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Afire baffled winter, at fair spring’s first nod, i His weakened forces northward home hath I led, I While remnant dr^% <ab(T^' our path are 1 spread, The crocus bursts the Vp**clage of the sod, And, lo, where late among the snow we trod, j The blossom sunward lifts its dainty head, I White, purple, gold, along the garden bed. To oatch th$ first warm glances of its god. Thus, in some gloomy season of the heart. When sorrow all our joy hath overspread And ev’ry voice seems but to make us sad. New hopes arise ere pain can all depart; We fling aside the discontent and dread And go our way with faces bright and glad. —Mortimer Mansell in Chambers’ Journal. “MY COUSIN AMY.” Here is a story that Mr. Van Rensse laer Crossgrain told to a few of his cronies at the clr.b the other evening after the final brandy and soda. They never before suspected him of any senti mental weakness, but now they have their doubts about it. He did soften in the telling of it, even if when he had ftnisked he resumed his natural manner and swore at the waiter for showing a Eatural desire to clean up for the even ing and go, perhaps, to his sweetheart. Here’s his stray: “I have known inv cousin Amy since the days when she was 5 and I was 15, and that was many years ago. Still I sever during all that time suspected the truth, and I never knew it till it was too late. Then I learned what might have been, and as I thought the simple story over, it occurred to me it might in its moral prove useful to other young sters as blind as I was and have been. Fortune never knocks twice at a man’s door. Few of us know our caller when she visits us and are generally disposed to ignore her summons, taking her for a creditor or a bore. The only way is to learn from the experience of our elders. 1 “Young folks think that old folks are fools, old folks know that young folks are. Thus goes the old proverb the san jity of which never impresses one till ho has crossed 30. But let me tell you the story of my cousin Amy. i “To begin with, she was the sweetest girl that ever was or will be. And she jis so now. But that is only the comple ment of this story. Well, Amy was, is and will be the sweetest girl in the world. Still I never loved her—except .as a cousin and as a sweet girl, the (Sweetest I ever have seen or shall see. From now on—I don't know, I can’t jtell—but you are not interested in my future or Amy’s, so let’s get back to the story. Well, then, I have known my cousin Amy since she was 5 years old. Even then she had an infinite sweetness 'about her which was not overshadowed jeven by the fullness of life and spirits which was her second best charm. “Even at the age when young maids (of 5 do not live long in the thoughts of youths I was fond cf Amy. She was companionable even then, and though jat times noisy and persistent, she in fused her grace even into those dis agreeable qualities and made them hall lovable. This was Amy at the age of 8. Well yon know how a youth change* after 17. How he becomes then one thing or the other. Good or bad, studi ous or careless, serious or trifling. Dur ing the next ten years I saw Amy only now and then. She was changing and developing also, but I paid little atten tion to her growth. I was chasing after the false gods whose worship is so at tractive to the young man. Amy was only a child to me at my advanced years, and while family connections kept me in frequent contact with her, I thought of my old young friend only as a rather awkward, shy girl of 15, while I was rejoicing in the full man hood and unlimited experience and wis dom of 25. “When I saw her in those days I paid little attention to her. There was still the old sweetness there, the power of loving, the simple but strong attrac tiveness, but I was busy with my false gods and tinsel goddesses. You men of 30, you know where yon worshiped then, and you know how devout you were in your worship and how the fal lacy and hollowness of your creed never strike you till you have had five or ten years of it, and how then you learn your god is stuffed with the dirtiest kind of sawdust and the worship stinks in your nostrils. Well, I passed through that stage. I went the rounds and rejoiced in the designation of a rounder. No hog wallowed in his filth more luxuri ously than I, and it took me ten long years to learn that there was not and never can be anything in dissipation, that alcoholically stimulated spirits and the purchased affections of women are the bitterest mockeries on God’s earth. They are hell’s best counterfeits, but rank counterfeits they arts and only the so called keen eyes of youth are de ceived by them. “All this has a bearing on my story of Amy, because, thank God, after a while my eyes were opened and I saw the folly of my life. And, as when a man has thrown the bloom and flower of his youth in the gutters of dissipation he takes the faded remnants back to the highway, so I, seeing I had been giving much for nothing, bethought myself that perhaps the ways of decent people were wiser and I sought to tread