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About The Loup City northwestern. (Loup City, Neb.) 189?-1917 | View Entire Issue (Nov. 9, 1916)
I TIPPECANOE I By SAMUEL McCOY Recounting the adventures and love which came into the lives of David Larrence and Antoinette O’Ban non, in1 the days when pioneers were fighting red savages in the Indiana wilderness I i (Copyright, 1916, by Bobbe-Merrill Co.) 1 Mm . I LOVE-MAKING j ► Do you enjoy the spectacle of J | a pretty girl coquetting with a < ► man who loves her devotedly and < | is cut to the heart by her teas- < ► ing? Then you’ll find stirring < | interest in this installment. J 3 It is the year 1811, and David ’ ► Larrence, exiled English weaver, < J comes to Corydon, Indiana terri- J ► tory, intending to kill an old en- < ► emy. He makes friends with < J Patrice O’Bannon and charming < , ’Toinette, his daughter, and with | | Job Cranmer and his daughter, | ► Lydia, recently from England. < | He learns that Cranmer is a spy ’ ► against the United States when < J he overhears a war plot. Cran- < ► roer disappears. The settlement < 3 organizes a militia. David’s re- ! ► gard for ’Toinette becomes very < 3 warm. J ► < CHAPTER VI. Moonlight David was thoughtful, while the light banter ran ou. “Governor Hurrisou,” he said, “may 1 have a word with you alone? I have some information that I wish to lay before you.” The young governor bowed assent and led the way to a quiet corner. David told the story <?f the meeting between Girty, Cranmer and Scull. Harrison's face grew grave. “Why did you not report this soon er?” he asked sharply. “I wrote at once to John Tipton, at Vincennes,” David answered. “I asked him to tell you immediately. I have had no reply from him, but I have supposed that he gave you the message. John's handier with his rifle than with a pen, Governor Har rison, as you know.” x es, suxiieu narnsun, 11 s agony for him to write. But I fear that he has not received your letter even yet. He has been away on a hunting and scouting trip for weeks. I myself am going away for a while, hut I shall Inform General Gibson, who is to tui'e charge of the territory in my ab ses’e, and shall direct him to have lit* rangers make a thorough search Uf these men. As for Tecuniseh, ru mors that his brother, Elkskatawa, the Prophet, is stirring the warriors to discontent have reached my ears. Best assured, Mr. Larrenee, that we shall keep careful watch over these matters. I thank you for what you ha»e told me.” J>avid felt that a load had been lift ?tl from his mind. He had done his duty to the land that had received him with such simple hospitality. ! T know Cranmer,” the governor s'ent fin. “but I never suspected so hiViest-appearing a fellow. You say he went to Vincennes? I am certain tfrflt he has not been there of late. Bet ine know if he returns to Cory mb- The whole Northwest has rea son to know that renegade Girty, hut I fear it is useless to hope for his cap ture now. He knows the wilderness like an Indian. As well hope to find a Wild bird in the tree tops. By now he is doubtless hack in the British p^-sts above Erie. You say that the t bird man was one known to you ns SCull? The name is a new one. Strange, how he disappeared. We’ll watch for him.” . He returned to his friends with an added word of thanks. David’s face darkened as he thought once more of Scu?l. Where was ho? How could he hide himself so completely? The memory of the man’s betrayal of Da vid’s father rose up in David anew; and he thought once more of the oath that he had sworn, over the “purple posy” of the weaver’s brotherhood, to aVenge that wrong. When the party had broken up at «st in laughing “good nights,” Toi nette, Blackford and David strolled toward Toinette’s home together. Ike began humming a song as they walked along: Could you to battle march away. And leave me here complaining— ‘‘A mighty fine evening, wasn’t it?