6 BhCAUSE A BIRD SANG. Because a bird sang ere the raindrops wer« dry. Or sunbeams had driven the clouds from the sky, A dark life was brightened, a faint heart made strong; For trustful and glad were the tones of that song. He sang till he quickened a hope that was dead Gy elnging that song on the roof of the shed. The hope had been burled so long that I deemed 'Twas only some beautiful thing I had dreamed. It Quickened, and started, and wakened once more, And filled with the visions that charmed me of yore: So gladsome the tuat«nd the words that he said (That bird In his song on the roof of the shed). He sang and he warbled: "Oh, longing heart, wait! Though dim Is the future, yet kindly is fate. Believe it and trust it, O mortal, to be Replete with the dearest of treasures for thee." Bo hope has arisen and doubting is fled. Because of that song from the roof of the shed. —Hilda Muirhead. In Ladies' Home Journal. > j*. $ IffrT "YfcATS. [Copyright, 1897, by Longmans, Green & Co.] k SYNOPSIS. D'Auriae, commanding outpost where jcene is laid, tells the story. I>e Gomeron a In temporary command, appointed by Sen. de Rone to examine into a charge Against d'Auriac. Nicholas, a sergeant, brings in a man and woman, from king's tamp at Le Fere, prisoners. D'Auriac, angered by Insulting manner of de Gomeron toward woman, strikes him, duel follows and prisoners escape. Duel Is interrupted by appearance of de Rone, and d'Auriac is told he will hang If found alive at close of morrow's battle. Riding over field next day d'Auriac finds Nicholas, victim of de Gomeron's malice, In imminent danger of fleath, and releases him from awful pre dicament. After battle in which King Henry utterly routs de Rone's forces, d'Auriac, lying severely wounded, sees two forms moving through the darkness rob bing the bodies of the dead and wounded. They find golden collar on de Leyva's corpse, and Babette stabs Mauginot (her partner) to gain possession. Henry with retinue, among whom is fair prisoner who had escaped from de Gomeron and d'Ayen, fie'r suitor, rides over the field. Madame rescues d'Auriac, and afterwards visits him daily in hospital. Here he learns his friend is heiress of Bidache. When well enough he Is taken to her Normandy chateau, where he learns from Maitre Paliri, madame's chaplain, the king is about to force her to marry d'Ayen. He sets out with Jacques, his knave, for Paris, to prevent this marriage. Delayed at Kay, he he comes upon Nicholas, his old sergeant, ■who says de Gomeron is In neighborhood with associates from army and nobility, plotting treason against tbe king. They go to de Gomeron's retreat where they manage to overhear details of plot. Burn ing with revenge, Nicholas shoots at de Gomeron. Flying for their lives, the two men think themselves beyond pursuit, when suddenly they are face to face with Blron, one of the traitors, whom d'Auriac outs down, and with de Gomeron, who makes short work of Nicholas; d'Auriac escapes. Arriving In Paris the chevalier lays what he knows of treasonable plot be fore Sully, master general of ordnance. Calling on de Belin, a friend, d'Auriac se cures from him a servant, Ravaillac, who had previously been In service of d'Ayen. D'Ayen's marriage to Madame de la Bidache 1s to occur within fornight, de Belin to stand sponsor. Palin and madame arrive In Paris. D'Auriae has suspicions aroused concerning Ravaillac: later witnesses meeting with de Gomeron, therefore dis misses him. The chevalier is introduced at court by de Belin, where he charges Biron with being traitor to France and king. For his pains Henry gives him 24 hours to quit France. King now commands marriage to be celebrated on the morrow, making it imperative that flight occur that night, if madame be saved. D'Auriac therefore tneets her secretly, when masked men swoop down on pair and carry them off, bound and gagged. De Gomeron places him In what Babette, who is here, assures him is the safest room in the Toison d'Or. De Gomeron and Babette offer d'Auriac his freedom on condition that he will sign paper holding de Gomeron guiltless of any de sign against either himself or the madame. D'Auriac asks to be unbound and 24 hours in which to decide. Babette comes for his answer. By artifice he compels her to open his dungeon door. CHAPTER X V.