them. So ciety does not condemn the male sinner. His social position is thrown like a cloak over his life and virtuous mothers who know from worldly husbands the story of his escapades are glad to show him their jewels in the way of marriageable daughters—that is, if he may be eligible. “Well, I was rich and eligible. I eas ily worked my way back into the society I had quit for what is styled Bohemia. I saw young women far more sweet and attractive than those who shine at pub lic balls, late suppers and fancy resorts. And among them shone conspicuous my cousin Amy. I had never entirely given up her society, but of late years I had seen less and less of her. It seemed to me her manner had changed. She was now a woman of the world, with her three crowded seasons-behind her. New York, Newport, London and the Riviera had been her stamping grounds, and I I even lier infinite sweetness—pardon the repetition of the word, but it fitted her —was partially covered though not ef faced by the manner of the woman of 22 years. I had not noticed this, or at any rate dwelt upon it, in our few meetings in the meantime. “Amy was still and had never ceased to be fond of me as an old friend and playmate, for in the far away old days we had even played together as children will. But I could never regain my exact old footing. After a while she did let me got a little closer, and then later I thought I noticed sometimes a return of something like the old camaraderie Was I falling in love with Amy? I did not say so. Then one day I heard some thing and the next day she told me something herself. “I knew the fellow and liked him. He was all that a man should be, and if any man could claim such a standing he was worthy of Amy. Still, for a mo ment I hated him, and could I have heard of his disgrace I would have re joiced ; I hardly knew why, but I felt why. But Amy was very happy, so happy that I forgave him, and she soft ened more toward me. “This is all of my story. It's enough for it’s a story of what was missed and of fortune turned away from the door at the first and last call. How do I know? I will tell yon. Amy was to be married after Easter. During Lent I passed a few days at her father’s place on the Hudson. She was so happy and grateful to this old world for her happi ness that she opened all her heart to me and told me her hopes and plans. So selfish is entire happiness. If she had confined herself to her future I might still have been fairly happy even in her and his happiness. But in the fullness of her spirits Amy lapsed into reminis cence. During one or our close and cordial conversations I noticed a look on her expressive face, a look half quizzical, half amused, and then she turned to me and smiled. Blushed? No. But when she told me this story I left her for a moment saying I thought I would smoke a cigar, though I forgot to light it when I got on the veranda. * ‘ I had spoken of her happiness, and without thinking what I was saying I asked her familiarly: “ ‘Amy, is that lucky fellow the first or are you giving him. only the rem nants of affection a pretty girl has left after three years of society?’ She laughed gayly and without embarrass ment. ‘ Yes and no, ’ she answered. ‘I have met no man in society 1 consider his equal in any way, and he has all the affection I possess, but I must make a confession to you, and I can do so safely now. I was in love once before, and oh, how in love I was. It was a foolish affair,’ she said smiling, ‘but at the time I was terribly in earnest. I have quite recovered, so I can tell you all about it. Do you remember some years ago when you were still quite re spectable and used to come and take tea with us every Sunday evening?’ “ ‘Of course I do, ’ I answered rather testily. “ ‘Well, you never knew I was in love then, did you?’ “ ‘Why no, certainly not, I never thought of it. You were a child,’ I re plied. “ ‘I was 15,’ she said, ‘and I was very much in love, and with you, you silly goose. You never knew it, you paid no attention to me, but would talk to father or some of the guests, and I would sit up and drink in your words and think them wisdom. Why, I re member one evening when I was sent up to bed at 9 o’clock I came back after the maid was gone and sat at the head of the stairs where I could hear you speaking. Then my feelings got the bet ter of me and I began to cry. Mamma heard me, but you didn’t, and she came after me and sent me back to bed, be sides giving me a good lecturing. ’ “And Amy laughed heartily and I thought with unnecessary gayety. And so I made a fool of myself. In a mo ment I felt that my cousin Amy was the one woman in the world for me and that she had really always been. (And she will always be.) “And I said to her, ‘Amy, you are telling me of years ago, may I tell you something of the present time?’ But she understood me, and Amy was loyal. For a moment only she seemed startled and drew a long breath. Then she smiled again. “ ‘No, no!’ she said with her old gay ety, ‘when your story is as old as mine, you may tell it to me if you like, but the exchange is not fair now. ’ Which I thought was a poor way out of it, and I told her so. “Still, when I left her and went out upon the veranda to smoke, I forgot to light my cigar.”