Goodley—Oh, come, wouldn’t call him a cad. Boorisch—No? Well, your idea of a cad? Goodley—Well, usually it is a fel- low who is forever calling somebody else one.—Catholic Standard. now! 1 what is Warning Him. Mr. Henpeck—I shall have to go to town to-day, my dear, and I shall want some money, for there's train fare, lunch, bus fares, and I've got hd pres Mrs. H.—Well, then, 1 will give you a shilling, and mind, if you come home the worse for drink, I'll not let you in.—Tit-Bits. At His Expense. Mrs. Lady Bug—What a pity this lovely floor is not square, instead of round. re Hampered. “She runs the house, doesn’t she?" “Yes.” “What does he do?” “He lets her run it.” “Hasn’t he any spirit?” “Lots of spirit, but no money." —= Cleveland Plain Dealer. A Stiff Pet. “What has happened to Fido?” ‘“I told the laundress to wash him, and she thought that starching was part of the process.—Fliegende Blat- fer. Ancestral Belongings. “It all seems so strange,” said Miss Roxie MacInnes, the heiress, who was engaged to the foreign count, t I am to have a coronet.” “Och! not at all,” replied the old rvant, ‘fur that's what yer gran’- er had before ye, an’ twas all he ” “A coronet, I said.” “Aye! a car an’ net. 'Twas whin Be ¢aught fish an’ peddled em out o’ ig Bay.”—The Catholic Stan- = wy CHO AT Enlightenment of Pollle. By Elizabeth L. Mason. *] am very much perplexed,” re marked Pollie, plaintively. ‘What do girle do in books when their guar- dians get married?” “They get married themselves, to their oldest friends,” answered Rich- ard, ungrammatically. ‘“You could do that. You might marry me. I am the oldest friend you have around here.” “You forget Cesar,” corrected Pol- lie, patting the shaggy head of the beaxr'.r of the name. “Well, he’s a dog,’ protested Rich- ard, thinking what a pretty picture she made. “Well, you're a goose,” retorted Polle, irrelevantly. “Don’t be silly, Richard. I don't want to marry you or anyone else. I said I was per- plexed. Why do you suppose Luther wants to get married, anyway?” “Perhaps he’s lonely,” suggested the young man. Polly shut her fan with a snap and sat up to look disdainfully at him. “Lonely!” she repeated superbly. “He has me.” “True,” agreed Richa~d meekly. “Do you know,” resumed Pollie presently, subsiding into sololoquy, “I think I'll ask him why he wants to.” “You’d better not,” Richard warned her. “He won't like it.” “Well, I shan’t like his getting mar- ried, either; so we’ll be even. Pollie peered out into the summer dark- ness. “Richard, I think he's coming. I wish you’d go so I can talk with him alone.” “I don’t want to,” protested Rich- ard. “You'll be awfully in the way if you stay,” continued Pollie impatiently; “you’d better go.” “Richard goes early tonight,” re- marked Mr. Howard, smilin gat Pollte. “I'm afraid you havn't been kind to him.” “Luther Howard,” she began, “I am going to ask you some questions.” “Mercy!” ejaculated the gentleman. “There'll be no mercy for you!” said Pollie firmly. “Luther, are you going to be married?” “; hope so, sometinre;”” he returned seriously. : Pollie pulled her hand out of his erd sat up. “I wonder what is going to become of me,” she said wistfully. “Why, my dear little girl,” he an- swered paternally; “of course it would make no difference whatever, as far as you are concerned. You will al- ways have a home with me.” “I don’t want a home with ynu,” Poliie said petulantly and with rising tears. “Don’t want a home with me!” gasped the astonished Mr. Howard. “Pollie,” said Mr. Howard soberly. “I suppose you feel toward me just as you might toward an own father.” “Yes,” sobbed Pollie. “That is, I did until Richard told me he heard you were going to be married. I won’t have you for a father, if you do.” “] don’t want you for a daughter, I'm sure,” began Mr. Howard, com- posedly. Pollie bounced off the arm of the chair and stood up straight and slender in the white moonlight. “Then I'll go away!” she cried tragi- enlly. “I thought you cared a little “It about me—" Mr. Howard reached for Pollie’s iittlc hand and drew her gently be- zide him. “Now be a gaad little girl and listen to me,” he said; “I'm going :n tell you a story.” “Once upon a time,” began Mr. Toward, seriously, “a young man went out into the world to make his fortune. This young man was a lone- ly fellow, for he had no friends and no one cared for him. But out in the {| world he found a friend whom be | learned to love with all his heart, | «und whom he saw go constantly that they became like brothers. This friend, like the man, had come out in seach of fortune, but somehow he never found it, and by and by he be- came so ill that he gave up trying tc work and lay for hours at a time talking to the man about his home and the little motherless girl he hana left there. The child was always in his mind and the man knew he wor- | Then there came a | ried about her. time when the man lost his friend. Nobody knows how