—CON tin UED. The door swung outward, so that all I bad to do was to fold my prisoner's arm from the elbow along its face as I pushed it open. It kept her perfectly 6eeure and enabled me to take a precau tion that, it turned out, was needed; for, as I pushed the door, I drove the death hunter back with it, and the mo ment it was sufficiently open to let me pass I sprang 1 out and seized her left arm. Quick as I was, however, I was not quite quick enough to avoid the blow of her dagger, and received a flesh wound, which, however, was, after all, but slight. Then there was another struggle, anil affairs were adjusted be tween Babette and myself without any special harm being done to her. "Now listen to me," I said. "What ever happens, I will kill you first if there is any treachery. Take me straight to madame." "She is not here," was the sullen re ply. "Then I take you with me to the Hotel de Yille. Come to your senses." She broke into the most terrible im precations: but time was precious, and 3 quenched this readily enough, and at last it was clear she was utterly cowed. Again I repeat that no harm was done, and it was only dire necessity that com pelled me to use the violence I did. "Come"—and I shook her up —"where is madame?" She looked from right to left with a quick, uneasy motion of her eyes. "I do not know —she is not here." "Look here!" and [ gave my prisoner <a shake. "I fully believe that madame is here, and if you wish to save yourself from the rack—it hurts more than what I have done to you—you w ill see that no harm comes to her. You follow." She was speechless; but her eyes were blazing with wrath as she made a sul len movement of her head. "You had better tell M.de Gomeron, your ma?that i refuse his terms. It will save him the trouble of knowing that 1 have escaped you uuder &t.and." This time she nodded eagerly enough. "Now," I went on, "wo will open the last door." 1 took the bunch of keys, and after a try or two succeeded in hitting on the right one. After this I pushed Babette before me into the small flagged yard, a«d saw to my surprise that it was night, and that the moon was out. Then I gave the fact no further thought beyond an inward "Thank God!" for the uncertain moonlight that would cover my escape. As 1 pushed my cap tive along the shadow of the wall until we came to the entrance gate, I looked around and above me carefully, but there was nothing to indicate where madame was. A hundred times was 1 tempted to turn back and risk all in searching the house for her, and it was only because I was convinced that the sole chance of saving her was to be free first myself that I did not give into my desire. On reaching the gate I dis covered that there was a wicket in it large enough to squeeze a man's body through, and that this was closed but by a heavy pair of iron cross-bars, a secure enough defense from the outside. Holding Babette at arms'length from me, I put down the bar and opened the wicket. Then, still keeping my hold on her, I freed her hands, and, bending slightly forwards and looking her straight in the face, said: "Remember! And adieu, Mine, de —Mauginot." At these words, which brought back to her memory her crime on the battle field of La Fere, she shrank back, her eyes seemed to sink into their sockets, and as I loosed my hold of her shoul der she fell in a huddled heap on the flags of the yard. CHAPTER XVI. A COUNCIL OF WAR. As I slipped through the wicket I cast a hurried glance around me, and then, acting 011 the impulse of the mo ment, ran forwards along the road for about 50 paces with Babette's dagger clenched in my hand. There I was brought to a stand by a dead wall, studded with iron spikes at the top, which rose sheer above me for fully 20 feet and barred all further progress. It was evident that the Toison d'Or stood in a blind alley, and that I had taken the wrong turning. Not even ;wi ape could have scaled the moss-grown and slippery surface of those stones, and, leaning against a buttress in the darkest corner of the wall, I stood for a moment or so and waited, determined to sell my life as dearly as possible should Ibe pursued. There was no sound, however; all was still as the grave. So I stole forth from the shadow of the buttress, and, keeping the dagger ready to strike, retraced