i
i
. you know——" Miss
RE TCV
An Old Maid’s Tragedy
By A. ST. JOHN ADCOCK.
L0D
I
AVING had the whole day in
which to reflect and prepare
herself, Miss Gurney had got
her feelings so well under
control that she was able to hand
the photograph to Hester across the
tea table and say without a tremor
in her voice, ‘I picked this up on the
floor, Hester, after you were gone
this morning.”
The girl took it from her eagerly;
she had been in trouble about it all
day, wondering where she had lost it,
and, in a flutter of relief and embar-
rassment, slipped it into her pocket
now without a word; but Miss Gur-
ney noticed that her cheeks blushed,
and then a rosier red surged back
and overflowed them.
The silence between them became
too strained not to be broken.
“You did not tell me, Hester, that
Gurney hesi-
tated. “Is he—a friend of yours,
dear?”
*“Yeag, aunt.”
“How long have you known him?”
“Not very long. Not more than
three months.”
This explained to Miss Gurney the
change it had puzzled her to observe
in Hester lately; her placid, subdued
habit of mind had seemed altogether
disturbed, so that sometimes she
sang for very happiness, with a
strange, new light in her eyes, and
sometimes she was saddened and pre-
occupied with pensive dreamings.
“I hope, Hester,”” Miss Gurney
forced herself to say in her prim, de-
cisive fashion, ‘‘there has been no—
no talk of love betwixt you and this
gentleman.”
Hester flashed an answering glance
on her and looked down, without
speaking, but the answer was so clear
to Miss Gurney as if it had been put
into actual words.
“My dear,” she went on, striving
against her increasing agitation, *I
am very, very sorry. I wish it had
been any other man——."’
“But, aunt,”” Hester interrupted,
astonished, “you do not know him!”
“I know,” Miss Gurney faltered—
“I knew a man so like him—so ex-
actly like him, that the moment I saw
his photograph I was afraid for you,
dear. It is impossible for that man
to bring you anything but misery.
Hard, and false, and cruel >
‘Oh, but, aunt,” cried Hester, tear-
fully indignant, ‘he is not! If you
knew him you could never say that
again.”
“But why have you never told me
about him?”’
“I have been wanting to.”” Hes-
ter flushed again with a pretty shy-
ness that appealed irresistibly to all
the tenderness and affection of the
gentle, little old lady's nature. “I
meant to, aunt, but I—I did not quite
know how to. I meant to show you
his photograph—he only gave it to
me yesterday—and tell you then.”
‘“And of course’—Miss Gurney as-
sumed a severity of manner she
found it difficult to maintain— ‘he
tells you that he loves you?”
“He has asked me to marry him,
aunt.”
“And you fancy that you love
him?”
* With this question and her earnest,
passionate reply, Hester broke down
utterly. She flung herself on her
knees, and, covering her face with
her hands, laid it in Miss Gurney’s
lap, and sobbed all her heart out
thus, as she had done years ago
when it had been laden with more
childish griefs.
Miss Gurney herself was scarcely
less agitated.
“There, dearie, you mustn't ery so.
I did not mean to be unkind.” she
said, her eyes dimmed and her thin
hands shaking as she passed them
taressingly over the fair, bowed head.
“But I have seen more of the world
than you have, dear, and—I have
never told you yet—the man I loved
spoilt my life, and made me the poor,
broken-spirited creature I am: and
this portrait is so like what he used
to be—so exactly like, that ever since
I saw it I have been dreading—oh, I
don’t know what! I believe I could
kill him, Hester, if I thought he
would cause you half the suffering I
have endured through his——. But
there, it is too late for me to say
anything now. If you love him, I
know whatever I can say would make
no difference.” She added presently,
in the calm, even: tones that were
habitual to her: “You have not told
me his name, Hester. What is his
name?”
She had to wait and ask a second
time before Hester had regained suf-
ficient composure to reply.