— t'm sure ’twould break my heart to say. When you were gone campaigning. . . . "Trust a woman to suit her own ftweet will.” . “What’s the song, Ike?” “That? Oh, a catch that we used ;<* sing at Princeton. Poor old Billy Paterson wrote it years ago, rest his soul! Tlie late attorney general— class of 1763,” he added explanato rily. His rich tenor swung on into the lilt of the chorus: •Ah. non. non. non, pauvre Madelon Would never quit her Rover, Ah. non. non, non, pauvre Madelon Would go with you the wide world over!” He broke ofT abruptly: "Wouldn’t It be fine to have a wench hanging to your coattail as you marched!” Se said good night abruptly at Toinette’s door and went on. When he had goce, they two, Da vid and Toinette, lingered on, they knew not why, under the moon drenched trees. “And now,” she said, leaning toward him in the moonlight, “tell me how you like Oorydon—as much us you know of us.” He was so happy at seeing her that it was easy for him to fall into her own lightness of speech. “Ah, I fell in love with America years ago—on the day I reached Cory doa. Now 1 am only bothered to know If America likes me.” "Why, of coinse she likes you—look what she has ('one for you already.” - •• - _A I Her glance rested on his healthy, vigorous form approvingly. “Yes; but her favors reproach me now; I am afraid I can never accom plish what this country expects of her young men.” She pretended to look at him thoughtfully. “No, I don’t suppose you can ever climb very high.” She laughed teasingly. “How do you like your work?” “Selling toys to the Indians and laces to the ladles? Not very roman tic.” "I should think the ladies would be romantic, even if the Indians are not. “Oh, but they all want soldiers; I'm only a weaver by trade.” “That reminds me—you’ve never told me about your life in England. Please do it now—but wait. I’ll tell you myself.” She half closed her eyes and began reflectively: “Let me see—I’m looking into the past. You may not know it, but I’m a real Irish soothsayer.” She let the ghost of a delicious bit of brogue lin ger on her tongue. “I'm beginning to see your ancestral estates now. Gra cious, a ducal palace takes shape!” “There’s no doubt about your being ar Irish soothsayer,” David com mented sarcastically, “the ducal castle was certainly there, but unfor tunately it belonged to the duke of Newcastle. Our ducal castle was be hind St. John’s palace iu Bottle lane; it had one room in it and no floor.” “That's nothing to be ashamed of— half the cabins in the woods here are no larger, and their floors are earthen too.” “Ah. but every settler here has as much land as the duke of Newcastle! Air to breathe, freedom!” “You interrupted me—be quiet, or I won’t finish. Y’ou idled about the estate all day long or you rode over the countryside with your hounds—” “His name was Timon. that one mongrel of mine; he had friends who lived on him—I beg your par don.” Horrors! will you lie quiet. Ana at night you lay on silken cushions in front of the great fireplace, reading some tale of the court—” “I know it was wrong, but one is naturally idle after twelve hours at the loom. I did read a good deal with Harry White.” “Who was Harry White?” “Harry White was my best friend. Henry Kirke White—the soil of Mr. White, the butcher. He was jn*t my own age. We worked together at a stocking loom when we were fourteen, making stockings, but the next year his father apprenticed him to a firm of attorneys.” “And you kept on as a weaver?” “I kept on as a weaver., But he lent me his books at night. He was as poor as I was, and he drove him self into his grave with study. He died when lie was twenty-one, five years ago. But Mr. Southey, the poet luureate, collected all the poems Harry had written—” “A poet? A butcher's son?” “He had won a sizarship at Cam bridge when he was nineteen—he had got his first poems printed the year before. That was how he attracted Mr. Southey’s attention.” “And he’s dead! Oh, I’m so sorry!” “He told me once that a friend he had made at Cambridge, a boy named George Gordon, Lord Byron, said that his poems would never die.” “He was a poet too?” “I think so. He is living yet. He’s only twenty-three.” “Why, you’re only tweuty-six, your self! Don't talk like a grandfather!” ‘•’I feel like one.” “Why?” The sympathy in her voice was as sincere as that in her eyes. David had never known such a woman—had never known what it was to have the divine sympathy of womanhood. He began to tell her of his life, of his suf ferings, of liis hopes for the future, of his aspirations; and through it all the girl listened, a white rose in the moonlight, and poured the balm of her pure spirit upon his head. CHAPTER VII. The Course of True Love. Corydon lay baking under the sun of August. Along the parched ground the waves of heat, the “lazy Law rences,” dnnced maddeningly. Toi nette was rejoicing in the arrival of a great box from New Orleans—sent by flatboat to Louisville, hauled thence on a clumsy oak-runner sledge, jolted slowly over the rutty road, by the patient oxen. Toinette cried out rapturously as she drew forth from the great chest walking dresses of white jaconet muslin; a China robe of India twill; a preposterously inad equate cloak of sarsenet silk; tiny slippers of white kid and rose-colored silk and a precious packet containing a ferroniere, a headband of flat gold links with a great pendant of pearls hanging from Its clasp down on the forehead. It was Patrice's birthday gift for his daughter, ordered through an old friend in New Orleans. There were to be two weddings in town that morning—as the weekly newspaper put it, Mr. Philip Bell was to marry the agreeable Miss Rachel Harbeson and Mr. Ishnm Stroud the agreeable Miss Patsy Sands—and Toi nette vacillated deliciously in her choice of a costume to grace the two occasions. The weddings over, she made her way home In her silken clippers, swathed herself in an apron and pre pared their dinner. David had not been at either wedding. She was thinking of him as she busied herself at the hearth, and old Patrice read happily from his beloved “Arcadia.” She drew the flat board on which the cornmeal had been baked to golden I : brown out from the Are, set the roast I ed wild turkey on the table, pushed back a flying lock of hair from her i flushed face, and roused her father j from his book. It was her happiest i birthday fenst in the new. laud. In the evening the old gentleman | jogged off on horseback to General ; Harrison's farm, to pay his respects and be served with a glass of Ma deira. Toinette preferred to remain at home—Mr. Blackford would call, J perhaps David as well. She finished I her work and sat down to amuse her self with some embroidery, a candle ' made of the wax of the myrtle berry throwing its light upon her flyiug fin gers. The summer dusk fell rapidly around her. The night closed in. heavy, warm, full of sleepy sounds of bird and insect. Someone’s feet at the doorstep, a hand rapped at the door. Toinette lifted the latchpin. It was David. She swept him a curtsy. One of the functions of woman’s dress is to snatch a man out of his dull shufflings upon earth and show him a world glorified. That function was performed in this cuse. David saw Madame Recamler (he had heard of such a person) curtsying to him in the house of Patrice O’Baunon. Ma dame Kecauiier spoke, and lo! it was Toinette: “Why dou’t you say how you like it?” It was evidently the gown of cob webs that was meant. “Exceedingly well. . . . Excuse my asking, but is that all of it?” “Imbecile! The latest from Paris! It’s too bad to waste it ou you.” “Well, well!” David pretended a dry indifference. Toinette turned up her nose. “Why weren't you at the weddings?” "Couldn’t. I was off on a hunt.” --Lucky?" \.\o—only a couple or deer. “The brides were sweet.” She sat down at her needlework once more and David, seated in the dimly lighted room, his high linea collarband gleaming palely between liis dark face and the somber blacks f his cravat and his coat, watched her in silence. When he spoke it was to introduce a new subject: “Congress lias voted to increase the army by twenty-five thousand men,” lie said abruptly, “and has provided j for the enlistment of fifty thousand | volunteers in addition.” She let her hands fall to her lap. i “Does that mean war is sure?” “Not yet. But they talk of it freely. England will yield to none of our re quests.” She smiled proudly to herself at his use of the word ”our.” He went on with his news: “Mr. Clay wants a strouger navy. Curious — isn’t it? — that Kentucky should be in harmony with the sea board states in this." “Yes—they called us ‘the wild men on the Ohio’ Inst winter.” He smiled at her Hash of resent ment. “Are you still as eager for war as you were once?” Toiuette shuddered. It was unnec essary to reply to the thrust. David went on evenly: “Well, the whole time of the con gress is taken up with the debates. Things are at a breaking point. The president seems likely to get what his message asked for in the way of tim ber for sldpbulld—Toinette, look at me!” She looked up, startled at the change in his voice, and saw what she had feared—and vaguely longed for— was about to come. David had risen to his feet. The room seemed sud denly filled with a tremendous tensity. Her heart beat uncontrollably; she calmly threaded a needle anew. “Do you know what failure is?” he Hung at her. The torrent of his heart rushed out with the words. “I have struggled,” he said harshly, “but I give up no**. I work from daylight to dark, I read at night at the law. I weary myself with' arguing with Ike Blackford. These things ought to I ' I Oe&CTwO “Governor Hsrrison, May I Have a Word With You Alone?" make up my world for me. But they don’t. There Isn't any world