—New York Sun. Nerves and Skyscrapers. A nervous condition bordering on prostration, to which the doctors have not as yet given a name, has lately been observed to affect persons who work many hours a day high up in the modem skyscrapers. The ailment re sembles nervous prostration, except in the principal symptom, which is a con | dition of intense restlessness and, as one ; of the victims to the new complaint ex | pressed it, ‘‘a singular desire to scream i or to get down to the earth quickly. ” A sensation of relief is noticeable ; when the patient is taken to grass, so | to speak, which leads some physicians i to the belief that the change in the ! rarity of the air, slight as it is, has a j peculiar effect upon certain very sensi j tive organizations. Others think that I the constant trips in the elevators cause ! a slight disarrangement of the nerve centers, which brings on the condition referred to. In any case, there is no doubt that a. new ailment has come among us with the advent of the sky scraper.—New York Journal. Chanced. “So Mr. Simpkins did not propose to you, Madge?” “No. He found out that I wanted to marry him, and it seemed to put him out of the notion. ’ ’—Chicago Record. A POSTER ROMANCE. She posed within a poster gown Beneath a poster tree ; A poster background wiggled down Into a poster sea. I mustered up a poster smile And said, “Oh, queerest lass. If you decide it worth your while, Our troth shall come to pass!” She viewed me with a poster frown And cried, “It cannot bo; You have no weird, grotesque renown: Too plain you are for me.” I wildly dashed upon my wheel; I scorched it here and there. Collided, spilled, and, with a squeal, I heard my garments tear. All mud and blood and rags I ride To her who did me fling; She drooped upon my neck and sighed, “Ah, now you’re just the thing!” —Chicago Record. HIS SPANISH GIRL. I wondered why Barry should be sit ting alone in the garden at 10 o’clock on a fine midwinter night. As I remem bered him, he had been a sociable sort of fellow, fond of gayety and pretty girls, and there was a cotillon going on indoors in the ballroom. I wondered, too, where his wife was, for he had told me he was married. It was six years since I had last seen him. We had been boys together, just out of college, and I had visited him for a summer in the southern part of the state, where his home had always been and where his family was one of the few “old” ones which could right ly lay claim to gentility of other than mushroom growth. After that visit I had gone back to San Francisco and to a truly San Fran cisco system of work, with the result that my health and spirits had steadily decreased, and at the end of these half dozen years I was obliged to come south for a long rest. I had chosen this delightful and quiet hotel in the hope that I might not have my peace disturbed by any of my numerous acquaintances, but here, the first thing, came down upon us in our retreat a crowd of wordlings from town, bent on dancing a cotillon. Barry had come with them. Why, then, I repeat ed, was he not in the ballroom, and where was his wife? Perhaps she did not dance. But, in that case, why was either of them with the frivolous party that was turning our secluded spot into ■bedlam? For a moment longer I let my gaze follow a girl in white satin, who had fascinated me. She was very young and brilliant and erect, with the face a painter would have chosen for Olym pia’s, wreathed in vines and serpents. A high, unnaturally white forehead, with very black and very straight, thin brows, eyes long and flashing and cruel, a large nose, suggestive of the Hebrew, thin, red lips, continually parted in a wild sort of smile over wonderful teeth; a brilliant color, a long face, black hair, parted and twisted low on one of the most columnar necks I had ever seen. It was not a beautiful face. In repose it was far from beautiful, but it was rarely in repose, and her laugh was the most bewildering thing imaginable. If she had been the heroine of a romance, men would have loved and hated her to the extent of the shedding of a great deal of blood, but in life today it is hard cash, not women’s faces, that ac complish that. I took one last look at the demoniacal young face and then went to hunt up Barry. We had already met in the office, but had not had time to exchange a dozen words. I wanted to talk over old times and new times, so, when I drew near him, I scraped my feet and coughed, as being the approved method of break ing in upon tetes-a-tetes and meditation, and when he started I said: “Hello! That you, Barry?” and took a seat be side him on the bench. He offered me a cigar and gave me a light, from which I inferred I was not unwelcome. “What are you doing, mooning un der a pepper tree? It seems to me danc ing’s more in your line, or doesn’t the madam dance?” “Yes; she dances. ” “Oh!” I said, and feeling slippery ground, proceeded to avoid