‘‘Richard Harwood,” Miss Gurney
repeated mechanically, nodding
thoughtfully, as if she had only been
‘confirmed in what she knew already.
a
.#And where does he live?”
Hester mentioned an address at
‘Kensington.
“He is a gentleman—and rich?”
pursued Miss Gurney.
“Yes; his father is rich.”
“And does he know. how
are?’
Oh, yes, aunt;
working for my liv
How was it you first happened to
meet him?”
“He is distantly related to Madame
Faber.” Madame Faber wae
fashionable milliner at whose
he knows I ami
o
| with her chi
=
establishment in Oxford Street Hes-
ter had been engaged these- last
(twelve months or more. ‘‘He came
in one day with some message from
his sister, I think, and he has called
once or twice since, and then—he
met me as I was coming home, and
walked with me, and »
‘““And he has happened to meet you
more than once?” Miss Gurney
smiled, but became serious again.
“You should have told me, dear, and
have brought him to see me. Why
didn’t you? You were not ashamed
of his seeing ‘what a poor sort of
home we lived in?”
“Oh, no, no, aunt!’’ Hester protest- |
ed. “He would have come—I would |
have brought him, but I wanted to |
tell you about him first.”
And she told her about him now,
and. it was all only that she loved |
him, and she loved him more than all |
the world, and she had promised ie
be his wife, but |
There was bound to be a “‘but;” it
was what Miss Gurney had been lis- 4
tening for.
“But it will not be for a long;
while, because he is going away——"’
“Going away, child! Why? Where
to?’
‘““He has spoken to his “father
about me,” said Hester, her lips quiv-
ering, “and he refuses to see me, and
threatens to turn Richard into the
street if he will not give me up.”
“They are rich, you see, dear,”
murmured Miss Gurney, bitterly,
‘and we are poor. Probably his
mother——"’
‘“‘She has been dead several years.'y
“Then it is his father. He prob-
ably intends his son to marry money,
or social influence »
“But Richard won’t. He says he
will never marry any one but me. If
I will wait for him.”
“Why is he going away?”
“His father is sending him to man-
age a large branch of his business in
Ceylon. He is to be out there three
years—perhaps longer. His father
is only sending him, he says, so as
to separate him from me, and he
can’t refuse to go without ruining his
prospects, and for my sake he does
not want to do that. I don’t care
whether he is rich or poor, but Rich-
ard says if his father turns him
adrift he would have nothing-—and
so it is best to wait, because he will
never change, and I shall never
change. And so he is going away at
the end of this week. I can’t bear
him to go. I might never see him
again; but if he lives, he will come
back to me.”
She said it half defiantly, half de-
spairingly, and laid her head on Miss
Gurney’s lap aagin to hide her tears.
For fully ten minutes neither of
them spoke; then, rousing herself
with a heavy sigh, Miss Gurney said,
hesitatingly:
“I might do something. I don’t
know what I can do—but bring him
home with you to-morrow evening,
and let me see him, dear. If he is
all you think he is—but let me see
him for myself. Bring him with you
to-morrow evening.”
11.
And the following evening, when
Richard Harwood came, Miss Gurney
was easily converted to Hester’s opin-
ion of him. His frank, honest eyes,
his unaffected simplicity of speech
and manner, his diffidence, his shy
adoration of Hester, his unconceal-
able love of her—all conspired to
win Miss Gurney’s confidence and ap-
proval, and won them in spite of her-
self. ’
Again and again, while he was
there, and after he was gone, she
owned, grudgingly at first, but with
a growing satisfaction, that he real-
ized her girlhood’s ideal of the man
she had loved years ago, and was not,
as she had feared, a reincarnation of
that man as she saw him now in the
light of bitter remembrances—cruel,
heartless, faithless.
