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Turner County herald. (Hurley, Dakota [S.D.]) 1883-19??, January 07, 1915, Image 4

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Persistent link: https://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/lccn/sn2001063133/1915-01-07/ed-1/seq-4/

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Jl^5
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Illpfet
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pr,
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r"^
By Charles Neville Buck
_V-*
tlWith Illustrations
from Photographs of Scenes
'in the Play
(Copyright, «9J3. by W. ]. Watt ft Co.)
I
m^A
y. SYNOPSIS.
On Misery creek Solly Miller finds
George Lescott, a landscape painter, un
conscious. Spicer South, lioad of the fam
Jly. tells Samson South npd Sally that
Jesse Purvy 1ms been shot and that Sam
KgKB°n Is suspected of the- crime. Samson
p«y !enle8 it. The Rhootinfi of Jesse Purvy
breaks the truce In the Hollman-South
sM-jfeud. Sampon reproves Tamarack Spicer
As tor telling Sully that Jim Hollman Is
#$|is hunting with bloodhounds the man who
•®pfa«hol Purvy. The bloodhounds lose the
trail at Spicer Smith's door. Lescott dls
covers artistic ability In Samson. While
eketcliinjt with Lescott. on the mountain.
Tamarack discovers Samson to a Jeering
crowd of mountaineers. Samson thrashes
hlni and denounces him as the "truce
•.... buster" who shot Purvy. Lescott trios to
persuade Samson to so to New York with
hiri» and develop his talent. Sally, loyal
but heartWfoken, furthers Lescott's ef
forts. At Wile McCager's dance Samson
tell# the South clan that he is going to
iw^Ieave the mountains.
.W
CHAPTER VII—Continued.
Lescott stayed on a week after that
•Imply in deference to Samson's insist
once. To leave at once might savor of
flight under Are, but when the week
wa» out the painter turned his horse's
head toward town, and his train swept
hiin back to the Bluegraes and the
Bast.
A quiet of unbroken and deadly
routine settled down on Misery. The
conduct of the Souths in keeping hands
off, and acknowledging the justice of
Tamarack Spicer's jail sentence, had
been their answer to the declaration
of the Hollmans in letting Samson ride
Into and out of Hixon. The truce was
established. When, short time later,
Tamarack left the country to become
railroad brakeman, Jesse Purvy
Jiippassed the word that hie men must,
until further orders, desist from vio
lence. The word had crept about that
Samson, too, was going away, and, if
this were true, Jesse felt that his fu
ture would be more secure than his
Past. Purvy believed Samson guilty,,
sdespite the exoneration of the hounds.
Lescott had sent a box of books, and
Samson had taken a team over to
Hixon, and brought them back.
He devoured them all from title
yage to finis line, and many of them
a© went back to, and digested again.
He wrestled long and gently with
v-' iite uncle, struggling to win the old
man's consent to his departure. But
Bpicer South's brain was no longer
plastic, "What, had been good enough
for the past was good enough for the
future. Nevertheless, he arranged af
^C'Maira eo that his nephew should be
V*blp to meet flnancal needs, and to go
ifewhere he chose in a fashion befitting
a South.
November came in bleakly, with a
taw and devastating breath of fatality.
The smile died from horizon to hori
zon, and for days cold ralnB beat and
lashed the forests. And, toward the
oad of the month, came the day which
Samson had set for his departure.
At the threshold, with the saddle*
bags over his left forearm and the rifle
in his hand, he paused. HIB uncle stood
at his elbow and the.hoy put out bin
baud. %,..V
"Good-by, line' Spicer," was all he
said. The old man, who had been his
second father, shook hands His face,
too, was expressionless, bnt he felt
that he was saying farewell to a sol
flier of genius who was abandoning the
field. And he loved the boy with all
the centered^ ..power of aa Isolated
heart
A half-mile along the road, Samson
halted and dismounted. There, in a
small cove, surrounded by a tangle of
briers, and blackberry bushes, stood a
small and dilapidated "meeting house1
and churchyard, which he must visit.
