would
look through my papers, one would
find it there. I kept it. Rovere begged
me to come to him immediately. I
Bhivered—a sharp presentiment of
death struck me. The writing was
■trembling, unlike his own. I struck
my forehead In anger. This message
had been waiting for me since the
night before, while 1 was spending the
hours in gambling. If. when I hurried
toward the Boulevard de Olichy, I had
found Rovere dead on my arrival, 1
could not, believe me, have experienced
greater despair. His assassination
seemed to me atrocious, but I was at
least able to assure him that his friend
ship was returned. I hastily read the
telegram, threw myself into a fiacre
end hastened to his apartments. The
woman who acted as housekeeper for
him, Mme. Moniche, the portress, rais
ing her arms as she opened the door
Cor me, said:
" ‘Ah, monsieur, but monsieur has
waited for you. He lias repeated your
name all night. He nearly died, but ho
Is better now.’
‘‘Rovere, sitting the night before by
IMs fire, hail been stricken by lateral
paralysis, and as soon as lie could hold
a. pen, In spite of the orders of the phy
sician who had been quickly called, had
•written and sent the message to me
some hours before.
’’As soon as he saw me he—the strong
ttiao, the mad misanthrope, silent and
somber—held mo In his arms and burst
Into tears. His embrace was that of a
man who concentrates in one being all
that remains of hope.
" ‘Thou—thou arc here," he said in a
low tone. ‘If thou kneweSt!'
"I was moved to the depths of my
heart. That manly face, usually so en
! ergetlc, wore an expression of terror
; which was In some way almost child
j lsh, a timorous fright. The tears rose
in his eyes.
1 " ‘Oil, how I have walled for thee,
j how I have longed for thee!’
"He repeated this phrase with anx
ious obstinacy. Then he seemed to bo
suffocating. Emotion! The sight of
me recalled to him the long agony of
that night when he thought that h<v
was about to die without parting with
me for the last time.
" ‘Eor what I have to tell thee' —
"He shook Ills head.
‘ ‘It Is the secret of my life’
"Ho was lying on a sort of sick chair
or lounge in the library where he
passed ills last days with his books.
He made mo sit down beside him. He
took my hand and said:
" 'I am going to die. I believed that
the end had come last night. I called
thee. Oh, well, If I had died there Is
one being In the world who would not
have had the fortune which—I have’—
“He lowered his voice as If he
thought we were spied upon, as if
someone could hear.
" ‘I have a daughter. Yes, even from
thee 1 have hidden this secret, which
tortures me. A daughter who loves me
and who has not the right to confess
this tenderness no more than I have
the right to give her my name. Ah,
our youth, sad youth! I might have
had a homo today, a fireside of my own,
a dear one near me, and instead of that
an affection of which I am ashamed
and which I havo hidden even from
thee, Jacques—from thee, dost thou
comprehend?’
‘‘I remember each of Rovere’s words
as If I was hearing them now This
conversation with my poor friend is
among the most poignant yet most pre
cious of my remembrances. With much
emotion, which distressed mo, the poor
man revealed tp mo tlio secret which he
had believed it his duty to hide from
me so many years, and I vowed to him
—I swore to him on my honor, and that
Is why I hesitated to speak or rather
refused to speak, not wishing to com
promise anyone, neither the dead nor
living—I swore to him, M. le Juge, to
repeat nothing of what he told mu to
anyone, to anyone but to her"—
"Her?” interrogated M. Glnory.
"His daughter,” Dantin replied.
The examining magistrate recalled
that visitor in black who had been seen
occasionally at Rovere’s apartments
and tlie little romance of which Paul
Rodler had written in his paper—the
romance of the woman in black.
"And this dnugliter?"
“She bears," said Dantin, with a dis
couraged gesture, "the name of the
father which the law gives her, and
this name is a great naipo, an illus
trious name, that of a retired general
officer living in one of the provinces, a
widower, and who adores the girl who
Is another man's child. The mother is
dead. The father has never been
known. When dying, the mother re
vealed the secret to the daughter. She
came, by command of the dead, to see
Rovcre, but us a sister of charity,
faithful to the namo which she bears.