She lay awake that night living
through again in thought the long
past happiness and misery that the
sight of Richard Harwood had
brought back upon her with renewed
intensity. She had loved, and was
to have married, but seemed predes-
tined to misfortune. First it was
her mother’s death that postponed
the marriage; then, a year later, her
father's; and her father dying bank-
rupt, the man she loved had ulti-
raately yielded to the wishes of his
family and broken his engagement
with her, through her blind love of
him, and could leave her to bear
alone a shame whose memory was
not buried in that little grave in the
far off country churchyard, but lived
to haunt her yet, and sear her very
soul as often as it returned to her.
She had never seen the man since, or
written to him; she was too proud to
ask anything of his pity, and all the
love she had felt for him had died
within her.
She left her old home and came to |
1 her living in London among
le who knew nothing of her his-
3eing clever with her needle, {
>on able to support herself
the solitary, loveless life |
i and hardening and
when He - came |
needs ar sympa- |
frost that had gath- |
embitt
dis
thies to meit the
| ered about her heart and reconcile |
ible comfort, but the hard |i
| pir an my own.
her to humanity an@ make the world
habitable again.
Hester was the orphaned child of
Miss Gurney’s younger sister, and it
was not strange that the two, each
left desolate, should grow to be all
in all to each other. If Miss Gur-
ney’s love was the deeper, the more
self-sacrificing, that was not strange
either. She was no longer young,
and had not hoped that her forlorn
heart hunger would ever be satisfied,
but Hester had come and satisfied
it. It was enough for her now that
ta2rve was one living creature whom
she could love and who loved her,
and her love for Hester was such
that to insure her happiness she
would gladly have endured rebuffs
and humiliations that she would
sooner have died than have submit-
ted to for any advantage to herself.
No self-interest could have anni-
hilated her pride and urged her to
such lengths as she went unhesita-
tingly for Hester's sake.
She rose the morning after Rich-
ard Harwood’s visit with a great re-
solve already fixed in her mind. She
dared not reflect too much upon it or
upon all its fulfillment must mean
to her, for fear her courage should
fail her; but early in the evening
i she traveled westward, and for the
first time, realized her intention to
the utmost, and was alarmed at her
own temerity when she found her-
self knocking at the door of the state-
ly house in Kensington.
If her knock had not been heard
she felt she would not have dared to
repeat it; but it was heard, and a
supercilious footman presently
, opened the door.
“Is Mr. Harwood at home?’ she
asked, shrinkingly.
The man eyed her dubiously; she
made a rather shabby, quite insig-
nificant little figure standing there
on the doorstep.
‘“Well—yes—he’s at home.
might you want him for?”
His lofty condescension roused her
to resentment, and so stiffened her
drooping pride and at once restored
her self-control.
“Will you tell Mr. Harwood, my
man, that Miss Gurney wishes to see
him? Say Miss Gurney, formerly of
Barndene, please.”
He sullenly obeyed, and after an
interval, returned to her in the hall
with a perplexed expression darken-
ing his countenance.
“Mr. Harwood will see you.
way, please.”
She followed him into a spacious,
elegantly appointed drawing room,
and sat down there, feeling curiously
out of place and bewildered.
And a minute later a gray, elderly
gentleman entered and advanced
toward her. Altered as he was she
knew him, and was aware that he
recognized her as readily. He of-
fered her his hand with an obvious
embarrassment, but she bowed dis-
tantly without appearing to notice it.
“I am pleased to see you, Miss
Gurney,” he began lamely, and then
sat down and looked at her, and
seemed waiting for her to speak.
But she could not trust herself
vet; her heart was fluttering suffo-
catingly, and she felt that if she at-
tempted to answer him she was so
unnerved she must burst into tears,
and the very thought of thus hum-
bling herself in his presence helped
to strengthen her.
“It is a very long while,” he made
an effort, and resumed inanely, ‘“‘since
we saw each other, Miss Gurney.”
“A very long while!” His halting
words had an unintentional sting in
them, and all at once she had flung
her weakness from her. “I would
not have troubled you now on my
own account 22
“Please don’t say that.” She was
vaguely conscious of a wistful eager-
ness in his tone. “If there is any-
thing I can do for you——"’
“There is nothing you can do for
me,” she said, with quiet decision.