my steps past the Toison d'Or and along' the winding and crooked passage, keeping as far away from the walls as possible to avoid any sudden attack, until at last 1 found myself in a cross street, down which I went, taking note of such landmarks as I could to guide me back, when I should return with vengeance in my right hand. The cross street led into other winding and twisting lanes, whose squalid inhabitants were either flitting up and down or quarreling amongst themselves, or else sitting in a sullen silence. How long I wandered in that maze of streets I cannot say, but at last I came upon an open space, and finding it more or less empty stopped to take my bear ings. My only chance to get back to my lodging that night—and it was aIT im portant to do so—was to strike the Seine at some point or other; but in what di rection the river lay I could not, for the life of me, tell. At last I determined to steer by the moon, and holding her track to the souHiwest of me went on, keeping as a landmark 011 my left the tall spire of a church, whose name I then did not know. So I must have plodded 011 for about an hour, until at last I was sensible that the street which I was in was wider than the oth ers I had passed through, and, finally, I saw before me a couple of lanterns, evi dently slung on a rope that stretched across a street much broader still than the one I was in. That, and the sight of the lanterns, convinced me that I had gained one of the main arteries of the city, and it was with an inward "Thank God" that I stepped under the light and looked about me, uncertain which direc tion I should take; for if I kept the moon behind me, as I had done hitherto, I should have to cross over and leave the street, and I felt sure that this would be a serious error, and that would only lead me into further difficulties. It was as jet no more than a half hour or so beyond Compline, so the street was full; and unwilling to attract the atten tion of the watch, which had a habit of confining its beat to places where it was least required, I began to stroll slowly down, determined to inquire the way of the (irst passer-by who looked in a mood amiable enough to exchange a word with so bedraggled a wretch as I was then. I had not long to wait, for in a short time I noticed one who was evidently a weil-to-do citizen hurrying along with a persuading staff in his right bund, and the muffled figure of a lady clinging 011 to his left arm. I could make out noth ing of her; but the man himself was short and stout of figure, and Iran to the conclusion that he must be a cheery soul, for, as far as I could see by the light of the street lamps, he looked like one who enjoyed a good meal and a can to follow, ami, approaching, I addressed him: "Pardon, monsieur, but I have lost my way." I had hardly spoken so much, when, loosening his arm from the lady, the littje man jumped back a yard and be gan flourishing his stick. "Stand back!" called out the little man. dabbing his stick at me. "I!e still. Mangel. So you wish to find the rue de Bourdonnais, sir?" "He had better find the watch," in terrupted Maitre Mangel, "they have CAMERON COUNTY PRESS, THURSDAY, MARCH 23, 1899. gone that way towards the Porte St. Martin." "Then this is the—" "Rue St. Martin." "A hundred thanks. I now know where I am, and have only to follow my nose to get where 1 want. I thank you ouce more, and good-night." At last I was once again in the rue des Deux Mondes, very footsore and weary; but kept up by the thought of what 1 had before me, and ready to drop dead before I should yield to fatigue. There was 110 one in the street, and, seizing the huge knocker, 1 hammered at the door in a manner loud enough to waken the dead. It had the effect of arousing one or two of the inhabitants of the ad joining houses, who opened their win dows and peered out into the night, and then shut them again hastily, for the wind blew chill across the l'asseur aux Vaches. There was 110 answer to my knock, and then 1 again beat furiously at the door, with a little sinking of my heart as it came to me that perhaps some harm had befallen these good people. This time, however, I heard a noise within, and presently Pantin's voice inquiring in angry accents who it was that disturbed the rest of honest people