She does not wish to many. She will
never leave the crippled old soldier
who calls her his daughter und who
adores her.”
"Oh!” said M. Ginory, remaining
mute a moment before this very simple
drama, and In which, in that moment
of reflection he comprehended, he an
alyzed, nearly all of the hidden griefs,
the secret tears, the stifled sobs, the
stolen kisses. “And that is why you
kept silent?" he asked.
“Yes, monsieur. Oh, but I could not
endure the torture any longer, and not
seeing the expected release any nearer
I would have spoken—I would have
spoken to escape that cell, tiiat sense
of suffocation, I endured there. It
seemed to me, however, tiiat I owed it
to my dead friend not to reveal ids se
cret to anyone, not even to you. I shall
never forget Rovere’s Joy when, re
lieved of the burden by the confidence
which he had reposed in mo, he said
to me that, now that she who was his
daughter and was poor, living at Rlois
only on the pension of a retired officer
to whom she had appointed herself
nurse, knowing that she was not his
daughter, tills innocen child, who has
paying with a life of devotion for the
sins of two guilty ones, would at least
have happiness at last.
“ 'She Is young, and the one for whom
she cares cannot live always. My for
tune will give her a dowry. And then!’
It was to me to whom ho confided
this fortune. He had very little money
with his notary. Erratic and distrust
ful, Rovere kept his valuables In his
safe, ns he kept ids books in ids library.
It seemed that he was a collector, pick
ing up all kinds of things. Avaricious?
No, but he wished to have about idm,
under Ids hand, everything which be
longed to him. He possibly may have
wished to give what lie had directly to
tlio one whom it seemed good to him
to give it and confide It to me in
trust.
“I regret not having asked him di
rectly that day what lie counted on do
ing with his fortune and how he in
tended enriching ids child whom he
had not tile right to recognize. I dared
not, or, rather, I did not, think of it.
I experienced a strong emotion when I
saw my friend enfeebled and almost
dying. [ had known him so different,
so handsomo. Oh, those poor, sad,
restless eyes, that lowered voice, as it
he feared an enemy was listening! Ill
ness had quickly, brutally changed that
vigorous man, suddenly old and timor
ous.
“I went away (from that first inter
view much distressed, carrying a se
cret which seemed to me a heavy and
cruel one and which made mo think of
the uselessness, the wickedness, the !
vain loves of a ruined life. l>ut I felt
that Rovere owed truly his fortune to
that girl who, the next day after the
death of the one whom she had
piously attended, found herself poor
and isolated in a little house in a steep
street, near the chateau, above HU.Is,
I felt that whatever lids unknown fa
ther left ought not to go to distant
relatives, who eared nothing for him.
did not even know him, were ignor
ant of ills sufferings and perhaps oven
of his existence and who by law would
inherit.
"A dying man, yes! There could lie
no question about it, and Dr. Vilamlry,
whom I begged to accompany me to see
my friend, did net hide it from me.
i Rovere was dying of a kidney difficulty
j which had made rapid progress.
“It was necessary, then, since he was
i not alone in the world, that he should
think of the one of whim lie had spoken
and whom he loved.
“ ‘For I love her, that child whom I
have no right to name. 1 love her. She
Is good, tender, amiable. If I did not
see that she resembled me—for she
decs resemble me—I should tell thee
that she was beautiful. I would be
‘imjv., ! uttqanu'joiv jofuiv ..‘upuiOjW..
proud to cry aloud, "Tills Is my daugh
ter!” To pron made with her on my
arm—and 1 must hide this secret from
all the world. That is my torture. And
it is the chastisement of all that has
not boon right in my life. Ail, sad, un
happy loves!' That same malediction
for the past came to his lips as It had
come to his thoughts. The old work
man, burdened with labor throughout
the week, who could promenade on the
Boulevard de Cllchy on Sunday, with
his daughter on his arm, was happier
than Itovero. And—a strange thing,
sentiment of shame and remorse—feel
ing himself traveling fast to his last
resting place in the cemetery, he ex
pressed no wish to see that child, to
send for her to come to Blois under
some pretext or other, easy enough to
find.