He made his way through the rough
undergrowth to the unkempt half-acre,
and halted before the leaning head
stones which marked two graves, "With
a sudden emotion, he swept the baok
of hiB band across his eyes. He did
not remove his hat, but he stood in the
drizzle of cold rain for a moment of
ffUence. and then he said:
"Pap, I hain't fergot. I don't want
ye ter think" thet I've Jergot."
Before he arrived at the Widow Mil
ler's, the rain had stopped and the
clpuds had broken.
Sally opened the door, and smiled.
She had spent the day nerving herself
MftOT this farewell, and at least until
l§phe moment of leave-taking she would
|f4e safe from tears. Thfe Widow Mll
^Jter and her son soon left them, alone,
\"nd the boy and girl sat before the
f-,!VMazlng logs."
\I-r, For a tlmb, awkward silence tell
."^between them. At last, the boy rose,
jund went over to the corner where he
had placed his gun. He took It up and
*-, ^4ald it oa the hearth between them.
'A. he said, "I wants ter tell ye
things thet, I hain't neye* said
nobody else. 1ft the fust place, I,
TfieW
sfe-
*.
V*
-if'1'
4i-miW& 'TA"
The Gall of the
Gumberlands
with, ear-
W a
i.7%4*Samson?",
-,*jHe shook his head.
*1 hain't a-goln* ter seed hit down
3W. Nobody don't use, 'em down
iMvSslJJlfSSSii
tnai. I've got my pistol, an' I reckon
I thet will be enough."
"I'll take good keer of hit," she
I promised.
I The boy took out of his pockets a
box of cartridges and a small package
tied in a greasy rag.
"Hit's loaded, Sally, an' hit's cleaned
an hit's greased Hit'e ready fer use."
Again, sue nodded in silent assent,
and the boy began speaking in a slow,
careful voice, which gradually mount
ed into tense emotion.
"Sally, thet thar gun was my pap's.
When he lay a-dyin', he gave hit ter
me, an' he gave me a job ter do with
hit. When I was a little feller, I used
ter set up 'most all day, polishin' thet
gun an' gittin' hit ready. 1 used ter
go out in the woods, an' practice shoot
in' hit at things, tell 1 learned how ter
handle hit. I reckon thar hain't many
fellers round here thet kin beat me
now." He paused, and the girl hastened
to corroborate.
"Thar hain't none, Samson."
"There hain't nothin' in the world,
Sally, thet I prizes iike I does thet gun.
Hit's got a job tar do. Thar
hain't but orvt person in the world I'd
us it it he I
wants ye ter keep hit fer me, an' ter
keep hit ready. They thinke
round hyar I'm quittin', but I hain't.
I'm comin' back, an', when 1 comes, I'll
need this hyar thing—an* I'll need hit
bad." He took up the rifle, and ran his
hand caressingly along its lock and
barrel.
"I don't know when I'm a-comin'," he
said, slowly, "but, when I calls fer this,
I'm shore a-goin' ter need hit quick. I
wants hit ter be ready fer me, day er
night. Maybe, nobody won't know I'm
hyar. •. Maybe, I won't want
nobody ter know. But, whea
I whistles out thar like a whippoorwill,
I wants ye ter slip out—an' fotch me
thet gun!"
He stopped, and bent forward. Hla
face was tense, and hie eyes were glint
ing with purpose. His lips were tight
set and fanatical.
"Samson," said the girl, reaching out
and taking the weapon from his hands,
ef I'm alive when ye comes, I'll do
hit. I promise ye. An'," she added,
"ef I hain't alive, hit'll be standin'
thar In thet corner. I'll grease hit,
an' keep hit loaded, an' when ye calls,
I'll fotch hit out thar to ye."
The youth nodded. "I mout come
any time, but likely jas not I'll hev ter
come a-flghtin'when I comes."
Next, he produced an envelope.