for me unless you—” He checked himself, then began anew. “I think about my self. I go back over my life—all its poverty—every miserable line of its starved existence. And then—I think about you. ... I want to know , what right you have to make part of my world. It’s not your world. I don’t belong there. Why do you come into mine? You ought not to be in my thoughts. But you are. I can’t drive you out of my mind. You have been there ever since I first saw you, ever since . . .” His voice broke. From the first wild challenge of his gaze she had averted her face and had listened \vith bowed head. As he paused she threw a frightened glance at him and saw that the knuckles of his clenched hands were whitened with the strain. She tried to speak but could think of nothirr that she could say. Her hands picked aimlessly at the threads in her lap. After a moment he regained control of his lips and went on, passionately as before, hut with on undercurrent of pleading that softened his words: “I have been trying to believe that 1 could conquer all this in myself— that it was too preposterous to en dure. But instead of that it has grown stronger ... so strong that it is now everything. You are in ev erything I do. I cannot keep silent. I—” “Exactly what do you want, Da vid?” It was a very cool little voice that broke in on him. He was wounded to the heart. For a moment the hurt look in his eyes struck her with pity. But she steeled herself and went on: “I'm afraid I don't know just what you’re talking about. Do you mean ihat I am wronging you in any way?” A wave of hot anger swept through him that she could choose to adopt so pitiful a misconstruction. But ther girl was fighting with the weapons of her sex. fighting to regain control of the situation. He stood very proudly, waiting to give her an opportunity to retract. “If I have offended you . , "I have made a mistake,” he said haughtily. “I see that I have been ridiculous.” She shot a frightened glance at him. Had she gone too far? She forced herself to go on, still clinging to her makeshift armor, still hiding behind her poor little defenses: “Can you think that I do not realize how hard life is up here ou the fron tier? It culls for all that is best and bravest in us to go ou fighting against heat and cold and hunger, actual want. But it takes strong men— men who endure and do not com plain.” “Do you think I am whining? You know I am not." He waved her words aside impatiently, “it is something else—” He stopped, impotent to ad vance in the face of the travesty of his passion she had thrown iu his path. The room was very still. Outdoors the crickets chirped unceasingly. For a long while they stood facing each other in silence that rested more and more heavily upon David's heart. Toinette raised her eyes timidly. David’s look had not changed; it seemed to enfold her with a mighty passion of wounded love, proud, suf fering, pleading to he understood. She spoke again, falteringly: “We shall always be friends, shall we not?’’ There was no answer. She waited, not daring to raise her eyes from the ground. She heard him move slowly across the room, heard the latch lifted and the door opened; heard his deep, grave voice saying goodtiy, as in a dream; heard tlie door close. There swept over her the realiza tion of all that lie had suffered and risked for her, all the fine manliness that lifted him above the poverty of his life. Tlie silent room seemed to accuse her with a hundred inscrutable eyes. He had laid bare his love for her and she had dragged it in the dust of petty things. She stretched her hands out yearningly. “David!” she called. The room mocked her with its si lence. He was gone. CHAPTER VIII. Fear. David went back to his dress-stuffs by day and his law books by night with a heavy heart. The days dragged by as slowly us they pass the beds of the sick, feverishly hot, inexplicably hostile; till at Inst he welcomed the necessity of a Journey to replenish his stock of goods. Colonel Posey had once more postponed his return to Corydon and had asked David to buy whatever was needed to carry on tlie business. His supplies were to be ferried across tlie river from Louisville to Clarksville; and setting off at dawn one morning, lie strode all day long through the silent woods. The sun was going down when he left the road, panted to the top of the Silver hills and Hung himself down on the ground. Away to the south stretched the broad and majestic cur rent of the Ohio till it passed out of sight among the blue hills of Ken tucky; below him. in the lengthening shadows of the evening, rose tlie slen der columns of smoke from the cabin chimneys of Clarksville, a cluster of a dozen or so log farmhouses. Be yond, across the rushing waters of the Falls, he could distinguish f!»« rodtfs of Louisville, bright in the sun set light He looked tiis fill upon the broad expanse of the great river—the Beau tiful river, as the Indians called it— its hurrying, tumultuous waters, the flatboiit ferry, slowly crawling across, the green snores beyond—and then scrambled down the steep hillside to the village, where the smokes of kitchen tires sent up their friendly sig nals. At the inn where he rested that night the tavern keeper indicated a deserted cabin that stood near the river bank. “Thar's the cabin whar Gineral George lingers Clark used t’ live— pore old critter!" “He’s not dead, is he?” “Him dead? Ye kain’t kill him with a ax. I sired him yistaday, over yen” —waving toward Louisville—“pore old critter—driv the Britishers outen these parts thirty year gone, an’ sets thar crosi the river witliouteu’ a fo’ penee.” L>avid heard him listlessly. His goods had arrived and were piled in tlie tavern lean-to; and as he turned DcAiic^ V^ctVT/^C" “I’m Afraid I Don’t Know Just What You're Talking About." toward the shack to see that they were in readiness for the homeward journey in the morning, he heard his name called hy a girl’s voice. He wheeled and saw Lydia Cran mer. Tlie girl broke into a laugh at the expression of utter surprise. “You here, Lydia?” he cried in amazement. “Did you come here from Corydon? Where’s your father?” “Why, yes, we’ve been here for weeks. Father’s gone to see some friends at Fort*Steuben tonight, hut he’ll be back soon.” So this was (where Cranmer had gone, after that night in the smithy at Corydon. David saw in a flash that upon himself alone must depend Cranmer’s capture. Hiding his ex- | citeuient, he pretended to listen tc Lydia with eager pleasure. She ran on in naive delight at see- j iug David once more. They were liv- j ing in the cabin nearest the inn, she | said; and she begged David to conn \ and talk with her till her father re- j turned. It was late when they heard j Crannicr’s voice lifted in a roaring ballad and distinguished his portly ’ form moving uncertainly down the | path that led to the cabin. David felt himself grow hot with i repugnance as the man drew nearer. ; lie had not seen him since that night | when lie had w atched the three con- j spirators in the smithy. Cramner’s heavy steps drew near- j jer; he started in surprise when he! came on the two figures in the dark- j ness and there was a note of relief in his laughter when he heard David speak. “Why, it’s young Larrence! Sweet hearting out here in the dark, you rogues? Well, when your mother was your age, Lydia ! . . ► Do you believe that, in bitter- < k ness of spirit, David will marry | S Lydia and become involved with < Cranmer in spying—much as he J hates the spy now? < AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAd (TO BE CONTINUED.) HOW PEN MAY HELP FORGER Habitually Used, It Is Said to Become Imbued With the Spirit of a Signature. “Dill it ever occur to you,’’ saiil a treasury official, “that a forger has half his work done when he can get hold of the identical pen with which the owner of the signature habitually wrttes? A great many men, company directors aud the like, use the same pen for their names only, f ir a year or two without change. “A pen that has been used by a man in writing his name hundreds of times, and never used for anything else, will almost write the name of Itself. It gets imbued with the spirit of the signature. In the hands of a fairly good forger it wit* preserve the characteristics of the original. The reason for this is that Che point of the pen has been ground down in a pe culiar way, from being used always by the same hand and for the same combi nation of letters. It would splutter If held at a wrong angle or forced on lines against its will. It almost guides the sensitive hand of the. forger when he attempts to write the name.” The Silver Lining. The Tender-Hearted Cook—No bad news, I 'ope, ma’am? The Mistress—The master’s been wounded. The Cok—There now, ma’am; don't let that worry you. They tells me they can patch ’em up so’s they’re better than before. Perpetual Brightness. The sunshine of life Is made up of very little beams, that are bright all the time.