at so late an hour. "Open, Pantin!" I sheuted. "It is I —do you not know me?" Then I heard another voice, and a sudden joy went through me, for it was that of my trusty Jacques. "Grand Dieu! It is the chevalier! Open the door, quick, man!" It was done in a trice, and as I stepped in Pantin closed it again rapidly, whilst Jacques seized my hand in his, and then, letting it go, gambolled about like a great dog that has just found its mas ter. I noticed, however, at the first glance I took around, that both Pantin and Jacques were fully dressed, late as it was, and that the notary was very pale, and the hand in which he held a lantern was visibly trembling. "Monsieur," he began, and then stopped, but I understood the question in his voice and answered at once: "Pantin, I have come back to free her —come back almost from the dead." "Then, monsieur, there are those here who can help you still—l had thought you brought the worst news,"and he looked at me where I stood, soiled and wet. "This way, M. le Chevalier," he continued. "In a moment, Pantin," cut in Dame Annette's voice, and the good woman came up to me with a liagon of warniefl wine in her hand. "Take this first, chevalier, 'tis Maitre Pantin's nightcap; but 1 do not think he will need it this night. God be thanked you have come back safe." I wrung her hand and drained the wine at a draught, and then, with Pan tin ahead, holding his lantern aloft, we ascended the stairs that led to my apart ments. As we went up I asked Jacques: "Did you manage the business?" "Yes, monsieur; and Marie and her father are both safe at Auriac. I rode I WAS NOT QUICK ENOUGH. back almost without drawing rein, and reached here but this afternoon; and then, monsieur, I heard what hau hap pened, and gave you up for lost." At this juncture we reached the small landing near the sitting-room I had occupied, and Pantin, without further ceremony, flung open the door, and an nounced me by name. 1 stepped in, with some surprise, the others crowding after me, and at the first glance recog nized to my astonishment de Belin, who had half risen from his seat, his hand on his sword hilt, as the door was ilung open, and in the other figure, seated in armchair, and staring moodily into the iire, saw Palin, who, however, made no movement toward turning his head, and looking coldly at me. Not so Belin, for he sprang forward to meet me, in his impulsive way, calling out: "Arnidieu! You are back! Palin, take heart, man! He would never have come back alone." The last words struck me like a blow, and my confusion was increased by tin' demeanor of Palin, who gave no sign of recognition, and there 1 stood in the midst of them fumbling with the hilt of my sword, and facing the still motion less figure before me, the light of the candles falling on the stern, drawn fea tures of the Huguenot. My forehead grew hot with shame and anger, as 1 looked from one to an other, and then, like a criminal before a judge, I faced the old man and told him exactly wlmt had happened—all except one thing which I kept back. At tilt; mention of Ravaillac's name, and of his identity with the capuchin, the vis compte de Belin swore bitterly under liis mustache; and but for that excla mation my story was heard in stillness to its bitter end. For a moment one might have heard a pin fall, and then Palin said: "And you left her—there!" The dry contempt of his manner sturg me; but I could say. nothing save mut ter: "I did what I could." "The one ewe lamb of the fold—the last and Che best beloved," he said, as if speaking to himself, and then in a sud den fury he sprang to his feet; "but why do we stand prating here? There are five of us, and we know where she is—come." But Belin put his band on his shoul der. "Patience, Maitre Palin pa tience." "I have had enough of patience, and enough of trusting others," and Uhe Huguenot shook off t he hand and looked at me with a scowl. "Come, M. d' Au rhu\ if you would make amends, lead me to this Toison d'Or and we will see what an old arm can do." "I am ready," I answered. But Belin again interfered. "Messieurs, this is madness from what I 'have gathered, d'Auriac will prove but a blind guide back —we are not, moreover, sure that madame is there —sit still here, you I'alin—neither you nor d'Auriac are fit to