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fbtthfm'B/ui suum suits THIS WEEK SELLS GOODS! FOR A LIMITED TIME — A 75i size bottle of Ambrosia pore deep cleanser and a 75i box of ex quisite Ambrosia powder—both for 75i. At drug and department stores. AMBROSIA THE PORE-DEEP CLEANSER Guns Continued from page throe "Bad sick?" Mrs. Pulliam slipped a pan of biscuits into the oven. “I don't think so. He was all right at school. He didn't say anything. Stomach-ache. I guess. The doctor’s there.” Mrs. Pulliam closed the oven door with a care that went beyond mere biscuits When Beans came downstairs on Saturday morning, pleasantly drugged with an extra hour of sleep, Mrs. Pulliam was turning from the tele phone. “That was Jack Hinton,” she said pleasantly. "He wants you to come out to his uncle’s farm for the day.” "What?” said Beans. “I didn’t hear the 'phone ring.” "Well, it did.” said Mrs. Pulliam firmly. “Mr. Hinton has just bought a herd of angora goats. Wouldn’t you — ” Would anybody but a woman say to a general on the eve of battle, “Let’s go pick wild flowers?” “You know Rush and I — ’’ began Beans. “Rush is still sick,” said Mrs. Pulliam softly. “Leave your war where it is. dear, and come on. You'll have to eat your breakfast quickly if you want to help unload the goats. You must wear your corduroys and high boots. I’m packing you some bacon and things. Mrs. I linton said you and Jack could have a campfire at the cave. Come on. David! Daddy is going to give you and Jack a lift out that way. He'll be by any minute.” The day turned out to be pretty good fun, marred only by the unusual absence of Rush. Rush, with his stiff, stand-up hair and his ability to pick up the slack of his breeches as if they were skirts and run and scream like a girl, would have been gallons of fun with that old daddy-goat that wanted to butt everybody. As two weary boys hiked home in the late afternoon. Beans said "So long’’ abruptly to Jack at the corner of Rush’s street and detoured, to shout a friendly “Hi!” beneath Rush’s window. Early winter dusk and the smoke of evening fires filled the street with shadow. The Coleman house sat back on a deep lawn set with huge old trees. Beans was up to the edge of the porch before he knew that there was something dreadfully strange about the picture. It was lights — rather, the absence of them. Blinds were drawn down tightly, forbiddingly, secretly in the best room downstairs and in a room above. Rush's room — the room he enjoyed all to himself, being an only son. And then — simul taneously Beans saw a wisp of fern and flowers on the knocker of the front door and heard a sound that lifted at the roots each hair on his head. His knees bent under him. His teeth chattered. He had never heard the sound before; but he knew what it was. A woman, a grown woman, like his mother, crying out loud and nothing could stop her. It was awful. And, like cold steel, yes, like cold steel it went through and through him. He dragged himself away. When he opened the front door of his own cheerful, noisy, normally lighted house, his face was still gray. The slouch which Coach at school and his scoutmasters had trained out of him was back in his shoulders. His head hung down. His arms dangled. His feet dragged. His eyes were glazed. Mrs. Pulliam, waiting with considerable nervousness in the living room, stood up and saw at once that he knew. “Rush — ” he said vaguely and the rest stuck in his throat. “Yes, dear. Come in and sit down." He fell into the nearest chair. As the carrying strain was lifted from his body, a line of perplexity came be tween his thick, young brows. “It was meningitis,” said Mrs. Pulliam. "It strikes very quickly.” Beans shook his head. “Rush — ” he began again; and again the words wouldn't be said. He meant — Rush was his buddy. Rush sat across from him at school, class and study hall. They took the same courses. They be longed to the same patrol. They bunked in the same cabin at summer camp. They’d passed their swimming tests side by side. Last summer when he, Keans, had been struck down suddenly by appendicitis. Rush had gathered up his books at school and turned them in. A Latin grammar was missing. Rush knew where to find it — on the floor under Beans’ desk in Study Hall. Rush had cleaned out his gym locker. It was all right for Rush to handle his things. It would have been all wrong had it been anyone else, because' — because — “Rush — ” it was the old storv. “His cot was right hand cot to mine — ” “Death,” said Mrs. Pulliam softly, “is like that.” No, not always. Old people or people who had been sick a long time were different. You expected — “Always.” said Mrs. Pulliam. "It’s always sudden and terribly final and it always touches someone closely. I know.” “But — ” On Monday