it, “Came down from town tonight with the par ty, didn’t you?” I asked. “Yes.” “Heaps of pretty women. ” “Do you think so? I admire your northern women more. They have more distinction too. Ours fade early, be sides. ” “Well, there’s one girl there, by Jove, that makes up for a country of mediocrity—that witch of a flirt with the black hair and the very bare shoul ders who is dancing with Thornton. If I didn’t happen to have some one I like better in the city, I think I’d go in for her. ” “But she’s married, my friend. ” “No? Who’s the proud possessor?” ! “Iam.” You don t say? Since when?” “Since five years ago nearly. ” “Well, it’s a little late, but permit me to congratulate you. She is superb. ’ ’ “Thanks.” And then we lapsed into silence, and I reflected upon the facility with which a well meaning man may put his foot in it. “You wonder at my not dancing, don’t you?” he said abruptly. “Well, I used to like it. I like it now, but I found Mrs. Barry was already engaged, so there was nothing for me to do but to order flowers gracefully and step out here—to reflect and recall. “Do you know, ’’ he went on, “I had a romantic meeting and parting on this spot once, right under this very tree. It was just after I left you, six years ago—the meeting. I had ridden out from town on Nocturne. You remember her, the little black mare? I was walk ing her along a road which ran about six feet from here, just about where that Bon Silene bush is (it was before the days of the hotel), when all of a sud den she shied at what looked like a bun dle of old clothes under this tree. No, no; I wasn’t thrown, and I wasn’t res cued by the heroine. It was not much of a shy, just enough to make me look again at the bundle and wonder what it was—it was dusk, you know—and then to notice that the bundle moved. “Wherefore I concluded it was a woman, probably a Mexican. It was a woman, or a very young girl, rather, and a deuced pretty one—aMexioau too. I could see that, even in the twilight, for her eyes gleamed in the dark as on ly a pair of Mexican eyes can gleam, and there was an added brightness, for the eyes were wet with tears. How do I know? I dismounted and found out, of course. It isn’t likely I was going to see a woman prone on the ground a long way from the nearest habitation at nightfall and yet not offer her any assistance in my power. “Weil, as I said, she was crying stormily, and I set about finding out why. She told a most blood curdling tale of parental cruelty. It wasn’t true. I've found that out since. She was only 16, but she could tell an extraordinari ly good lie. As a matter of fact, sho had found that a particular flame of hers was going to take another girl to some shindy. But the cruel treatmeut story did nicely, and I comforted her—she was such a mere child, I honestly thought. The lie was innocent enough. They aren’t taught to think a falsehood anything serious. She was just a trifle shy and shrinking, like a little girl who puts her hands behind her and lowers her lashes at the advances of a stranger. In fact, that is exactly what she did. You should have seen those lashes. You’d have been just as big a fool as I was and have staid until the moon rose and made an appointment for an other meeting, and eventually you’d have fallen as badly in love as I did. “We always met under this tree. It was on her father’s land, but quite out of sight of the house. She said that if he were to find us together he would re double his brutality, but I assured her that if we were discovered we would run off at odco and get married. The child was iu one of her acquiescent moods and lowered her eyes and agreed. Of course I could only manage to get away on Saturday evenings or Sundays— this is the anniversary of our meeting, by the bye; you see I cling to old mem ories—but we made the most of our time. I never had been so infatuated as I was with that Spanish child, with her tawdry, bright frocks, her shy ways, her gorgeous eyes and her broken Eng lish. She really was Spanish and not Mexican, I learned.” xney au are, i ventured. “I know, but your sarcasm is wasted. In this case it was beyond question, and there was American blood in her veins, too—a little of it. “I insisted upon running away with her and getting married at sea, and, after no end of refusals, she finally con sented. Oh, I was far too smitten, too ensnared, to have it occur to me then how a match of the sort would hamper my career; how an ignorant country girl would prove a thorn in my flesh in the critical town clique; what a social drag she would be upon mel I knew the family would raise particular Cain, but when a man wants to marry in spite of his family he is apt to look upon it as a small stone to be kicked out of his path, and it takes him some time to dis cover that his pebble is a good sized bowlder. “But we quarreled. ” A long pause, while Barry lit another cigar from the old one and puffed it into glowing. I kept silence, and after awhile he went on: “You may think most women are fiery, but you should try a Spaniard. She got the cruel father—a harmless, shriveled up