think. Fore Gad! It was lucky I thought of iliisfor our meeting place to-night, Palin—sit still and let me think." "I can think well enough," I cut in, "and I have my plan; but I should like to ask a question or two before I .speak." "And tihese questions are?" "I presume I am suspected of this ab duction ?" "And of more. N'nm deDien! Man! your mare was found dead, and beside her one of tlie marshal's guards, run through the heart," answered de Belin. "Then of course if I am seen I am in danger?" "A miracle only could save you. The king is enraged beyond measure, and swears he will let the edict go in its full force against you. The camarguer has made a fine story of it, saying how he tried to stop the abduction, but failed in the attempt." "In short, then, it would ruin all chances if we adopt Maitre I'alin's sug gestion." "You are saving me the trouble of thinking." "Again," I went on,"it is not certain if madame is still at the Toison d'Or, and apart from that I doubt, if I could find my way back there to-night, unless anyone could guide me," and I looked at the Pantins, who shook their heads sorrowfully. [TO HE CONTINUED.] NOT A POPULAR TRADE. One of ltn Followers \V1»o Got Xo Sympathy When He Complained of the Hard Time*. Three men were standing in front of the post office, and to one of them came a fourth. One of the three did not know the newcomer, and stepped aside slight ly, but he overheard the conversation: "Well, John, huff's things?" "Poor, very poor. 1 haven't had a thing to do for three weeks." "Is that so?" "Sure. If this streak of bad luck keeps up I'll have togo out of busi ness." Instead of commiserating, the other two men grinned, and one said, in an unfeeling tone: "I don't care if you never have work." John shook his head sadly and passed on. The listener was shocked. He had never heard anything so bluntly cruel. In a few moments he expressed his feel ings somewhat warmly. "lie seems like an honest fellow, and deserves encouragement," he con cluded. Both men laughed outright. "Well," said one at length, "if you want to give him a job, you're wel come. lie is an undertaker."—Chicago Times-llerald. Short FliKlitM. The man who works for his father in-law is sure of a steady job. Even the invention of the flying ma chine won't enable us to visit our castles in the air. The poor shot won't hit much, even with a double-barrel gun. The man who keeps his mouth shut never gets a black eye. Many of us would work for posterity if we could get our pay in advance. The danger of making a false step depends entirely on whether you are at the top or the bottom of the stairs. When your poor relatives begin to gather at your bedside it isn't neces sary to ask the doctor if he thinks you are going to die.—X. Y. World. "Isabel tlie Olifttlnate." Isabelle de Yillaines became queen of Yvetot in or about 1455. She is known as "Isabel the Obstinate," and with some reason. Her guardians wished her to marry a greait •sieur or well-born gen tleman, but Isabelle stoutly refused, It turned out that her whole heart was set upon a certain playfellow of her childhood, Jean Chenu, son of a small farmer and nephew of Isabelle's in structor, the abbot of St. Wandrille .lean went to the wars to seek his for tune, returning home a belted knight, and married the faithful Queen Isabelle of \ vetot, who had waited "obstinately' for his return. —Gerald Brenau, in St. Nicholas. Not True Love. Daughter—l will have to break my en gagement with Mr. Nieefeller, mother, I find I do not love him. Mother—When did you make that dis covery ? Daughter—Last evening. T saw him out walking with another woman, and I did not want to murder her at all.—X. Y. Weekly. CSot What He Wan After. Yeast—l understand Snapton has been after a political job. Criinsonbeak—Yes; I see he's not do ing anything now. I guess he must have got it.—Youkers Statesman. The Important Tiling:. "The marriage at Splicer's was a fail ure, was it not?" "\\ ell, in a measure. The groom didn'l show up, but we had a spanking good supper."—X. Y. Journal. Every Dofsr Ha* 111* Day. Black —I'm leadiing a dog's life. White—Xever mind, old man; you day is coming.