“You should know me better than to
think I would ask any, even the
smallest, favor of you for myself.”
He quailed under her indignant
glance, and threw out his hands with
a gesture of despair.
“Forgive me. I know what you
say is true,” he returned sadly. “You
must not think, Ruth,” the name rose
involuntarily to his lips, “that I have
forgiven myself, or forgotten, or that
I have been altogether happy. 1
know I wronged you—terribly—and
the memory of it has come between
me and happiness more and more as
I have grown older and had time to
think. I have been punished ”
“And I!” she interposed harshly.
“But I did not come to talk of what
is past mending. You did me a great
wrong, and I never dreamt till yes-
terday of seeing you again, or that
there was any way in which I might
be brought to forgive you——""
“And is there? Tell me what it
is,” he cried. “I would give a great
deal to make some reparation for
what I have done. I am not the
reckless, selfish fool I was in those
days.”
He was strongly moved, but not
more so than was Miss Gurney her-
self; it was as much as she could do
to steady her voice and keep her emo-
tion hidden from him.
“Your son is engaged to my niece
— my dead sister’s child. I did not
know anything of it until two days
ago,” she said, gathering confidence
as she proceeded, and speaking with
a detached air as if what she dis-
ssed did not concern herself per-
sonally. {You have forbidden your
son to see her again, and are send-
him away with some idea of part-
1em for ever. She is everything
I care more for her hap-
If I had not
lov r so, my pride would never
have allowed me to come to you, I
came only to save her from such a
life as mine has been. I couldn't
What
This
think, if you knew, that you would
break her heart as you have broken
mine.”
She stopped abruptly, and he gazed
at her with a sort of terror in his
eyes.
“I did not know who she was,” he
said huskily.
“I came to tell you.”
He sat looking at her, stricken
dumb, for even in his most repentant
moments he had not thought the con-
sequences of his sin could spread a
blight so far reaching and so irre-
parable; he sat looking at her, and
read in her thin, white hair aad in
her worn, furrowed features the pit-
eous story of what her life had been
since he had seen her last. He had
no words for his shame and his re-
morse, and in some subtle fashion
the poignancy of his emotion com-
municated itself to her. She would
not trust herself to look at him or
address him again, and though he
twice made as if - ‘he would speak,
each time his voice broke like a sob
in his throat and he fell silent.
The tension was becoming so pain-
ful that it was an ineffable relief to
both of them when a knock sounded
on the door, and the footman entered
apologetically.
“Beg pardon, sir,” he said.
rier at the gate, sir, for Mr. Rich-
ard’s boxes. They're all corded in
his room, but he isn’t home yet, and
hasn’t labelled which he wants for
use during the voyage, and I thought
p’h’ps you'd know, sir »
“It won’t matter, James,” cried
Mr. Harwood, himself again instantly
in face of this dignified domestic.
“You can tell the carrier there are
no boxes to be taken now. Mr.
Richard has altered his arrangements
—he will not be going.””—The King.
‘““Car-
WORDS OF WISDOM.
Everybody would want to be poor
if it was a scandal.
Unless a man is abused a lot he
never amounts to much.
Being engaged is almost as profit-
able as betting on the races.
There is mighty little money in
spending it to show you have it.
You can make a good citizen out
of a politician by having him die.
A man has a lot of fun being a pes-
simist if he is rich and healthy and
happy.
A woman's shirt waist would be
terribly immodest if it were a bath-
ing suit.
The only woman a man seems to
be ashamed to make love to in public
is his wife.
The only people who get very
much fun out of saving money are
their heirs.
The college graduates who deliv-
ered addresses on how to succeed are
now trying to.
There is hardly anybody who
doesn’t like to think he’s a martyr
unless it really hurts.
If a girl’s waist isn't to squeeze it’s
mighty funny why it was made such
a good fit to a man’s arm.