"No, he experienced a fierce desire
for solitude, he shrank from an inter
view in which ho feared all his grief
would rush to Ills lips in a torrent of
words He feared for himself, for hts
weakness, for the strange feeling he
experienced In his head.
" ‘It seems as if It oscillated upon
my shoulders,' he said. ‘If Marthe
came’—and he repeated the name as a
child would have pronounced it who
was just learning to name the letters
of a word—'I would give her but the
sad spectacle of a broken down man
and leave on her mind only the impres
sion of a human ruin. And then—and
then—not to see her, not to have the
right to see her, that is all right—it is
my chastisement.'
"Bet It be so. I understood. I feared
that an Interview would be mortal; he
had been so terribly agitated when he
had seht for me that other time.
"But I at least wished to recall to
him his former wish which he had ex
pressed of providing for the girl’s fu
ture. I desired that he should make up
for the past, since money Is one of the
forms of reparation. But I dared not
speak to him again In regard to It or of
that trust of which he had spoken.
"He said to me, this strong man
whom death had never frightened and
whom he had braved many times, he
said to me now, weakened by this ill
ness which was killing him hour by
hour:
“ 'If I know that my end was near, I
would decide. But I have time,'
"Time! Each day brought him a lit
tle nearer to that life about which I
feared to say to him, 'The time has
come.’ The fear, in urging him to a
last resolution, of seeming like an exe
cutioner whose presence seemed to say
‘Today is the day,’ prevented me. You
understand, monsieur? And why not?
I ought to wait no longer. Hovere’s
confidence had made of me a second
Rovere who possessed the strength and
force of will which the first one now
lacked. I felt that I held in my hands,
so to speak, Marthe’s fate. I did not
know her, but I looked upon her as a
martyr in her vocation of nurse to the
old paralytic to whom she was paying,
in love, the debt of the dead wife. I
said to myself: ’It is to me, to me
alone, that Rovere must give instruc
tions of what he wishes to leave to his
daughter, and it Is for me to urge him
to do this. It Is for me to brace his
weakened will.’ I was resolved. It
was a duty. Each day the unhappy
man’s strength failed. I saw it—this
hunvan ruin. One morning, when I
went to his apartments, I found him in
a singular stute of terror.. He related
me a story, I knew' not what, of a
thief, whose victim he was. The lock of
his door had been forced, his safe
opened. Then suddenly, interrupting
lltmself, he began to laugh—a feeble
laugh, which made me ill.
” ’I am a fool,' he said. ‘I am dream
ing awake. I continue in the daytime
the nightmares of the night. A thief
here! No one has come. Mme. Moniche
has watched. But my head is so weak,
so weak! I have known so many ras
cals in my life. Rascals always return,
liein!’
"He made a. sad attempt at a laugh.
"It was delirium—a delirium which
soon passed away, but which frightened
mo. It returned with increased force
each day and at shorter Intervals.
"Well, I said to myself, during a
lucid interview, ‘He must do what ho
has resolved to do, what he had willed
to do, what he wishes to do!’ And I
decided—it was the night before the as
sassination—to bring him to the point,
to aid his hesitation. I found him
calmer that day. He was lying on his
lounge, enveloped in his dressing gown,
with a traveling rug thrown across his
thin legs. With his back skull cap and
his grayish beard he looked like a dying
doge.
"He held out his bony hand to me,
giving mo a sad smile, and said that he
felt better, a period of remission in
his disease, a feeling of comfort, per
vading his general condition.
(Continued Next Week.)
Mary’s Acomplishments.
From Tit-Bits.
Mrs. B.—I suppose you find your
daughter very much improved by her
two years’ stay at college?
Mrs. Proudmother—Ea! yes. Mary
Elizabeth is a carnivorous reader now.
and sho frequently impoverishes mu-;
sic. But she ain’t a bit stuck-up—she's
unanimous to everybody, an’ she never
keeps a caller waitin’ for her to dress;
she just runs in nom de plume, an’ you
know that makes one feel so comfort
able.—Tit-Bits.
Meant to Be Funny.
From Eife.
"Yes, It must be a terrible thing to go
through life without your limb, but you
must remember it will be restored to
you in the next world.’’
"I know it will be, mum, but dat
don’t encourage me, fer it wuz cut oft
when I wuz a baby an’ it won’t come
widin a couple of foot of de ground.”
The Knowledge That Hurts.
From the Catholic Standard and Times.
Towne—So Dnmley married a col
lege woman. My, it must be fierce
for him to be tied to a woman who
knows so much that he doesn’t know!
Browne—Oh, that doesn't hurt him
so much ns the fact that she knows
"how” much he doesn't know.
WIIY THEY DON'T SPEAK NOW
Mies Brown—Heah am de engagement
i band dat Mose put on niah Anger. Kt
| aartlnly do attract a lot of attention.
I Miss Black—Kt ought to. Brass bands
| always attract attention.
THIS BRIDE’S LACE WORN B Y
ANCESTOR MANY YEARS AGO
™ W&S.XG&e&T J*. T&OTIAjS.
New York, Special: Few brides, If
ever another, have it to say that the
lace on their gowns was worn by tlielr
ancestors 260 years ago. This distinc
tion belongs to Miss Margaret de G.
Hiss, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Phillip
G. Hiss, who was niarired to Mr. Rob
ert McKean Thomas In the Church of
the Ascension. This lace is of a variety
of the rose point and Venetian, and at
the time it was worn at the marriage
of Miss Hiss' relatives in New York in
1600 was known only as lace. Her
veil was of the same lace, and it was
fastened with orange blossoms. Her
bouquet was of lillies of the valley, and
she wore a gift of the bridegroom, a
pendant of diamonds.
Miss Hilda R. Hiss, a sister, was the
bride’s only attendant. Mr. George C.
Thomas, of Elizabeth, N. J., was his
brother’s best man.
Mr. and Mrs. Thomas have planned
a long trip in the south, and will spend
the winter on a houseboat in the James
river.
HINTS ON LETTERWRITING.
Love letters, business letters, ordi
nary letters. These are the three heads
under which letters will obviously fall.
With regard to the first, there is no
need to say more than that if they are
acceptable they will never be criticised.
Always write naturally, as you would
apeak.
But it is the ordinary everyday let
ter that needs attention, the letter
passing from friend to friend. Such a
letter has often altered a whole life,
changed the face of the world.
Never aim at literary effect. This
may please yourself, but will have no
chance of pleasing your friend.
Avoid self consciousness, and do not
try to dress your thoughts in a new
fashion.
Create the impression of heartiness,
and a keen interest In your friends’
welfare. Above all, study neatness.
Nothing leaves a more marked Impres
sion than a blotted and slipshod letter.
It stamps the nature of a woman, and,
to my mind, takes away all the charm
of the maybe clever and elegant letter.
VELVETEEN IN VOGUE.
Velveteen is having a greater vogue
than ever this season, and the reason
is not far to seek, for It is one of the
most artistic of fabrics and it can be
dyed in shades that even the richest
silk velvet or expensive woolen fabrics
will not take. Among the most attract
ive novelties Is a lovely periwinkle blue,
which is as effective by night as by
day, and equally charming in its way is
the new '’tourterelle" or turtledove, a
pinkish mauve shade. A delicate silver
gray and some rich mole shades will
make a splendid background for rich
furs, and there are some beautiful
brown and chestnut shades suitable for
outdoor wear.
Among the bright colors there is a
brilliant begonia pink and some rich
reds, while for evening cloaks, dresses
and tea gowns there are pale shades of
shell pink, green, eggshell blue, prim
rose yellow, white and cream, all with
the soft chiffon finish which makes
them drape gracefully.
EMBROIDERED STOCKINGS.
Why not embroider a pair of stock
ings for one of your friends for Christ
mas? This is not a very difficult un
dertaking. It is only necessary' to out
line a tiny flower upon the stockings,
and this may be done by the use of
transfer paper or by the regular
stamping process. It is always wise
when embroidering stockings to use a
very fine needle and very fine thread
and to do the work over a darning egg.
The stocking should be held very tight.
otherwise when it is put on it will tear
round the embroidery. The design
should be placed at the bend of the
ankle, in a straight line with the re
inforcement in the heel. Be very sure,
however, to see that it is directly in
the middle of the stocking and not
toward one side. If a design is too dif
ficult to handle, why not embroider
tho initial? The best color to use is
blue or pink. Red is somewhat too
startling, and. unless the girl who is to
receive the gift wears a great deal of
yellow, she will not find even a pair
of stockings thus decorated very use
ful. _ _
TIME TABLE FOR BROILING MEAT
Bacon, four to eight minutes. Birds,
six to eight minutes. Chicken, 15 min
utes per pound. Chops, six to eight
minutes. Small, thin fish, five to eight
minutes. Thick fish, 12 to 15 minutes.
Liver, four to eight minutes. Squab,
10 to 15 minutes. Steak, one. inch thick,
six to eight minutes. Steak, one and a
half inches thick, eight to 10 minutes.
Tripe, four to eight minutes.
MADRAS FOR SHIRTS.
The girl who must have severhl
white wash waists during the season
will find the new white cotton madras
a good choice. It saves laundry bills,
for it docs not need ironing.
It sells at a small price per yard and
wears better than muslin.
Shirt waists of it should be made up
on simple lines, with fiat plaits and
separate collar.
Stocks may be worn with it, with
high ruchings at top and a full bow
in front. Or wide turnover collars with
a fancy butterfly bow in the center.
TRIFLES WORTH KNOWING.
Clear soup or consomme should be
strained through a folded towel laid on
a colander. It must not be squeezed or
some of the small particles of egg used
in clearing will be forced through and
spoil it.
Ammonia should not be used in the
evening or near a fire, nor should the
bottle be allowed to remain uncorked.
It is inflammable, and its fumes are not
specially healthful.
If fresh fish is to be kept over night
it should be salted and laid on an
earthen dish, not placed on a board or
shelf.
Covering the pan when fish is frying
Is apt to make the flesh soft. A solid,
firm meat, that is at the same time
flakey, is what the good cook likes.
If a lamp wick does not move easily
in the holder, draw out one or two
threads from one side.
A UKKAT DlSl'LA*.
Harry—Mi's. Grand has a great many diamonds, hasn’t shat
Dorothy—1 should say sol Before she goes to the opera she tends for a window
, dresses
“Then You’ll Remember Me.”
From the Washington Star. |
I George W. Coleman, the noted sociol
ogist, discussed during the regent so
ciologist conference at Sagamore beach
tips and tipping.
"I have a friend,” so Mr. C oleman
concluded, “who belongs to an anti
tipping association. My friend, ^ n
obeying the rules of his society, has
many quaint eyneriences.
"He went traveling in the west in
the spring. He dintd one night in a
fashionable western restaurant and
after paying his bill he gathered up
the change that had been brought him
upon a silver plate and dropped it into
ihis waistcoat pocket.
"As he rose to depart the waiter said
in a low, appealing voice:
" 'Surely you won’t forget me, sir.
‘‘‘No, no,' paid my friend: 'I’ll write
to you.’ "—Washington Star.
1 Didn't Care for a Pitchers’ Battle.
Rooter—It was a great game. Neithei
side could make a run.
Grunter—That kind of a game wouldn't
suit me. 1 want to get a run for iny
money.
An artillery lieutenant in Kraguye.
vats, Servia, has been sentenced to 21
days' imprisonment for compelling a
recruit to undergo the most cruel in-»
dignity in Servian eyes. This consisted
in making him shave His mustache.
Austria's government has brought
forward a bill in the chamber ol
deputies making insurance against ill
ness and old age compulsory on all
workmen and domestics and those em
ployes whose annual income does not
exceed $500.
Stat* op Ohio, Citt op Tolkdo, i gg
Lucas County. i
Frank J. Cheney makes oath that he R
aenlor partner of the firm of F. J. Cheney 8
Co., doing business In the City of Toledo,
County and State aforesaid, and that said
firm will pay the sum of ONE HUNDRED
DOLLARS for each and every case of Ca
tarrh that cannot be cured by the use oi
Hall’s Catarrh Cure. FRANK J. CHENEY.
Sworn to before me and subscribed In my
presence, this Oth day of December, A. O,
1888.
(Seal) A. W. GLEASON,
Notaky Public.
Hall's Catarrh Cure Is taken Internally,
and acts directly on the blood and mueout
surfaces of the system. Send for testimo
nials free.
F. J. CHENEY & CO.. Toledo, O.
Sold by all Druggists, 75c.
Take Hall’s Family Pills for constipation
Italian Revenge.
This Is a story of Italran revenge. A
vendor of plaster statuettes saw a
chance for a sale In a well-dressed,
bibulous man who was tacking down
the street.
"You buy-a de statuette?" he asked,
alluringly holding out his choicest of
fering. ’’Gar-r-rl-baldi—I eell-a him
verra cheap. De gr-reat-a Gar-r-rl
baldi—only 39 cents:"
“Oh, t’ell with Garibaldi,” said th«
bibulous one, making a swipe with hl»
arm that sent Garibaldi crashing to tht
sidewalk.
For a moment the Italian regarded
the fragments. Then, his eyes flashing
Are, he seized from his stock a statu
ette of George Washington. "You t’ell-a
with my Gar-r-rl-baldi?” he hissed be
tween his teeth. "So.” He raised the
Immortal George high above his head
and—crash! It flew Into fragments
alongside of the Ill-fated Garibaldi,
"Ha! I to hell-a wld your George
Wash! Ha ha!"
Wanted to Be Peaceful.
Mrs. Henry Farman, the wife of th«
noted aeronaut, said in an Interview Id
New York:
"What I particularly like about you
Americans Is your naivete. Thle
naivete often makes selfish traits seem
quite charming. For Instance:
”1 lunched the other day with a
Brooklyn woman. After luncheon, as
we took our coffee In the drawing room,
my hostess' son, a little lad In white,
came In.
“He talked to me politely for a whlla
then he crossed the room to hl»
mother.
" ‘Ma,’ he said In his little hard, nasal
voice, ‘did you buy Harold a birth da j
present when you were out this morn
ing?”
" ‘Yes, dear.’ said his mother.
“ ‘And, ina,’ he went on, ’what dl<
you buy to pacify me 'cause it aln’i
my birthday?’’’
HER MOTHER-IN-LAW
Proved a Wlaa, Good Prlexkd.
A young woman out In Iowa found •
wise, good friend In her mother-in-law,
jokes notwithstanding. She writes:
“It is two years since we began using
Posturn in our house. I was greatly
troubled with my stomach, complexion
was blotchy and yellow. After meal*
I often suffered sharp pains and would
have to lie down. My mother often told
me It was the coffee I drank at meal*.
But when I’d quit coffee I'd have *
severe headache.
“While visiting my mother-in-law l
remarked that she always made such
good coffee, and asked her, to tell m«
how. She laughed and told me It wa*
easy to make good ‘coffee’ when you us*
Posturn.
“I began to use Posturn rs soon a*
I got home, and now we have the sarn*
good ‘coffee’ (Posturn) every (lay, and
I have no more trouble. Indigestion I*
a thing of the past, and my complexion
has cleared up beautifully.
“My grandmother suffered a great
deal with her stomach. Her doctor told
her to leave off coffee. She then took
tea, but that was just as bad.
“She finally was induced to try
Posturn, which she has used for over a
year. She traveled during the winter
over the greater part of Iowa, visiting,
something she had not been able to do
for years. She says she owes her pres
ent good health to Posturn."
Name given by Posturn Co.. Battl*
Creek. Mich. Bend “The Road to Well,
viile,’’ In pkgs. "There’s a Reason.”
Ever read the above letter? A
new one appears from time to
time. They are genuine, true, and
full of human interest.