he felt that loss o: how dark the world seemed to him. But by and by he remembered that little lonely child and he went to the country place where she was and took her away with him.” “That was I,” murmured Pollie, who had forgotten her grievance. “Well, after that the man was never lonely because he had someone to live and work for, and he loved her as if she were his very own. And so a number of years passed and the man realized one day that although he had once been satisfied to have her love him as she would her father, now “the dearest wish he had was that sometime she might be his wife. He has found that he is holding a beautiful lady in his heart instead of a little girl. And the hardest thing about it, Pollie”—here Mr. Howard paused to stroke her hair gently— “4s that he doesn’t dare to ask her to marry him, because he is afraid that she might consent purely out of grati- tude for whal he has done for her, and he doesn’t want her gratitude; he wants her love.” Pollie was silent so. long that he turned to look into her face. “What do you think he ought to do in such a case?” he asked. Pollie slid her hand into his. “I think he'd better ask her, Luther,” she said shyly. : Dogs valued at $1,850,000 were ex- hibited recently at a bench show fa London. There were 2,508 en ea THE ANTIDOTE By William Templeton. It was while a young physiclan— now practising in the East End—was a “resident” at the Allegheny General hospital that a patrol rattled into the court and a policeman lifted out a shaking, scared, disheveled man and hurried, half carrying him, into the emergency ward, followed by a wo- man in hysteria who had crept down white-faced from the wagon. An or- derly summoned the young physician. “Quick, oh, quick, for Gott's sake, toctor!" sobbed the woman rushing toward him down the ward, her hands in a convulsive clasp. “Mine hus- bant he haf took two poddles of poison. Ach Gott, ach Gott, he will die!” and her tongue wandered away into incoherences. The young physician looked toward the policeman as a rational source ot information. “That's right, doc,” spoke the cop. “Fere’s th’ bottles.” He passed over frcm his hip pocket two small vials which the physician took and turned to the light to examine. Both bore flaming labels marked in big red let- ters ‘‘Poison.” White as the sheet he was lying on the suicide stared with big-eyed fear, all in a tremble and waiting almost without breathing for the twice deadly dose to grip and trottle his life. After a hurried moment during which he sniffed the botoles and tasted the corks, the young physician turned to the woman and asked rapidly: “Did he swallow what was in both these bottles?” “Yes, toctor, yes. He said—" “Did you see him do it?” “Ach lieber Gott, toctor, before mine eyes he did do it. poddle so, just like dis, swallow it, und den he—" “Were they both full?” “Oh, toctor, ja, dey vas both full mit de poisons,” blubbered the woman fall ng back into hysteria and han: wringing. und he * * % The young physician stood the bot- tles on a table and as he did so the muscles of his face seemed to be sub- ject to a nervous, twitching action. Sitting down on the edge of the cot he crossed his legs and asked of the woman, while his eyes suppressed emotion of some sort or other: “What was the matter with Looie or Jake or whatever his name is? Why did he want to shuffle off lik: this? Had you been scrapping?’ “Oh, toctor, yes. Just like od: times ve had been fighting mit each ader und Gottlieb he told me, he sa = ‘I vill kill mineself!’ But this tira: i ‘Vell, vy dont you do rr, d » 1nd not make so much talk abou! efery time?” Und den Gott sei mir er Harmherzig! he took in his hand dc! [ittle poddle mit de yellow paper unui ‘r'nkt it up right before mine eves. ‘Now I vill die,” he says, ‘und den maybe you are a little sorry dot you made me do it,” he says, und den he- fore I could schream even, he reaclied ofer to my bureau und took up dot oder poddle vat says ‘poison’ un: trinkt dot also. ‘Now I die sure ting.’ he says. It was medicine vot dec tector gif me for mine eyes und sal? look out it was very poison. Vell, den I run down for a policeman mnd—" She paused, stared at the youn3z nhysician, who was grinning at her. zlanced at the puzzled policeman an! t.e amused. nurses hovering in tho background, then came quickly back to the laugh in the physician’s eyer. Suddenly she cried out in a shri’'l voice: “Put vy don’t you did someting for mine Gottlieb! Vy don’t you sav: him! Don’t laugh like it was a joke!’ she raged, shaking her fists under th: young physician’s: nose. ‘“Du-u. d dumme esel, my man iss dying! C. lielser Himmel, lass thn doch sterben!” and she fell wailing on her knees beside the cot, clutching coverlets. said: niche vo 2 * * = “My dear woman, keep cool.” ac- mon ’'shed the young physician, strug 2ling with laughter and gentiy liftin: her up.. “Your Gottlieb won't He won't even be sick. It was