If a woman can't find anything
else to be miserable about she can
always get up.-a fit of jealousy.
A woman calls it a breach of eti-
quette for you not to pretend you
think her hair curls naturally
The longer a man waits for his
rich uncle to die the surer he is not
to get ahything when it happens.
‘What a woman likes about being
sick abed is she can imagine how the
flowers would look if she should die.
When a girl goes to a theatre with
a man and likes everything about the
play it’s a sign he wasn’t her brother.
The fun about betting on horse
races is if you lose you don’t have to
tell anybody and if you win you
brag about it.
Any woman is perfectly satisfied
to have one husband, but mighty few
girls are content with one engage-
ment.— Reflections of a Bachelor, in
the New York Press.
Our Little Brothers the Birds.
We came presently to another de-
partment, and here the angel hid his
face and was silent, for the counter
was covered with the stiff limbs and
torn clothing of his little brothers
the birds. There was a notice above
the door: ‘Five hundred genuine os-
preys mych below cost to clear.”
He said, “Do all women, then, love
murder in July?”
I answered, ‘“You are quite mis-
taken. We are very kind hearted
and cannot bear to cause suffering,
but we owe it as a duty to society to
make ourselves as pretty as we can.”
The angel was almost amused.
“That is really a very curious illu-
sion!” he remarked. ‘How can the
decaying body of a mutilated osprey
add to the beauty of even tlie visual
world ?2”’—Evelyn Underhill, in Lon-
don Outlook.
Found Cannon Ball of 1634.
A cannon ball which had lain bur-
ied since 1634 was yesterday recov-
ered from a field on the farm of Mr.
Hampson, of Acton, Nantwich. The
ancient town of Nantwich played a
considerable part in the civil war, as
the headquarters in Cheshire of the
Parliamentry Genzrals Fairfax and
Brereton, and much fighting . took
place at Acton, where during a por-
tion of the siege of Nantwich the
royalist forces were located. On
some of the masonry of both Acton
and Nantwich churches there are still
visible marks caused by cannon shot
Mrs. A. A. And
son, of New Yor
has given $100,000 to Columbia
versity to star itable endown
to establisl science eourse;
leading to the of bacheior of
science in Baa
lege
s€.
El
With the Funny
A Nasty One.
Says Mrs. McSnob to Mrs. De Knocks,
of was called on to-day by Mrs. Van Rox.”
Says Mrs. De Knocks, “I knew she was
coming—
The papers all say that she loves to go
slumming.’
—Cleveland Leader.
Womanly.
Maid—“Are you at home to Mrs.
Toney, mum? She's at the door.”
Mistress—‘I am if she has a new
hat on, not otherwise.”’—Answers.
How the World Pays.
Knicker—*‘I think the world owes
every man a living.”
Bocker—‘ ‘Perhaps, but he has to
take it out in trade.”—New York
Sun.
The Acme.
Knicker— ‘Don’t you hate the end-
seat hog on the street car?”
Politician—‘ ‘Yes; but the end-seat
hog on the band wagon is worse.”’—
New York Sun.
Not For Him.
“One to-day is worth two to-mor-
rows,” said the philosopher.
“You're another,” replied Pat.
“To-morrow’s pay day.’—<Chicago
Record-Herald.
His Awakening.
Knicker— Did his friends know
him when he came back to town?”
Bocker—‘ Yes, it was the girls he
was with at the summer resort who
didn’t recognize him.” — New York
Sun.
Not Men Only.
“Oh,” snapped Mrs. Nagget dur-
ing their quarrel, ‘all men are fools.”
“Yes,” returned Mr. Nagget. “Well
unfortunately for you, dear, the re-
verse isn’t true.”’—Philadelphia
Press.
Good-Hearted.
Boarder—‘‘I'll pay you very soon
—1I am going to be married.”
Landlady——-‘‘Oh, don't do that, Mr.
Hardup, just on account of the few
dollars you owe me!”’—2Meggendorfer
Blaetter.