old fellow—to take her in to town behind one of his trotters one day. She wanted to buy a gown, which she told him was for some kind of a baile out here, but it was really to get married in. I had brought her a sample of the stuff I wanted her to get; other wise she’d have appeared in pink and green and white lace beyond a doubt. “Well, she saw me on the street with a city girl. I believe it was Nora Clarke. You remember her? She was the merest acquaintance, as you know, and I treat ed her as one does any woman one hap pens to meet. Wo passed a confection er’s, and I, naturally enough, asked her to have some soda water. I don’t sup pose I’d have done it if I’d known that Ysadora was around, simply because I was aware that she wouldn’t take it as an American fiancee would have done. ‘ ‘ But she was around, and she thought I was doing the deadly devoted, so the next Saturday, when we were to have run away, she met me with reproaches and tears and deviltry generally. She wouldn’t listen to reason. She tore up the new gown and refused ever to mar ry me or any other man, and she used some strong but musical Spanish. I fan cy she was more jealous than hurt, but I—well, I was completely done up. To say that she looked more beautiful than ever would be to put it weakly. When I saw her disappear for good over be hind that clump of eucalyptus, I was on the verge of suicide. Pity I stopped at the verge. lne fellow who has since built the hotel bought this Rpot, that saw our meeting and our parting, when her old father died, a year or so later. “You came along just as I was going over old memories and wishing—I sup pose I should not say it—wishing that it were six years ago, and that I was still blindly infatuated with my Span ish sweetheart of 16. ” i I am not fond of the modern unfinish ed story. I want to see the heroine laid in her grave by a host of weeping grandchildren, and the hero following her contentedly soon after, so I asked, “But what became of the girl?” ‘‘Nothing ever ‘ becomes’ in real life, ” he answered. j “Where is she now?” I persisted. I “In the ballroom, dauciug the cotil lon with Thornton. ” , “Then”— ! “Yea We made it up after her fa ther’s death and were married—on dry land—and have lived happily ever aft er,” he added, shrugging his shoulder* and throwing away his cigar.—Gwen dolen Overton in San Francisco Argo naut. IT WILL BE FAMOUS JUST HOW MAJOR M’KINLEY SHAKES HANDS. Does Not Allow Any One to Get a Good Grip on His Hand—The Reporter Makes a Careful Analysis of It—It Is a Great ' Favorite With the Ladies. The McKinley handshake will be a prominent feature of the campaign. To begin with, Major McKinley is always glad to shake hands with anybody. His bump of amiability is very large, and for two weeks it has been somewhat in flamed. As soon as he catches sight of a caller from his chair of state in one of the willow rockers on the porch he knows that the man has come princi pally to shake hands. As soon as the visitor has planted both feet on the porch in front of the screen door Major McKinley is there to meet him. His eyes beam with infinite kindness directly into the eyes of the visitor, and a gracious smile assures the caller that he will shortly be made to feel at home. The upper part of the major’s body then inclines to an angle of ten degrees, the hinge being at the base of his spine, and the points of the hem of his frockcoat swing back into a line with his knees. All the motions that follow are very deliberate. He crooks his elbow and holds his right hand, palm upward, on a level with the fourth button of his waistcoat, counting from the top. At this welcome sign that a handshake is in order, the major’s smile expands. The visitor then extends his right hand to meet the major’s grasp. As soon as the visitor’s hand starts for the grasp Major McKinley’s hand shoots out and seizes it by the fin gers, around which he entwines imme diately, before the visitor can slide his palm farther along. Thus he has a dis tinct advantage over his caller. The latter, having been unable to get a grip over McKinley’s palm, can exert no pressure whatever. While he fumbles for a leverage the major is busy giving his fingers a gentle squeeze. The major’s hand is small, soft and moist, like most women’s. Just as soon as he has a visitor’s fingers safe in his palm he pulls the hand toward him with a spasmodic motion so violent that in many instances the visitor re ceives a sharp twinge at the elbow. Then there is a short downward motion of the major's hand before it comes to rest. He hangs on to his visitor’s hand for a noticeable interval, during which the final words of the oral greeting pass. In nine cases out of ten the major begins a new sentence while holding the caller’s fingers. The caller by this time feels in every part of his being that he has re ceived the cordial attention of McKin ley and thrills with pleasure as the major relinquishes his hold and drops his hand to his side. The above is a bald statement of just how the major does his handshaking. Analysis of the operation reveals a sub tle but distinct