—Up to Data. YOUNG ROCKEFELLER Made a Railway Director at the Age of Twenty-Three. lie Ik a. VomiKHtrr Frnli from Col leice, an Athlete and « ( iinittli'ii tioai Worker—Amerlean Type Of "(illidt'H IMk." Young John I). Itockefeller is now a Lackawanna director, say* the New York World. At 23 years of age, without previous experience in railroad management or important personal holdings of the stock of the road.be sitsiin conference with men grave and gray, like Samuel Sloan, as his father's representative. Without the influence of the senior Rockefeller he might have achieved a seat on an important railroad direc torate in 15 or 20 years of strenuous effort. Young Mr. Rockefeller is a type of a new development in American finance. In London they call a man who, be cause of family influence rather than his personal attainments, is elected a member of financial boards* and sits silent at their meetings a "guinea pig," because a bright, new-minted golden guinea is paid to each director present. Undoubtedly Mr. Rockefeller will be in time a valuable member of financial boards, for he has ability and a serious purpose; but that does not prevent a certain incongruity in his election. The directors of American corpora tions meet at varying intervals, and each director present receives asi his fee a coin of gold, sometimes ten dol lars, sometimes only five dollars. Bank directors meet weekly to con sider commercial paper. The full boards of railroadsi come together less often, because many of the members live at distant pointsi. In these cases a meeting of the full board may come only once a month; but there is usual ly an executive committee, composed of -a few of the more active members living near at hand, who meet more frequently—once a week or even oft ener. The presiding officer of this smaller meeting iscalled the chairman of the road, and each member receives JOHN I>. R<X"KEFELLER, JR. (Elected Railway Director at the Age of Twenty-Three.) the same fee as for a full board meet ing. Then there is a large and increas ing number of local corporations, the "industrials" and the street car lines, whose directors meet as often as those of the banks. It is obvious that a young feSlow fresh from college can, by a wealthy father or uncle, be putin a position to add agreeably to his by at tending board meetings. To receive ten dollars, or even five dollars, for a meeting which may last only a few minutes is pretty good luck for a young fellow just out of college. It has been estimated tliatChauneey M. Depew receives SBOO a month in fees for attending meetings of boards or of executive committees. This may easily be the case, as several meetings might be attended in the same day, each oc cupying but a short time. In Dr. Depew's case, many of the boards meet in the same building. Without quitting the vast root of the Grand Central station, Ne-» York, he can attend the meetings of a good many different lines of important rail roads. In the case of a young fellow frdm college, a seat in a board room is mere ly continuing his education. From the lecture room of the gray and spectacled professor of ethics he enters/the room where, sitting silent in a great padded chair, he can hear the master minds of the century discuss its greatest prob lems —finance, transportation, produc tion. Young Rockefeller is a graduate of Brown university. lie is quiet, siimple, straightforward, of medium height, like his father, but more strongly built. lie has developed his muscles in the gymnasium and on the football field. He is fond of horseback riding. He does not drink or smoke; unques tionably he does not gamble. Mr. Rockefeller teaches a Sunday school class, as his Dather did at one time. He worships at Dr. Faunce's Fifth Avenue Baptist church, lie plays the violin, but seldom attends public musical performances. The Lackawanna is a road which would commend itself to a religious investor. It runs fewer Sunday trains in proportion than any other great line —usually upon the plea of a pretty well defined public necessity. Young Rockefeller is already well versed in the business of the Standard Oil trust, lie is an employe in the New York office and he keeps office hours, working side by side with other young men who have no hope of inheriting fortunes, and he asks no od'ds of them. It is likely that Mr. Rockefeller's election to the Lackawanna directorate will be followed by similar distinctions conferred by the Standard Oil trust, the Brooklyn Union Gas company, the Missouri, Kansas & Texas railroad, the steel trust and other important bodies in which his father has large financial interests. "Out of S Out In other months ive forget the harsh 'winds of Spring. 