Thoroughly Fearless.
“That girl seems to be absolutely
devoid of fear.”
“Yes. :1 haven't any doubt that
she'd even marry a Pittsburg million-
aire if she got the chance.”’—Chicago
Record-Herald.
The Yellow Dog.
“Henpeck seems to keep that old
dog just to abuse it.”
“He does; he’s got an ugly boss,
and you know what Mrs. Henpeck is
—if he didn’t .have that dog he'd
bust.”’—Hoeuston Post.
His Method.
Mae—*‘1 notice she doesn’t sign
ber name ‘Mayme’ any more.”
Grayce—‘ No, her steady kidded
her out o’ that. He had some cards
engraved with his own name spelled
‘Jaymes.’ ’ and Leader.
Then and Now.
“1 understand that he is a con-
firmed Bibliophile,” said the Boston
maid.
“Well, be may have been,” replied
her Chicago cousin, ‘but he’s on the
water wagon new.’'—Columbus Dis-
patch.
Fulfilled.
Wilkie Collins had just finished
“The Woman in White.”
‘“She’ll be very common some sum-
wer,” declared he.
Verily, the power of prophecy is a
wonderful thing.—Louisville Courier-
Journal.
Modest.
“Rimer had a poem accepted by
Seribbler’s Magazine: >?
“Yes, and he’s taken to the back-
woods.”
“What for?”
‘““He says he hates like thunder to
be lionized.”
Dead Sure Case.
Pat—*'0i say, Moik, wuz yez iver
sthruck by loightnin’?”’
Mike—‘“Manny’s th’ toim, me b’y.”
Pat—*'Yez don’t mane it!”
Mike—*“Shure an Oi do. Haven't
Oi been married these tin years?’'—
Chicago News.
One of the Also.
“How did Swift come out in the
automobile race?”
“Oh, as well as he expected, I
guess.”
“One of the also-rans?”’
“No, one of the also-broke-downs.”
—Cleveland Press.
Irr resistivie.
~ ammer Hotel Proprietor— ‘Gad!
We never had so many men guests
before. D’you suppose it was my
advertisement of fine air that brought
em?”
His Partner—‘ ‘No; my advertise-
ment of fine heiresses.”’—Puck.
Oil For County Roads.
Fulton County is making an envi-
able reputation through the whole
country for the number and extent
of its excellent roads. It has joined
the Good Roads movement with en-
thusiasm and success. Of course the
cost of building these roads has been
great and the expense of mainten-
pnce for those already built is con-
siderable. After a careful and thor-
ough investigation of the subject, the
Jourhal wishes to suggest to the
county authorities the plan of using
the crude oil process, to save the
cost of sprinkling with water. to lay
the dust more effectually than it pan
otherwise be done, and to save in
great part the heavy expense of main-
tenance, due to wearing and wash-
ing. The automobiles now bowl
along in every direction with a good
degree of speed and the dust rises
before them and trails behind them
to the discomfort of the following
vehicles, be they automobiles or car-
riages and to the annoyance of pe-
destrians. This fine dust is then
washed off by the next heavy rain
and the road has to be repaired to
go through with the same process
again.
The first experiment of oiling the
roads was tried in California in 1899,
with the view of laying the dust only,
the contract being undertaken by the
“Dustless Roads Company.” Since
the roads of southern California have
been regularly treated with a sprink-
ling. of oil for improvement and main-
tenance, with the additional advan-
tage, of course, of rendering these
roads practically dustless. The use
of oil on macadam roads has been es-
pecially satisfactory, and the process
is cheaper than on ordinary roads.
In fact, from the testimony ofe«expe-
rience it would seem that the use of
oil makes a macadam road the ideal
highway for both summer and win-
ter.
The process is much cheaper than
would appear at first glance. Crude
oil can be delivered in Atlanta at a
cost of about 4 3; cents a gallon. The
cost of the oil sprinklers is trifling.
A good job would require the use of
some 2000 gallons of oil to the mile,
or, with a layer of sand to absorb it
and make a hard, compact top dress-
ing, of indefinitely lasting qualities,
it would take 4000 gallons to the
mile. It costs the property owners,
on the extension of Peachtree street,
beyond Fourteenth, a thousand dol-
lars a season to sprinkle two miles
of that road every summer, besides
the cost to the county of mainten-
ance. At the largest estimate it
would cost only $680 worth of oil
to sprinkle the whole distance of four
miles from Fourteenth street to At-
lanta Heights, and this would make
an infinitely better road and with
no other cost of maintenance for a
year.
It is well worth the experiment on
a short stretch of this road or some
other in the county, and we offer the
suggestion to the county commis-
sioners. We feel sure that a fair
trial of the oiling system will lead to
its extension to the Fulton County
roads generally, to their great im-
provement, to an enormous saving
in the cost of maintenance and to the
increased comfort of all who use
these highways.
After the first application of oil,
the first year, less and less is Te-
quired with each succeeding year,
and almost no other outlay is neces-
sary to keep the road in perfect con-
dition. The macadam road thus
treated becomes finally as smooth as
asphalt and its freedom from dust
and the hardness of the surface has
caused such roads frequently to be
mistaken for the genuine asphalt it-
self.
It would seem to be clearly estab-
lished that the next step forward for
the improvement of our present
splendid road system in Fulton Coun-
ty should be the oiling process.—At-
lanta Journal.
Road Building a Science.
Everyone should be an advocate
of good roads. The farmer who has
his produce to market could haul
larger loads and would also be able
to do much of his teaming and run-
ning to town when the ground is too
wet for general farming thus never
losing a good day in the field. With
good roads, riding for pleasure
would be a delight rather than a
source of discomfort.
There is a feeling among some
that good roads are for the owners
of automobiles and other ‘‘land
crafts,” but this is a grave mistake
as ninety per cent. of the travel on
our public highways is in line of bus:
iness. Then, too, the success of the
rural mail delivery depends largely
upon the condition of the roads and
routes are laid out along the best
highways, with the same idea that
prevails in cities where the mail car-
riers do not have to deliver mail on
streets having no sidewalks. Then,
too, land values are increased by im-
proving the highways for who wishes
to live in a community where there
is not enterprise enough to secure
good roads? So long as the tax is
worked (?) out by the taxpayer so
long will our roads be poor. Road
building is a science.—National Fruit
Grower.
Rats rarely can ist sunflower
geeds. A trap baited with these seeds
is most effective in catching them.
A BRIL!
REV. i
Subject
Wash
ward 1
preache
sermon
they m
might |
John 1
Jesus
His chu
chief sa
the life
*Oh,
The hu
the Pr
Browni
gift of
“withot
made t}
Phys
someth!
who “'w
do,” w
know”
suspect
Still.
but to
God is
Christ.
they mi
God, a
hast se:
To g
come,
life.”
Creator
word?
First
upon a
God of
nostri
became
law, ‘1
die’; «¢
other
warned
is des
-warnin
in him
So cam
death,
even si
righteo
throug
‘Gra
sins th
alive u
then,
which
ing Go
one on
on ear
‘And,
from t
the ble
rising
ing lif
His Gc
immor
Stretc
And
but we
set be
soul, s
to that
This
of by
+» not mn
that 1i
never
lieveth
have e
Rem
duratic
not ho
of qus
able 1
Father
share
Him u
to live
Seca
must 1
of the
enemice
by the
being
by His
Jesu
One nr
health
no ma
been
us the
surren
God’s
sympa
This i
destru
we mu
man w
himsel
he tha
but he
sake s
Exc
into t
by itss
live a
time t!
to abi
the gr
despis
at hin
ample
with J
concep
‘enoug!
himse]
on ‘‘a
passer
souls.
dustry
wheel
greeti
streng
bread
rush
Few s
But
leave
other’
trains
God-I
ing.
beaut
in ful