—Aiken. Cutting Bullet Out of the Heart Dr. Maurice Beaussenat, who had already extracted a piece of grenade from the right ventricle of a man’s heart, told the French Acadeinie des Sciences of a second similar operation performed with success. A corporal wounded at Eparges had been treated for peritonitis and then had been operated on for appendicitis. He continued to suffer in various ways for more than a year, when a radioscope revealed the pressure of a shrapnel Dali, moving In time to the heatings of his heart. Supposing this to be in the pericardium or sac about the heart. Doctor Benussenat “went in,” as the surgeons «ay, and saw that the ball was actually in the right ven tricle, near the lower end. Tlie heart was drawn out; its wall i was cut open between two loops of wire; the ball was removed and the heart was sewn up again. Six months later the heart had healed so perfectly that there was not a sign of irregu larity about its pulsations. Compromise. “Never marry a man with a cham pagne appetite and a beer income,” said Maude. “Certainly not,” replied Maymie, “Ice cream soda for mine.” From the Stars to You. "Somewhere beneath the stars there is something that you alone were meant to do. Never rest until you have found out what it is!”—John Brashear, in American Magnzine. Original Meaning. Stigmatize originally meant simply to brand, and in the days of Shakes peare the farmer was said to stig matize his sheep. MDDY'S MNTC KEY WE -^-=== MAX’S ESCAPE. “A little Dog.” said Daddy, “was jne of five beautiful Puppies living in (he Country with a very proud and happy Mother. “But, sad to tell, it was not very long before the Mother Dog heard her Master saying to a Friend of his. ‘I simply cannot keep so many Dogs. There is no room for them—not even here in the Country. You see I have as many Animals now as I can pos sibly manage.’ “ ‘That’s true,’ said the man’s Friend. ‘I should think you woul 1 have to send most of them away.’ “The Mother Dog knew from tfce the Master’s voice that something sad was going to happen—for the Master wished that he had more room to keep the beautiful new Puppies. And she didn’t like the Friend because he never stroked her, nor patted her Children, but just talked in a gruff voice that meant bad tilings she was sure. “‘Well,’ continued the Friend, Twill take a Puppy for you. I can keep one easily in Our City House. There is plenty of room. I will take the little white one with the brown right Ear.’ “ ‘But not yet,’ said the Master. ‘He is too young to leave his Mother. Come back again in several weeks and you can take him with you, though I do hate to see the Puppies leave their Mother.’ “ ‘That’s nonsense,’ replied the Friend. ‘He’ll have a good Home with me and he’s such a fine looking Dog that I shall show him off at the Exhi bitions ami win Prizes with him. I'll be back again.’ And the man the Mother Dog disliked went away. Even the Puppies had trembled when he had gone near them. “About two weeks later the man came back. The Master petted the Mother and said how sorry he was. The Friend laughed at him for this, as he said Dogs were all right when they were of fine breeds and could be shown off at Exhibitions and Dog Shows, but it was ridiculous to make such a fuss over them. Aim tne t'uppy l m telling you about didn’t like his new Master in the very least. He felt it was very mean to lie taken away front his Mother and lie was an unhappy little Dog. “The first morning after he had been in the City a Maid took him out for a Walk. He had to Walk along on a leash—he couldn't run and jump and race about. In fact he was miserably unhappy. The Maid never spoke to him, and he put his Tail between his Legs, and hoped lie would not meet many Dogs as he felt so ashamed of himself. “But he met many other Dogs walk ing along on Leashes just as he was. Some lie saw driving in Carriages, and others he saw in Automobiles. He wondered to himself if none of them went for a run, and barked good Dog barks. “That night he heard his new Mas ter say, ‘Well, next week is the Dog show. We mustn’t let Max (for that was the name he’d given the dog) get too thin. He’s had all the Running he I-FTS. -1 _I One of Five Beautiful Puppies. wants. Just a little Walk will do for him.’ “Max didn't quite know what it was all about, but the next day the Maid took him for a still shorter Walk and not once did she let go of the Leash. But Max waited for a good time, and when he saw the Maid was holding the Leash with her little Finger, off lie bounded—Leash and all. On and on he went, never paying the least bit of at tention to the Maid’s screaming. Yes he was free, free at last. He wasn’t going to be in a Dog show—he was going to be a real Dog! Of course, lie didnt’ think this all out quite so care fully as I’m telling it to you—but he did know just what he wanted and just ;the sort of a Dog he was. “Such adventures ns he had. He re membered the Trip he had taken with the man. First they had gone on a Ferry Boat across some Water—and then on a Train. So Max ran and ran until he reached die Railroad Station. He got through the Gute when the Guard wasn’t looking and he jumped up into the Baggage Car just as the Train was pulling out. “On and osi he Rode until he saw >some Water and a great Boat—just as ' he had been on before. What should | he do? Jump? The Train was going fast, but it stopped where the Ferry Boa ts were. And so Max reached Home and his mother—and somehow or othet room was made for him by his first i Master.” Wanted a Skyscraper. Little Johnny—I wish we lived in a skyscraper, mamma. Mamma—Why do you wish that, dear. Little Johnny—Then I could slide down the banisters and go up in the elevator. Who Gets It7 California has produced a lemon which weighs three pounds end Is eighteen and one-half inches in cir cumference. It must be an awful thing to be hande-l a lemon In CalifarA'a.— Buffalo Tim BBS THEbes Significance of Good Digestion Is strongly reflected In your general health and happiness. For any digestive weak* ness, liver and bowel trouble or malaria, fever and ague You should try OSTETTER’S Stomach Bitten CLEVER LIFE-SAVING DEVICES Two Inventions Which Will Enable Shipwrecked Persons to Sustain Life for a Long Time. Many have beeu the life-saving de-d vices invented for those who go down" to the sea in ships, but it has remained for Benjamin E. Hervey of Idaho to devise one possessing all the eomforts of a home. The device is a suit, fashioned with arms and legs, with the buoyant belt attached at the waist. The suit is so balanced that the occupant, once in the water, stands iu an upright position. Attached to his shoulders is a square iron collar, extending a sufficient dis tance from the body so that the arms may be removed from the sleeves and employed freely. The collar is topped by a cover, which can he closed in case of necessity. Food can be stored within and the person wearing the suit is able, it is claimed, to exist for a long period of time. In fair weather the open cover serves as a shield against running waves. Another article recently placed on the market is a combined raincoat and life preserver. Trousers are attached to the coat, which can be folded away until necessity demands their use. Then they are unfurled, and act ns buoys in supporting the occupant iu tiie water. On the Warpath. ■ Auto Dealer—Do you know how many cars I have sold this week? New Clerk—Seventeen. Auto Dealer—See here, have you been looking into the books? New Clerk—No, sir. Auto Dealer—Then how did you guess It exactly? New Clerk—Because there have been just that many looking for you this afternoon with blood in their eyes. —Puck. Where Ignorance Is Bliss. “How much does it cost you to run. this yacht, old chap?” “If 1 knew, I wouldn’t do it.”—Life. Peat Is largely used in stoking the railway engines of Sweden. The germ theory dates from 1803. Nerves All On Edge ? Just as nerve wear is a cause of kidney weakness, so is kidney trouble a cause of nervousness. Anyone who has back ache, nervousness, “blues,” headaches, dizzy spells, urinary ills and a tired, worn feeling, would do well to try Doan’s Kidney Pills. This safe, relia ble remedy is recommended by thou sands who have had. relief from just such troubles. A Nebraska Case Itlrs, Wessberg. vwoi*— 708 \V. Fourth St., North Platte, Neb.. K*fls*-stor7 BU.J a. f Ull AW U 1 years I suffered terribly from kid ney complaint and backache. The doc tor said I had floating kidney. At times, 1 could hardly stand the < pains. The kidney , secretions were In bad shat>e. too. boon arter I used Doan's Kidney Pills, I got relief and hi a little over a month, I was cured, when I have taken Doan's Kidney Pills since, they have always helped me." Gat Doan’s at Any Store. 80c a Bon DOAN’S FOSTER-MILBURJI CO„ BUFFAJLO. H. Y. D| Arif USSK s*» wmma DUlllV ?.*"!•» “*2“*'“* Wf fresh. reliable; | E fZ ss&r'&g vaccines fall. lilnMEf r Write lor booklet and testimonial*. 10-dtt• pkf. Blacklag Pills, $1.60 VU 504ui pkg. Hacklpf Pills. $4.00 ^ Use any Injector, but Cutter's simplest aad strongest. The superiority of Cuttet v rod nets is due to over H yean of specializing la vaccines and serums ONLY. INSIST ON CUTTER’S. II unobtainable, order direct. W. N. U., OMAHA, NO. 45-191A ~