motive. First, the steady, piercing glance and gracious smile hypnotize the caller and break down his guard. Unconsciously there after he does not wh:-t he wishes, but the will of the major. Second, the position of the major’s hand, close to his body, makes it imper ative that the caller’s hand move first Third, the caller’s hand, having start ed in motion in a straight line, is by its own momentum compelled to con tinue. At this instant the major seizes it where he will and does with it what pleases him. No satisfaction is given the hard and horny handed son of toil who yearns to give McKinley’s right a cable car grip. The man with bony tentacles cannot get a back hold on the major’s knuckles. The fat gentleman, with short, muscu lar fingers, cannot lame the McKinley little finger into a shapeless mass. Not a soul of them reaches the McKinley palm. They are brought up short every time, and the muscles of the most pow erful are impotent. The Herald man asked one of Major McKinley’s family today if this hand shake was a matter of habit or a crafty greeting planned to save the major’s fingers and muscles. “You can bet that it’s planned be forehand,” was the reply. “It’s a sharp man who gets hold of the major’s hand above the knuckles. Years ago he had some experience with that kind of a handshake. Now he is on the lookout for it and avoids it every time. He gets hold of the visitor’s fingers with a light ning pass, and that’s all there is to it. The major can squeeze all he likes, but the other fellow can’t do anything but hang on. ” Oue hates to believe this of the ma jor, whose greeting seems spontaneous and above crafty design, but careful observation confirms the truth of it. When the handshakers go by the major at the rate of from 30 to 50 a minute, the forward and back motion of his hand is as regular as the travel of the reciprocating parts of a low speed en gine. It is not a matter of surprise that everybody feels drawn toward him. They can’t help it. This McKinley handshake is a great favorite with the ladies. Ho gives their fingers just the tiniest squeeze, full of careful consideration and quiet cordial ity. In no case does he crook his right elbow upward and hold his hand in front of his chin for the fashionable handshake. The s<x:iety dame who wishes to shake hands with Major Mc Kinley must come down to the fourth button of his waistcoat or go “unshook. ’ ’ The stability of the McKinley hand shake is certain, and its permanency through the many trying mouths to come may safely be prophesied. It is not personally satisfactory, but it is politically prudent, and it goes._Bos ton Herald. A Parisian Fad. A Parisian novelty has reached our shores. It is a little watch the size of the smallest campaign button, made to fit the buttonhole. It is to be worn on the lapel of the coat. The of imitation has so frequently been paid by its contemporaries to the in recent years that those of their. readers who are not thoroughly Wide Awake would almost be excusable if they should occasionally lose sight of the fact that a born Leaders of Newspapers . like any other originator or pioneer, is never contented except in The Foremost Position. When “The Philadelphia Record” undertook nineteen years ago to demonstrate that the best of morning newspapers could oe made and sold for one cent, publishers were generally skeptical. Bnt the world of readers was not asleep. Consequently “The Record” was not long in reaching a com manding position, and, improving upon this, its circulation and influence were finally recognized among the foremost of America’s great journals. Hence the compliment of imitation, which is now paid to it in every city of note from the Atlantic coast to the Mississippi Valley. Every city worth mentioning, now has one or more good one-cent morning dailies, though so recently as only 19 years ago, Philadelphia and “The Record” stood alone in this respect. News Concisely Published without the omisions of any essen tial feature, is still the Best News, notwithstanding the once more prevalent tendency to pad it and stretch it out. The Busy Man’s Paper therefore, still originates, still leads and publishes more news to the column than its neighbors of larger dimensions. Tie Daily ana Sunday RECORD With their several inimitable and always inBtruc • five features in nddition to the day’s news from all the world, are now almost unrivaled in circulation as in good qualities. With an average daily circu lation of over 166,000 copies, and an average of about 120,000 on Sundays. “The Record" is still, regardness of all imitation, easily a leader of lead ing newspapers. A paper so good, with 10 to 14 pages for one cent, is still very properly a favorite. Though low in price it is never cheap, ont spares no expense that wilt give its readers the very best and freshest information of all that’s going on around t iein. THE DAILY EDITION of “The Philadelphia Record” is sent by mall for 13 per year, or •£> cents per mouth. The price of the daily and Sunday issues oucther. 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