morning Rush wouldn’t be at school. His mother meant all right, but she didn't know. How could she? “Out of my graduating class from High School,” she said, "six boys were killed in the World War.” "Six?” Beans came a little to life. Six were a lot — still, his mother had gone to school in a city where classes were bigger. "Did you know them?” "I knew them all very well. Except for one of them I mightn’t have graduated. I'd have flunked math, lie was good at that but poor at Latin. So, 1 helped him with his translations and he did my quadratics, lie Was killed at Chateau-Thierry." Mrs. Pulliam paused. “One of them lived next door. You’ve heard us talk at home about making candy on Saturday nights. All the kids in the block chipped in something. When we made divinity. Gene brought the eggs, because his mother had chickens. He drove an ambulance in France. He was killed ' in an air raid. “One of them,” Mrs. Pulliam’s voice was very soft, indeed, “took me to the senior dance. We went in a taxi and he sent me roses. I still have one. He was with the artillery. The shell that killed him took four from the same battery. That was at St. Mihiel." ' Beans looked at his plump, placid little mother, sewing under the lamp. A new respect, touched about the edges with incredulity, was in his regard. “Honestly?" he said. “That's just my story,” said Mrs. Pulliam. “In time of war—well, multiply it by as many hundred thousand as there are men killed. Each one who falls is a relative or a iriend to somebody. Now, run up stairs, dear, and take a good wash. Supper will be ready soon.” She folded her sewing. Beaus stood up with a long sigh. Upstairs as he moved into his dark room his boot kicked over something , that clanged. Gosh, he'd forgotten! He turned on a light and stooped to retrieve the thing. One of his best guns and, sure enough, he’d snapped the casting that joined it to its caisson. Doggone . . . The thing was cold and heavy in his hand, lie looked at it again. Guns! Guns that mowed men down like grass! But men weren’t grass. They were our best friends. They were alive like you one day and the next — they were gone. Just gone. Like Rush. He shivered. A half hour later his youngest brother. Pete, came into the room while Beans was busy rolling his men guns separately in blankets of white tissue and packing them away in boxes. After all, he was fifteen years old and these were toys. Maybe, if he wasn't going to play with them any more, he should give them away. He couldn't quite do that. Not yet. They were his own and had Ix'en lots of fun. lie spoke with queer gentleness, to young Pete. " Wanta help, kid? Play you a game of dominoes after supper.” Pete was not a naturally too helpful character, but there was something impressive and solemn about his big brother's strange movements. Oblig ingly he reached for the wrappings. “Okay! Say, did you hear about Rush? He had — ” “Shut up!” said Beans. Later, going into the warm, bright kitchen, he went and stood close beside his mother. He even ducked his head and rubbed his nose, pony-style, on her shoulder — a climax of demon strativeness, as she knew only too well. She opened the oven door. “It’s gingerbread,” she announced, “with brown sugar and nuts." “Smells good,” said Beaus hoarsely. Tin End ' Quick Relief Or Money Back ! w lth one application of time tested Peterson's Ointment you can get quick relief from tlie awful irritation of ugly, itching pimples, rashes and blotches. It’s ' amazingly effective. Itching stops: angry redness soothed; skin looks better, feels bet ter. one 36c box proves to you what millions have found out In the last 30 years. Try It now. Wonderful to soothe eczema. Itching of feet or cracks between the toes. At all druggists. Your money back if not delighted. SAMPLE FREE. Write today to Peterson Ointment <’o., Huffaln, N. Y., Dept. 11112. Decoration by Henry B. Comstock In Memoriam by ADA JACKSON No tranquil ordered day of ours j But some tad paid its bloody price; No joy that brims our hands but lives By reason of dire sacrifice; No love but that fulfils itself ! Upon their broken loves; no nights Of quiet sleep but others wept Their cost on Golgotha’s grim heights. I hey gave their safety tor our own; i For us they fought and hied and died; Drained sorrow’s cup, took on themselves ; The anguish of the Crucified; Bought our slowr ease with pierced hands, Our laughter with their piteous cries; Our singing with pale silenced lips, Our wonder with their blinded eyes. I heir names are writ on every flower On every tree their sign is set. Birds are their words; by day and night ; The very stones cry out our debt. We will keep faith! Our hands take up The charge their dying hands let fall — And in an everlasting peace We build their proud memorial.