'But they have their use, as some say, to blcnv out the bad air accumulated after Winter storms and Spring thazus. There is far more important accumulation of badness in the veins and ar teries of humanity, which needs Hood's Sarsaparilla. Tliia great Spring Medicine clarifies the blood as nothing else can. It cures scrofula, kidney disease, liver troubles, rheumatism and kindred ailments. Thu9 it gives perfect health, strength and ap petite for months to come. Kldney9 - " My kidneys troubled me, and on advice took Hood's Sarsaparilla which gave prompt relief, better appetite. My sleep is refreshing. It cured my wifa also." MICHAEL BOYL*. 3473 Denny Street, Pittsburg, Pa. Dyspepsia— "Complicated with li7»r and kidney trouble, I suffered for years with dyspepsia, with severe pains. Hood's Sarsaparilla made me strong and hearty." J. B. KMEBTO.V, Main Street, Auburn, Me. "■ Hip Disease -"Five running sores on my hip caused me to use crutches. Wat confined to bed every winter. Hood's Sar saparilla saved my life, as it cured me per fectly. Am strong and well." AN Ml ROBERT, 4'J Fourth St., Fall Kiver, Mass. Hood's I'ills rure Hvwr lll», thw non-lrrltftting and v •• j ' ttliarti«' to with Ho*»l'n Sarsaparilla. War Was a lllfn»inK. "This here last war," remarked the old lady, ''has been a blessin' to my fam'ly; John draw in' of a big pension fer one ear an' three fingers; the ole man's writin' a. war history; Moll's engaged to a sergeant, an' Jennie's gwine to marry a feller that come within an ace of bein' a gin'rul!"—At lanta Constitution. Settlers WUDIIMI I*n MtelilKan Farm Lands, Choice cleared and stump lando in Central and Western Michigan, suitable for fruit and general farming. Very low prices and favorable terms to actual settlers. Excel lent schools and markets. Write 11. H. Howe, Land Agent & W. M.and D., G. R. & W. R'ys, <Jrand Rapids, Mich. It has been said that speech was given man to conceal his thoughts. This is nut the true answer. Speech was given toman to prevent other people from talking.— Boston Transcript. Crescent Hotel, Eureka Springs, Ar* kimii, Opens February 23. In the Ozark Moun tains. Delightful cilmate. Beautiful scenery. Unequaled medicinal waters. Cheap ex cursion rates. Through sleepers via Frisea Line. Address J. 0. Plank, Manager, Room 11, Arcade, Century Building, or Frisco Ticket Office, So. 101 N. Broadway, St. Louis, Mo. Human Mature. "How did you manage to pass such crude esins?" they asked him. "Oh, people want money so bad!" replied ♦.he counterfeiter, acutely, if not graminat* ically.—St. Louis Globe-Democrat. Goto work on Lumbago as if you intended to cure it. Use St. Jacobs Oil. Cholly—"Why do they say a little learn ing is a dangerous thing?" Dolly—"If you ever get any you will find out."—Yonkers Statesman. _Cure Rheumatism with St. Jacobs Oil— Promptly. It saves money, time, suffering. ITe who neglects present duties, may t?ver overtake future opportunities.— Ram's Horn. [keeping Consumption Do not think for a single | moment that consumption will ever strike you a sudden blow. It does not come that way. It creeps its way along. First, you think it is a little cold; nothing but a little hack ing cough; then a little loss in weight: then a harder cough; i then the fever and the night 1 sweats. t : The suddenness comes when I you have a hemorrhage. t Better stop the disease while I I it is yet creeping. You can do it with H Ajjer's I Cherry J Pectoral 1 You first notice that you cough less. The pressure on the chest is lifted. That feeling of suffocation is removed. A cure is hastened by placingone of Dr. Ayer's Cherry Pectoral Plaster over the Chest. A Book Froom It is on the Diseases of tbe I Throat and Lungs. S Wrlfo ua Fraaly. If you have any complaint whatever fi and desire the best medical advice you flj . ran possibly receive, writ* the doctor H ■ freelv. You will receive a prompt reply,ffo without coot. Address. DK. J. C. AYEK, Lowell, Mast. M idlill idlill ifr"
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers