Nebraska Newspapers

    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 ~