H DIFFERENCE IN
THE JNVESIMENT
The Western Canada Farm Prof*
its Are Away in Excess.
Sir. dowjje H. Barr, of Iowa, holds
seven sections of land in Saskatche
wan. These he has fenced and rent
ed, either for posture or cultivation,
all paying good interest on the invest
ment
Mr. Burr says that farm land at
home in Iowa is held at $150 per acre.
Those hinds are in a high state of cul
tivation, with splendid Improvements
in bouses, barns, stnbles nnd silos, and
yet the revenue returns from them are
only h-om two to three per cent per
annum or investment.
Last year, 1915, his half share of
?rop on a quarter section in Saskatche
wan, wheat on new breaking, gave him
36 par oent on the capital invested—
$25.00 an acre. The crop yield was
35 bushels per acre. Tills year the
same quarter-section, sown to Bod
Fife on stubble gave 3,286 bushels. IBs
sham, 1,643 bushels of 1 Northern at
$1.66 per bushel, gave him $2,563.08.
Seed, half the twine and half the
th re Hiring bill cost him $453.00. Allow
ng a share of the expense of his an
nual Inspection trip, charged to this
qunster-eection even to $110.00, and he
has left $2,000.00, tlmt Is 50 per cent
of the original cost of the hind. Any
one con figure tip that another aver
age «rop will pay, not 2 or 3 per cent
on Investment, ns in Iowa, but the
total price of the land. Mr. Barr says:
“That’s no Joke now.”
Mm Pore wnc 1 natfiirnontfil in lirlnf*.
lag a number of farmers from Iowa to
Saskatchewan In 1913. He referred to
one of thorn. Geo. H. Kerton, a tenant
farmer in Iowa. He bought a qunrter
section of Improved land at $32.00 an
aero neor Hanley. From proceeds of
crop In 1914, 1915, 1910, he has paid
for tb« land. Mr. Bnrr asked him a
week ago: "Well, George, whnt shall
I tell friends down home for you?"
1*e reply was: "Tell them I shall
never go bock to be a tenant for any
nan.” Another man, Charles Hnlght,
realised $18,000 In cash for his wheat
crops in 1915 and 1918.
Mr. Barr when nt home devotes
moot ef his time to raising and deal
tag in live stock. On his first visit of
Inspection to Saskatchewan, he real
ised the opportunity there was here
for graving cattle. So his quarter
sections, not occupied, were fenced
and rented ns pnsture lands to farm
ers adjoining. His creed is: “Let na
ture supply the feed all summer while
cattle are growtng, and then In the
fall, take (hem to fnrmstends to be
finished for mnrket. There Is money
In If.”—Advertisement.
Stinging Retort.
'•hero was n grim, determined look
In little .Tones’ eye as he walked Into
the optician’s imposing premises.
“f want n pair of glasses immedi
ately I” he demanded. "Good, strong
ones!”
The assistant glanced significantly
til the door labeled “Sight-Testing
Koom,* anil switched on his best pro
fessional .ptnlle; then switched it off
again, constrained by little Jones' man
ner.
“Good, strong ones l1’ he Inquired.
"Vos; strong ones!” affirmed Jones.
"T was out In the country yesterday
and made a painful blunder."
“Ah!” The assistant rubbed his
hands together. "Mistook u stranger
for a friend, perhaps?”
"No." came the blunt rejoinder;
‘‘mistook a bee for a violet.”
No sick headache, sour stomach,
biliousness or constipation
by morning.
Get a 10-cent box now.
Turn the rascals out—the headache,
biliousness, Indigestion, the sick, sour
stomach and foul gases—turn them
out to-night und keep them out with
Oascarets.
Millions of men and women take a
Cascaret now and then and never
know the misery caused by a lazy
liver, clogged bowels or an upset stom
ach.
Don’t put In another day of distress,
Let Oascarets cleanse your stomach;
remove the sour fermenting food;
take the excess bile from your liver
and carry out all the constlpntec
waste matter and poison in the
bowels. Then you will feel great.
A Cascaret to-night straightens you
out by morning. They work white
you sleep. A 10-cent box from
any drug store means a clear head
sweet stomach anil clean, healthy livei
and bowel action fbr months. Chit
dren love Oascarets because they
never gripe or sicken. Adv.
Its Limit.
"Is there any limit to the scope "I
this submarine war?”
"Only the submarine's periscope.”
Garfield Tya, by purifying the blood
eradinaK-s rheumatism, dyspepsia ami
many chronic ailments. Adv.
A two-wheeled automobile (bat ir
balanced by a gyroscope has been in
vented by u Russian engineer.
The Man Who Forgot
A NOVEL
i
By JAMES HAY, JR.
La-^-4
GARDEN CITY NEW YORK
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
1915
CHAPTEK EIGHT.—(Continued). .
“It was such a brutal thing to
do!” she exclaimed, “and so un
necessary, so inexcusable, so un
justifiable!”
“All of ns make mistakes,” he
said gently.
“1 did not know of it until this
morning,” she explained further,
shame for her fatbor's discourtesy
flushing her cheeks. “He told me
, at breakfast what he had done.”
I “I am sorry—sorry it has an
noyed you,” he assured her.
“I can’t understand,” she said,
“why he did it!” She added:
“Even if he disliked you, disap
proved of you, why couldn’t he
have made some allowance for—•
for the fact that I was your
friend'/”
“Perhaps,” he smiled, “that
was what he didn’t exactly like.”
When they had swung into the
road that!'follows southward along
the bank of the river, she stopped
the machine.
“I think I d like to walk down
there and stand on the edge of the
river,” she informed him. “Some
how, talking, real conversation, is
so very difficult in a machine.”
| They went down the sloping
bank, the long grass pulling at
their feet, and stood on the rocks
that riprapped the bank. Behind
them was the tall, wavy curtain of
the great willows. Before them
the river, slow and heavy, was
like dulled silver except when,
here and there, the breeze moved
it to catch the whitenss of the sun
light. Beyond the water were the
Virginia hills, all yellow and gold
and crimson, a light blue haze
hanging over them like a thin
veil. A freight train, bound south
ward, rattled across the long
bridge. And far down, below the
bridge, sounded a steamboat’s
whistle.
They seemed strangely alone,
unnaturally isolated from the rest
of the world.
I “What a lovely city it is!” he
said, voicing his enthusiasm. “And
what lovely places hedge it about!
It is the loveliest city in all the
world.”
I . i es, she agreed absently.
She was drawing off one of her
gloves, not knowing at all what
she did. She was regarding the
haze covered hills.
I “I wanted to tell you,” she be
gan, a little hesitant, “that I—
wanted to tell you with all the
earnestness of which I am capable
—that I always shall be—your
friend.”
He was unaccountably touched
by her manner.
I “You are very kind,” he said,
making a bow which, in spite of its
: apparent lightness of gesture,
' somehow emphasized his real feel
| ings.
“Oh!” she replied desperately,
| “it’s so easy to be kind !”
j “Not altogether, I think.’”
“But,” she continued, “I am
also very humble.”
I She drew her lower lip between
her teeth, and stood a moment,
j pulling slowly through her gloved
hand the glove she had taken off.
“Humble!” he exclaimed.
“Yes,” she said, her voice low
ered, “humble,”
i She turned to him abruptly,
dropping her hands to her sides
I so that she faced him, willowy
straight, her eyes soft and glowing
with the golden sunlight that fell
full upon her face. Her lips
trembled.
“1 know! I know now!” she
said.
Involuntarily, he took one step
backward, away from her.
“Know what?” he asked, won
dering.
She was pressing her lips to
gether now, to imprison sobs.
“It was so foolish of me not to
have known the other day!” she
reproached herself. “You cannot
teil me who you are because you
don't know.”
Her eyes were a mandate that
he tell her the truth.
“That is true,” he said, inex
plicably calm. “ I do not know who
I am.”
He waited for her to speak and
saw that she could not.
“I should have told you when
you asked me,” he added^“l
should have known that you would
have understood.”
“ How foolish I was! How fool
. I
ish we all are!” she saul at last,]
trusting herself to speak. “Un-j
less tragedy is plainly labelled and
unless it cries aloud to us in the
streets, we never see it. We never
remember that all tragedies are
clothed in commonplace.”
“Don’t! don’t!” he begged. “I
cannot endure to 3ee you grieved.”
“Rut you are so brave,” she ex
cused herself anew. “You laugh,
and work, and do great things—I
—I never suspected.”
He held out his hand as if he
supplicated her.
“Please,” he implored, “do not
—this little trouble of mine should
not—should not distress you so.”
“Ah,” she siged, “but it does.”
He felt his helplessness keenly.
* “But it shouldn’t,” he urged.
“Why should it?”
Her eyes, meeting liis, were deep
and unafraid. His momentary
thought was that she was very
brave.
“Because you love me,” she
said, her glance still unwavering.
He smiled and bowed again,
reverence possessing him.
“Ah, you have seen'it!” he ob
served, lifting his head so that the
sunlight left no line of his face un
touched. As he spoke, there was a
gentle raillery in his tone. It was
like a delicate armor to enable
him to withstand her loveliness.
“But let me, in ray own justifica
tion, explain.”
“Ah,” she breathed, “tell me.”
“You have been to me,” he said,
the false levity lacing his words
together, “what any man’s con
science is to him, if he regards his
conscience as his king. That is
what you have been to me—some
thing enmeshed in the glamor of
the moon—a far glimpse of the
lovely flowers of paradise.”
“I should not have been that,”]
she interrupted quickly, reproach-1
ing him.
The tenderness m her eyes
throve.
“But to you I could have been
-” he began, more than ever
the graceful actor of a light com
edy. “Why, I was like a jester in
varicolored hose dancing on a bat
tlement, dizzy high, for the pass
ing pleasure of a lady of the
court. ’ ’
lie smiled and spread out his
hands in deprecation. The comedy
was weakening.
“You know,” ho reminded her,
“the clowns were always funnier
when they were maimed.”
“How can you?” she rebuked
him.
“It could not have been other
wise.” Rebellion against what he
had suffered forced him to serious
ness. “That is what l am—a jester,
a thing for all the world to laugh
at—the sport of fortune! Why, I
don’t even know my own name.
My blank past robs the future of
the promise of any good thing. I
cannot remember. My memory is
dead.”
“And you have never known—•
who you wore—since that night in
the mission—in my mission?”
Never—since then.”
She looked again toward the
hills. A touring ear whizzed along
the road behind them. The boat’s
whistle, far downstream, blew
again. Prom somewhere up the
river came the voices of fishermen
in a rowboat. The world was all
about them, but, to him, it had
shrivelled to the width of a
woman’s eyes.
“And drinking, dissipation.!
whatever you please to call it,”
she said, her gh\ce still toward the
hills, “did this thing to you?”
“It must have; I am persuaded
of that,” ho answered, bending
forward a little, as if his longing
impelled him.
She turned and took one step (
toward him. They were very close i
together. As they stood so, he;
caught the fragrance of her hair, j
“Why don’t you try to find it— |
this past?” she asked.
She spoke tin' language of reso- j
lateness.
“ I have tried to find it,” he an-;
swered, a tritle heavily. “I am try
ing. My life is an agony of ex
ploration. an anguish of disap
pointment. I have employed
agents, trusted men. I employ
them now. The absurdity of it!
They search the world to find out
who I am!”
“They will €od out! They
. ..1 --— _
must! ”
He stood and regarded her, wor
shipping the valor in her eyes.
“So far,” he said, “they have
proved only that I amounted to
nothing. Nowhere have they found
even the shadow of my vanished
personality.” Despair clouded his
face for a moment. “It seems in
credible that any human being
could have amounted to so little!”
Anxiety, something like indeci
sion, assailed her for the first time.
“And the effect of all this on
your work — here — now?” she!
asked, her lips uncertain again.
“Yon were right in what you
told me the last time I saw you,”
he admitted. “I know now they
will attack me—the lobbyists—on
the assumption that I have some
thing in my life to conceal.” He1
laughed lightly, without mirth.
“That, you know, is rather araus
ing.”
8he did not smile.
“And it will hurt the work?”
she persisted.
“I hope not,” he said. “There
is this to our advantage: it has
gone so far, this movement, that it
will keep on, no matter what hap
pens. ’ ’
She stood, leaning all her weight
on one foot, her position making it
seem that her shoulders stooped a
little. Her eys were still a ques
tion.
“I see n,ow,” he upbraided him
self, “how foolish, how tragically
foolish, I was in the beginning in
trying to run away from my trou
ble—my disgrace. Nobody asked
questions when I first began this
work. Who was I, that anybody
should bother? I was a nonde
script, a nonentity, circusing on
the street corners. Then, later,
when a few began to look up to
me, I told myself it did not mat
ter what I had been.”
“It didn’t, really,” she com-"
forted him. “People are forever
asking what a man has done. That
is now what matters. It is what
he is, what he wants to be. If they
would only understand that about
everybody!”
- -- «
went on, eager to make her under
stand, “I was ashamed of not be
ing like other people. And I tried
to hide my difference from them.
That was my great mistake. We
can’t hide anything we’ve ever
done, can we? We are today very
much what we did and thought
yesterday, and we will be tomor
row, in great part, what we do to
day.”
“Yes,” she assented, “each year
is beautified or made hideous by
the lengthening shadows of those
other years we have left behind.”
“So,” he forced again the rail
lery into his voice, “there is noth
ing more — nothing at all, is
there?”
“Is it too late now to stop hid
ing?” she put a final question.
He could see that she was fight
ing against her bewilderment, try
ing to beat down the doubts that
assailed her.
“Under the circumstances,
yes,” he declared, putting with
emphasis the result of all the
thought he had given the prob
lem. “Nobody would believe—no
body in all the world but you.”
She smiled sunnily.
“You will know—always—that
I do believe?”
“That knowledge,” he said
earnestly, “is to me like an order
of knighthood.”
She held out her hand and shook
his, manlike.
“Now,” she concluded, “let me
drive you back. Gracious! How
long we 've been! ’ ’
Her cheerfulness, however, was
assumed. It disappeared utterly
when she felt the trembling of the
hand which he put to her elbow as
she stepped into the machine. As
they rode, they were silent, or,
when they did speak, it was of in
consequential things. He felt that
there was nothing more to say.
There was nothing, he knew. That
■was his tragedy. There was noth
ing more she could say. That was
her grief.
In spite of his protestations, she
drove him to his office.
“Always,” she said, as he told
her good by, “you will know that
I believe.”
“Yes,” lie replied; “and always
you will know that I-”
He checked himself.
“Yes,” she said gently, the can
dor of her eyes like a benediction,
“I shall know—always.”
CHAPTER NINE.
Waller, languid and slow, on-'
tered the reception room of the j
offices occupied by the committee!
on amendments to the constitu-1
tion. Then, very deliberately and |
with great care, he removed His j
hat and held it, with his cane, in j
his left hand while he closed the
door.
It was a hobby of his that stupid
people were the most interesting
i
in fhe world.
“They have a secret,” he ex
plained, “something about them
mysterious, which, so far, nobody
has been able to analyze. Why
are they cheerful? Why are they
glad to live? What makes them
contented? Wrapped in dreary
ignorance, they enthrone them
selves on content and defy the
world. Why is it? It’s a pretty
little psychological problem which,
by careful study, I hope some day
to solve.”
He found himself now in a posi- '
tion to continue his studies. The
room was occupied by Miss Elsie
Downey, a stenographer. She 'was
blond, by birth, and of a perfect
complexion, by purchase. She had
blue eyes, like a doll’s, and she
overshot the height of fashion in
her dross. Her smile was eternal.
Her voice went into the nasal on
her high notes, and it was always
on a high note that she ended her
sentences.
“Blond headed, boneheaded and
garrulous—but good hearted,” he
had described her on a previous
occasion, and had added: “I won
der why she is good hearted. I
wish I knew.”
“Good afternoon, Miss Dow
ney,” he greeted her, going slowly
toward the typewriter desk at
which she sat. j
“How do you do, Mr. Waller!”
She made the response shoot up in
linquistic sound, like a ladder,
“Is that high minded, construct
ive statesman, Mr. Mannersley,
around—or any other noble de
fender of the grog shops?” he in
quired, swinging his cane and
smiling.
Miss Downey became indignant.
“You shouldn’t talk about Mr.
Manners]oy that way!” she ob- !
jected.
“You are a disappointment,
Miss Downey,” he sighed. “You,
too, spring hotly to the defense of
anybody who happens to be your
payroll.”
“Oh, Mr. Waller!” She turned
toward her notebook.
“ And Mr. Smith—has he been
in?” ,
C i ITT* r xr n S
VT lirtt, lVir. OUUIII f
“The only Mr. Smith in the
world—the somewhat energetic
gentleman who'll make the sky
lights of the House rattle before
he gets through.”
“Oh, that Mr. Smith!” Miss
Downey's enthusiasm broke her
record for staccato enunciation. i
“I’m just dying to see him. Madge
Atkins—she works down in Con
gressman Blore’s office, you know
—Madge says she’s seen him. She ,
says his shoulders are! just loves!” j
Waller balanced himself against I
his cane and looked at Miss Dow
ney in frank and open admiration.
“Will you,” he asked, “tell me
something?”
“Why, certainly, Mr. Waller!”
“Now, then, do you believe
life’s worth living?”
‘ ‘ Of course it is. ’5
“I thank you. If you have
found it so, it. must he so. T bow
to your superior judgment.” He
bowed almost to the floor. ‘ ‘ But
Mr. Mannerslcy—is he in?”
“Yes, he’s in, but he’s en
gaged.”
“Then I’ll wait.”
He took a chair at the table in
the center of the room. On his
right was the door leading into
Mannersley’s private office, and
on the left another opening into
the meeting room of the com- i
mittee. j
He addressed another question i
to Miss Downey.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, i
in his most winning tone, “but do
you drink?”
Oh, I take a cocktail whenever
1 go out to dinner, Mr. Waller.”
“You do?” His surprise seemed
immense. |
“Why certainly!” Her manner 1
would have been the same if she !
had slapped him on the wrist. i
“Why?”
“Oh, you know everybody i
thinks you ain’t exactly—well, !
swell, if you don’t do that!”
Cholliewollie looked at her in si- ,
lc.nce a few moments.
“I was right,” he assured her
solemnly. “Cve been right all
along. These whisky people who
say prohibition isn't worth any
thing because, while the. “dry”
territory grows, the per capita
consumption of alcohol increases,
have overlooked the real facts in
the situation. You see, now, the
women drink. Not so many years
ago only the men drank. I must
tell Smith about that.”
“All my girl friends drink —
when they go out,” she confided.
“It gives yon an appetite.”
“For what?” Cholliewollie, hav
ing asked the question without
due consideration, hastened to
say : “Never mind ! For the food,
of course.”
“Of course!” Miss Downey
stabbed his ears with the exclama
tion.
(Continued Next Week.)
FEVERISH, SICK'
Look, Mother! if tongue is
coated, give “California
Syrup of Figs.”
Children love this “fruit laxative,"
and nothing else cleanses the tender
stomach, liver and bowels so nicely.
A child simply will not stop playing
to empty the bowels, and the result is
they become tightly clogged with
waste, liver gets sluggish, stomach
sours, then your little one beoames
cross, half-sick, feverish, don’t eat,
sleep or act naturally, brent* is bad,
system full of cold, has sore throat,
stomach-ache or diarrhea. Listen,
Mother! See if tongue is coated, the*
give a tenspoonfid of “California
Syrup of Figs,” and in a few hours all
the constipated waste, sour bile and
undigested food passes out of the sys
tem, and you have a well child again.
Millions of mothers give “California
Syrup of Figs" because it is perfectly
harmless; children love it, and it nev
er falls to act an the stomach, liver
and bowels.
Ask at the store for a .r>0-eent bottle
of “California Syrup of Figs,” which
has full directions for babies, ddldren
of all ages and for grown-ups plainly
printed on the bottle. Adv.
Shining Example.
“The forehead in the case «f an in
tellectual man, and a slucBous ma*
especially, is likely to heighten after
thirty.” Ah, yes, of course. There is
the case of Robert Fitzsimmons, actor.
Dear old Bob! They say he is* tremen
dously studious. Studies for weeks
to commit to memory: "Strike Biis ten
der woman if you dare,” or some Qther
great line in the play.—LontsviHe Cou
rier-Journal.
ACTRESS TELLS SECRET.
X well known actress gives ttie follow
ing recipe for gTay hair: To half pSot of
water acid 1 oz. Bay Kura, a small box of
Barbo Compound, and % oz. of glycerine.
Any druggist can put this up or yon nan
mix it at home at very little oast Full
directions for making and use eorao in
each box of Barbo Compound. It will
gradually darken streaked, faded gray
hair, and make it soft and glossy. It Will
not color tho scalp, is not sfMcy or
greasy, and does not rub off. Adv.
Just for a Change.
“If I were writing :i piny in which
n wealthy married couple had the prin
cipal roles, do you know what I would
do?"
“What?" 1
“I would have them refer to t|ieir
courtship in Petrogrud, Constantinople
or Bucharest."
“But what’s the idea?"
"Oh, just to get away.from Yfnice
and Monte Carlo, where two-thirds of
the married couples on the stage seem
U> have met each other.”
CUTICURA IS SO SOOTHING
To Itching, Burning Skinc—It Not Only
Soothes, but Heals—Trial Free.
Treatment: Bathe the affected sur
face with Cutlcura «'••••;» red hot wa
ter, dry gentiy *, d apply Cutlcura
Ointment. Repeat morning and ntfiht.
This method affords Immediate relief,
and points to speedy healment. They
are ideal for every-day toilet uses.
Free sample each by mail with Book.
Address postcard, Cutlcura, Dept. R
Boston. Sold everywhere.—Adv.
Mixed Up.
Stella called on her newly married
friend Bella and found her attired id
a businesslike overall, while Iwr arms
were full of fashion papers him! cook
ery books.
“Hallo P she exclaimed. “What are
you going to make?”
"Some cakes," replied the young
wife, proudly.
“But why have you got those fash
ion papers as well as the cookery
books?”
"Yon see," confessed Bella, rather
shamefacedly. “I'm a bit. of a novice
at cooking. Tell me, do you make
cakes from » recipe or a pattern?"
| LIFT YOUR CORNS j
OFF WITH FINGERS I
j -_ i
i Hove to loosen a tender corn ?
or oallus so it lifts out |
i without pain. j
I-et folks step on your feet hereafter;
wear slices a size smaller if yen like,
for corns will never again send electric
sparks of pain through you, according
to this Cincinnati authority.
He says that, n few drops of a drug
called frecsone, applied directly upon
a tender, aching corn, instantly re
lieves soreness, and soon tin; entire
corn, root and all, lifts right out.
This drug dries at once and simply
shrivels up the corn or callup without
even irritating tlie surrounding skin.
A small bottle of freezonc obtained
at any drug store will cost very little
but will positively remove every hard
or soft corn or callus from ode’s feet.
If your druggist hasn’t stocked this
aew drug yet, tell him to get a small
bottle of freezonc for you from bis
wholesale drug house.—adv.
Insects in the T ini ted States year
ly destroy $700,000,<100 worth of trees.
Whenever there is a tendency to eersti
pation, sick headache or bilicjsn^sa. take
at cup of Garfield Tea. All druggists. Adv.
Brazil in November exported 5,587,
716 pounds of crude rubber.