"This here is a letter I've done writ
ter myeelf," he explained. He drew
out the sheet, and read:
"Samson, come back." Then he
handed the missive to the girl. "Thet
there is addressed ter me, in care of
Mr. Lescott. Ef anything hap
pens—ef Unc' Spicer needs me—T
jVTlTW
isl
"When I Whistles Like a Whippoor
will, Patch Me Thet Gun."
wantB yer ter mail thet iter me quick.
He says as how he won't never call
me back, but, Sally, I wants thet you
shall send ferine, ef they needs me. I
hain't a-$oin' ter Trite no lettere home,
TJnC Spicer can't read, an' you can't
read much either. But I'll plumb shore
be thinkin' about ye day an' night"
She gulped and nodded.
"Yes, Samson," was all she said.
The boy rose.
"I reckon I'd better W gettin' along,"
he announced.
The girl suddenly reached out both
handstand seised his^cnat. She held
him' tight and rose, facing him. Her
upturned face grew very pallid, and
her eyes widened. They were dry, and
her Hps were tightly closed^ but,
through the tearless pupils, in the fire
light, the boy could read her eouU and
her soul was sobbing.
He drew her toward him, and held
her very tight.
"Sally," lie said, In & voice which
threatened to choke, "I wants ye ter,
take keer of yeself. Tfe hain't like
these other gats round here. Ye hain't
got big hands an* feet Ye Itaint stand
es much es they kin. Don't stay out
In the night air too much—An', Sally—
{er God's &ak« take keer of yeself I"
He brake off, tufcd ptoked up hla hat
3-, "An' that gaa, Sally,^ he repeated at
(be door, "that there's the most pcre-
m-fcPMx.
clous thing I've got. I loves hit better
then anything—take keer of hit."
Again, she caught at his shoulders.
"Does ye love hit better*n ye do me,
Samson?" she demanded.
He hesitated.
"I reckon ye knows how much I
loves ye, Sally," he saidk slowly, "but
I've done made a promise, an' thet
gun's a-goin' ter keep hit fer me."
They went together out to the stile,
he still carrying his rifle, as though
lQath to let it go, and she crossed
with him to the road.
As he untied his reins, she threw
her arms about his neck, and for a.
long while they stood there under the
clouds and stars, as he held her close.
There was no eloquence of leave-tak
ing, no professions of undying love,
for these two hearts were inarticulate
and dizzy clinging to a wilderness
code of self-repression—and they had
reached a point where speech would
have swept them both away to a break
down.
CHAPTER VIII.
The boy from Misery rode slowly to
ward Hixon. At times the moon strug
gled out and made the shadows black
along the way. At other times it was
like riding in a huge caldron of pitch.
When he passed into that stretch of
country at whose heart Jesse Purvy
dwelt he raised his voice in song. His
singing was very bad, and the ballad
lacked tune, but it served its purpose
of saving him from the suspicion of
furtiveness. Though the front of the
house was black, behind its heavy shut
ters he knew t$at his coming might be
noted, and night-riding at this par
ticular spot might be misconstrued in
the absence, of frank warning.
The correctness of his inference
brought a brief smile to his lips when
be crossed the creek that skirted the
orchard and heard a stable door creak
softly behind him. He was to be fol
lowed again—and watched, but he did
not look back or pause to listen for
the hoofbeats of his unsolicited escort.
On the soft mud of the road he would
hardly have heard them had he bent
his ear and drawn rein. He rode at a
walk, for his train would not leave un
til five o'clock in the morning. There
was time in plenty.
It was cold and depressing as he
trudged the empty streets from the
livery stable to the railroad station,
carrying his saddlebags over his arm.
At last he heard the whistle and saw the
blazing headlight, and a minute later
he had pushed his way into the smok
ing car and dropped his saddlebags
on the seat beside him. Then, for the
first time, he saw and recognized his
watchers. Purvy meant to have Sam
son shadowed as far as Lexington, and
his movements from that point defi
nitely reported. Jim Asberry and Aaron
Hollls were the chosen spies. He did
not speak to the two enemies who took
seats across the car, but his face
hardened, and his brows came together
in a black scowl.
"When I gits back," he promised
himself, "you'll be one of the fust
folks I'll look fer, Jim Asberry, damn
ye! All I hopes is thet nobody else
don't git ye fust. Ye b'longs ter me."
The sleeping car to which he was
assigned after leaving Lexington was
almost empty, but he felt upon him the
interested gaze of those few eyes that
were turned toward his entrance. He
engaged every pair with a pair very
clear and steady and undropping, un
til somehow each Hp that had started
to twist in amusement straightened,
and the twinkle that rose at first
glance sobered at second. Yet, for
iall his specious seeming of unconcern,
Samson was waking to the fact that
he was a scarecrow, and his sensitive
pride made him cut his meals short
In the dining car, where he was kept
busy beating down inquisitive eyes
with his defiant gaze. He resolved
after some thought upon a definite pol
icy. It was a very old policy, but to
him n^ew—and a discovery. He would
change nothing in himself that in
volved a surrender of code or convic
tion. But, wherever It could be done
with honor, he would concede to cus
tom.
It was late In the second afternoon
when he stepped from the train at Jer
sey City, to be engulfed In an un
Imagined roar and congestion. Here
It was impossible to hold his own
against the unconcealed laughter of
the many, and lie stood for an instant
glaring about like a caged tiger, while
three currents of humanity separated
and flowed toward the three ferry
exits. Then he saw the smiling face of
Lescott, and Lescott's extended hand.
Even Lescott, Immaculately garbed and
fur-coated, seemed almost a stranger,
and the boyts feeling of intimacy froze
to inward constraint and diffidence.
But Lescott knew nothing of that.
The stoic in Samson held true, mask
ing his emotions.
"So you came," Said the New Yorker
heartily, grasping the boy's hand!
"Where's your luggage? We'll just
pick that up and make a dash for the
ferry."'
"Hyar hit is," replied Samson, who
still carried his saddlebags. The
painter's eyes twinkled but the mirth
was so frank and friendly that the
boy, instead of glaring In .defiance,
grinned responsively.
"Right, oh!" laughed Lescott. "I
thought maybe you'd bring a trunk,
but. it's the wise man who travels
light"
He followed Lescott o«t to the foot
ot Twenty-third street, and stepped
with him into the tonneau of the
painter's -waiting car. Lescott lived
with his family uptown, for it hap?
pened that, had his canvases pos
sessed no value whatever, he would
still have been in a position to drive
his motor and foUow^ his impulses
about the,world.. If he did not take
the hoy .to his hoxoe, it was because
r\-H
he understood that a life which must
be not only full of early embarrass
ment, but positively revolutionary,
should be approached by easy stages.
Consequently the car turned down
Fifth avenue, passed under the arch
and drew up before a door just off
Washington square, where the land
scape painter had a studio suit. There
were sleeping rooms and such acces
sories as seemed to the boy unheard-of
luxury, though Lescott regarded the
place as a makeshift aunex to his
home establishment.
"You'd better take your time in se
lecting permanent quarters," was his
careless fashion of explaining to Sam
son. "It's just as well not to hurry.
You are to stay here with me, as long
as you will."
"I'm obleeged ter ye," replied the
boy, to whose training in open-doored
hospitality the invitation seemed only
natural. The evening meal was
brought in from a neighboring hotel,
and the two men dined before an open
fire, Samson eating in mountain si
lence, while his host chatted and
asked questions.
"Samson," suggested the painter,
when the dinner things had been car
ried out and they were alone, "you are
here for two purposes: First, to study
painting second, to educate and equip
yourself for coming conditions. It's
going to take work, more work, and
then some more work."
"I hain't skeered of work."
"I believe that. Also, you must
keep out of trouble. You've got to ride
your fighting instinct with a strong
curb."
"I don't 'low to let nobody run over
me." The statement was not argu
mentative only an announcement of
a principle which was not subject to
modification.
"All right, but until you learn the
ropes let me advise you."
The boy gazed into the fire for a few
moments of silence.
"I gives ye my hand on thet," he
promised.
At eleven o'clock the painter, having
shown his guest over the premises,
said good-night and went uptown to
his own house. Samson lay a long
while awake, with many disquieting
reflections.
Meanwhile Lescott, letting himself
into a house overlooking the park,
was hailed by a chorus of voices from
the dining room. He turned and went
in to join a gay group just back from
the opera. As he thoughtfully mixed
himself a highball, they bombarded
him with questions.
"Why didn't you bring your bar
barian with you?" demanded a dark
eyed girl, who looked very much as
Lescott himself might have looked had
he been a girl—and very young and
lovely. Now she flashed on him an af
fectionate smile, and added: "We
have been waiting to see him. Must
we go to bed disappointed?"
George stood looking down on them,
and tinkled the ice in his glass.
"He wasn't brought on for purposes
of exhibition, Drennie," he smiled. "I
was. afraid if he came in here in the
fashion of his arrival—carrying his
saddlebags—you ultraeiyilized folk
might have laughed."
A roar of laughter at the picture
vindicated Lescott's assumption.
"No! Now, actually with saddle
bags?" echoed a young fellow with a
likable face which was for the mo
ment incredulously, amused. "That
goes Pick Whittington one better.
You do make some rare discoveries,
George. We celebrate you."
"Thanks, Horton," commented the
painter, dryly. "When you New York
enB have learned what these barbari
ans already know, the control of your
oversensitized risibles and a courtesy
deeper than your shirt-fronts—maybe
I'll let you have a look. Meantime I'm
much too fond of all of you to risk
letting you laugh at my barbarian."
Several months were spent laboring
with charcoal and paper over plaster
casts in Lescott's studio, and LeBcott
himself played instructor. When the
skylight darkened with the coming of
evening, the boy whose mountain na
ture cried out for exercise went for
long tramps that carried him over
many miles of city pavements, and
after that, when the gas was lit, he
turned, still insatiably hungry, to
volumes of history, and algebra, and
facts.
A sloop-rigged boat with a crew of
two was dancing before a brisk breeze
through blue Bermuda water. Off to
the right Hamilton rose sheer and
colorful from the bay. At the tiller
sat the white-clad figure of Adrienne
Lescott. Puffs of wind that whipped
the tautly bellying sheets lashed her
dark hair about her face. Her lips,
vividly red like poppy petals, were
just now curved into an amused smile,
which made them even more than or?'
dlnarily kissable and tantalizing. Her
companion was neglecting his nominal
duty of tending the sheet to watch
her
"Wilfred she teased, "your con
trast Is quite startling—and, in a way,
effective. From head to foot you are
spotless white—but your scowl is ab
solutely 'the blackest black that our
eyes endure.' And," she added, In ati
injured voice, "I'm sure I've been very
nice to you."
"I have not yet begun to scowl," he
assured her, and proceeded to show
what superlatives of saturnine expres
sion he held In reserve. "See here,
Drennie, I know perfectly well that
I'm a sheer Idibecile to reveal the faOt
that you've made me mad. It pleases
you too perfectly. It makes you hap
pief than is good for you, but—"
•It's a terrible thing to make i&e
happy, isn't It?" she inquired, sweetly..
"Drennie, you have held me off since
we were children. I believe 1 first an
nounced ray intention of marrying you
when you were twelve. That intention
remains unaltered. More: It is unal
terable and inevitable. My reasons
for wanting to needn't be rehearsed.
It would take too long. I regard you
as possessed of an alert and remark
able mind—one worthy of companion
ship with my own." Despite the friv
olous badinage of his words and the
humorous smile of his lips, his eyes
hinted at an underlying intensity.
"With no desire to flatter or spoil you,
I find your personal aspect pleasing
enough to satisfy me. And then, while
a man should avoid emotionalism, 1
am in love with you." He moved over
to a place in the sternsheets, and his
face became intensely earnest. He
dropped his hand over hers as it lay
on the teller shaft. "God knows, dear,"
he exclaimed, "how much I love you!"
Her eyes, after holding his for a mo
ment, fell to the hand which still im
prisoned her own. She shook her
head not in anger, but with a man
ner of gentle denial, until he released
her fingers and stepped back.
"You area dear, Wilfred," she com
forted, "and I couldn't manage to get
on without you, but you aren't mar
riageable—at least, not yet."
"Why not?" he asked.
"In the first place, yon are one of
those men whose" fortunes are listed
in the top schedule—the swollen for
tunes. Socialists would put you in the
predatory class."
"Drennie," he groaned, "it's not my
fault that I'm rich. It was wished on
me. If you are serious, I'm willing
to become poor as Job's turkey. Show
me the way to strip myself, and I'll
stand shortly before you begging
aim."
"To what end?" she questioned.
"Poverty would be quite inconvenient.
I shouldn't care for it. But hasn't it
ever occurred to you that the man
who wears the strongest and brightest
mail, and who by his own confession
is possessed of an alert brain, ought
occasionally to be seen, in the lists?"
"In short, your charge is that I am
a shirker—and, since it's the same
thing, a coward?"
Adrienne did not at once answer
him, but she straightened out for an
uninterrupted run before the wind,
and by the tiny moss-green flecks,
which moments of great seriousness
'2M
"You Are a Dear, Wilfred?"
brought to the depths of her eyes, he
knew that she meant to speak the un
veiled truth.
"Besides your own holdings in a lot
of railways and things, you handlq
your mother's and sisters' property,
don't you?"
He nodded.
"In a fashion, I do. I sign the neces
sary papers when the lawyers call me
up and ask me to come downtown."
"You area director in the Metropole
Trust company?"
"Guilty."
"In the Consolidated Seacoast?"
I believe so."
With your friends, who are also
shareholders, you could assume con
trol of the Morning, Intelligence,
couldn't you?"
"I guesB I could assume control, bat
what would'I do with it
"Do you know the reputation of that
newspaper?"
"I guess it's all rifeht. It's conserva
tive and newsy. I. read it every morn
ing when I'm in town. It fits in very
nicely between the grapefruit and the
bacon and eggs."
"It is, also, powerful," She added,
"and Is said to be absolutely servile
to corporate interests.
"Drennie, you talk like an anarchist
You are rich yourself, you know."
"And against each of those other
concerns various charges have been
made."
"Well, what do want me to do'
"It's not what I want you to do
she Informed me "it's what I'd like
to see you want to do."
"Name it!: I'll want to do It forth
with."
"I think when you are one of & hand
ful of the richest men in New York
when, for instance, you could dictate
the policy of a great newspaper, yet
know it only as the course that follows
your grapefruit, you are a Bhirker and
a. drone, and are not playing tbe
game." Her hand tightened on the
tiller. "I think If I were a man riding
on to the polo field I'd either try like
the devil to drive the ball down be
tween the pOsts, or I'd come inside and
take off my boots and colors. I
wouldn't hover in a ladylike futility
around the edge of the scrimmage."
She knew that to Horton,. who
played polo like a fiend Incarnate, the
figure would be effective, and she
whipped out her words with something
very close to. scorn.
"There's my hand on it, Drennie,"
he said. "We start back to ,Npw York
tomorrow, doat We? Well, when I fet
there I put* on overalls and go to
work, When I propose next I'll have
something to show."
(TO CONTINUED.)
FORM CHILD
"California Syrup of Figs" can't
harm tender, stomach,
liver and bowels.
Every mother realizes, after giving
her children "California Syrup of
Figs" that this is their ideal laxative,
because they love
itB
pleasant
STOP EATING MEAT IF
KIDNEYS OR BACK HURT
Take a Glass of Salts to Clean Kid
neys If Bladder Bothers You—
Meat Forms Uric Acid.
Eating meat regularly eventually
produces kidney trouble in some form
o* other, says a well-known authority,,
because the uric acid in meat excites
the kidneys, they become overworked
get sluggish clog up and cause all
sqrts of distress, particularly backache
^nd misery in the kidney region rheu
matic twinges, severe headaches, acid
stomach, constipation, torpid liver,
sleeplessness, bladder and urinary ir
ritation.
The moment your back hurts or kid
neys aren't acting right, or if bladder
bothers you, get about four ounces of
Jad Salts from any good pharmacy
take a tablespoonful in a glass of
water before breakfast for a few days
and your kidneys will then act fine.
This famous salts is made from the
acid of grapes and lemon juice, com
bined with lithia, and has been used
for generations to flush clogged kid
neys and stimulate them to normal
activity also to neutralize the acids in
the urine so it no longer irritates, thus
ending bladder disorders.
Jad Salts cannot injure anyone
makes a delightful effervescent lithia
water drink which millions of men and
women take now and then to keep the
kidneys and urinary organs clean/thus,
avoiding serious kidney disease.—Adv.
^CWr\
•=f
-i I
faster
and it thoroughly cleanses the tehder
little stomach, liver and bowels with
out griping.
When cross, irritable, feverish, or
breath is bad, stomach sour, look at
the tongue, mothei^ If coated, give a
teaspoonful of this harmless "fruit
laxative," and in a few hours aU the
foul, constipated waste* sour bile and
undigested food passes out of the bow
els, and you have a well, playful child
again. When its little system is full
of cold, throat sore, has stomach-ache,
diarrhoea, indigestion, colic—remem
ber, a good "inside cleaning" should
always be the first treatment given.
Millions of mothers keep "California
Syrup of Figs" handy they know a
teaspoonful today saves a sick child
tomorrow. Ask at the store for a 50
cent bottle of "California Syrup ot
Figs," which has directions for babies,
children of all ages and grown-ups
printed on the bottle. Adv.
The Censor.
The Washington Star relates that
Mayor Baker of Cleveland, in defense
of a political movement that had been
attacked, said the other day:
"It's an honest movement and a
straightforward movement, and they
who attack it are as censorious as the
Seabright old maid.
"A Seabright old maid was talking
to a sunburned college boy on the
beach. A pretty girl passed and the
old maid said:
'There goes Minnie Summers. You
took her to the hop last evening, didn't
you?'
'Yes,' said the college boy, and he
added politely: 'As I was taking leave
of Miss Summers after the hop it
dawned upon me—'"
"'It dawned!' said the old maid.
'You kept her out till dawn! That's
what these new dances lead up to!'"
V,:,
-i---. Clean Haul.
"A shrewd rascal skipped town the
other day, after being in society here
for several years."
"I think I understand his method.""
"Yes?"
"He got into society for the purpose
of going through it."
IF HAIR IS TURNING
GRAY, USE SAGE TEA
Don't Look Old! Try Grandmother's
Recipe to Darken and Beautify
Gray, Faded, Lifeless Hair.
Grandmother kept her hair beauti
fully darkened, glossy and abundant
wit'n a brew of Sage Tea and Sulphur.
Whenever her hair fell out or took on
that dull, faded or streaked appear
ance, this simple mixture was applied
with wonderful effect. By asking at
any drug store for '.'Wyeth's Sage and
Sulphur Hair Remedy," you w\ll get a
large bottle of this old-time recipe,
ready to use, for about 50 cents. This
simple mixture can be depended upon,
to restore natural' color and beauty
to the hair and Is. splendid for dan
druff, dry, itchy scialp and falling hair.
A well-known druggist says every
body uses Wyeth's Sage and Sulphur,
because it darkens so naturally and
evenly that nobody can tell it has been
applied—It's so eaBy to use, too. You
simply dampen a comb or soft brash.
and draw it through yoor half,
one strand at a time. By morning
the gray hair disappears after an
other application or two, it is re
stored to Its natural color and looks
glossy, soft' and abundant Adv.
If some men had their lives to live
again they probably wouldn't leave so
many dollars for their heirs tojMsnp
over.
pi
8$
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