pur- Dutch luck to get hold of the only efficient antidote to the kind of poisoa he took and send it chasing after the poison before it could get busy. I'll wash out his stomach and Gottlieb will be himself again, same as ever, ready for another scrap with you. The young doctor laughed heartiry. “What the —er—what do you know about that?” murmered the cop. Something white stirred in the cit. “Yep,” explaned the physician. “The first bottle contained two ounces of laudanum—enough to kill an ordi- nary man—and the second dose, his wift’s eye medicine, also rank poison, which he took to cinch the job, hap- pened by the queerest chance in the world to be atropine, a deadly alka- loid, much used in eye work, but also the only known antidote for laudanum or opiate poisoning.” “The he—say, can you beat it!” exclaimed the cop, looking around ex- ultingly. “Vat iss dot?” cried the woman, her eyes bulging. The nurses laughed. Something white sat half up in the cot. “Just this,” said the doctor, with slow emphasis, ‘that if Gottlieb had taken only the laudanum and you had rushed him here all I could possibly have done to save his life would have been to pump him out and ggive him just about the quantity of atropine he has in him now.” Something white settled back In the cot with a deep sizh. dic ‘would He took up de one: The Awakening. By Mabelle M. Harvey. There was a most bewildering little dimple in Clyde's pink cheek, and as she smiled up at Dick Graves—Dbig, manly and desperately in love with her—he thought he had never quite realized how very desirable she was. “Now, Dicky, you know you don't mean half that nocsense,” she said, tucking a rebell.o.s curl up under her sunbonnet. Dick's eyes were very serious. “What a child you are,” he said ten- derly. “To think of your going away fron: all those who really love you, to an unknown world—the stage world. Clyde, dear, don’t you realize how foolish it is—how unl.ke you? Why, little girl, you can’t stand the life— it’s absolutely impossible.” A pair of big stormy eyes flashed up at him and the wonderful little dimple had entirely disappeared. “Now, Dick, it’s useless ior you to talk to me like that. Haven't I been walting for three long years for just this opportunity, and now that it's really come you—the person who pro- fesses to love me more than anybody else in the whole world—try in every possible way to prevent me realizing my ambition. I should think be the one to help me, stand selfishly in my light.” The man was silent. - He realized how, for the first time, the hopeless- ness of trying to overcome Clyde's determination to go on the stage. He had loved her in a good, clean, manly way ever siice she was a little 15- year-old girl, and now, after long years of hard work and ceaseless economy, he had saved enough to buy a little home, the terrible stage demon had conquered and she was really going away from him—out into the greay, unsympathetic world—alone. His voice was unsteady when he spoke again. “When do you go, dear?” The dimple was in evidence once more. “In two weeks, Dicky boy,” she said excitedly. “Only think, 14 more days and I'll be a really, truly actress!” She stood up and shook out the folds of her dainty pink gown. “I must run along heme now. Mother will be looking for me. By-by, dear. ~ % * * - nor A woman, starry-eyed and won- drously beautiful, stood before a wir- dow, gazing out into the cold, winter afternoon. “What shall my answer be?’ sh zz d. thoughtfully. *I. must decide He will be here within the t hour, and I am still as undecided I was two months ago. . A coun Quite. alluring, and yet 2 fair brow wrinkled into a frown moved away from the win- restlessly. A telegram was ly- ‘ng on the table, addressed to her, and she picked it up, carelessly. “Dick ill. Calls ceaselessly you. Come if possible. AUNT DORA. Her face was white. “Dick ill,” she said slowly. “Dick—after all ze years. “Why, I must start at eee, Lena—ILena, come here quickly. Pack my bag immediately. I shall be away for an indefinite time. Don’t s‘end there staring at me idiotically, hit 20 as I tell you. No, I shan't play tonight, of course. You must see Mr. Hale and explain to him. Tell him sc'nebody I love—love, understand-—- fe ill, and T must go to him at once. Now go!” Two days later she arrived in the litle old-fashioned town of her girl- hed. where she and Dick had ¢pent so anny happy hours together. Her eves filled with tears as she came 12 sist of his house, and she said softly, “How glad he will be to see me.” A neat, gray-haired little woman ar- her ring—his aunt, Clvda Ene== at once. “I--1 am Clyde,” she ‘said, happily. “Yon sent for me—Dick wants to seo Ne. The gray Vy Sn. she ‘for swored little woman stared at her, un- se ingly. “Come upstairs with me,” + «aid in a colorless voice. Clvde followed her wonderingly, up ‘nie narrow carpeted stairs. She he- ean to fear that the sweet-faced littia vt didn’t welcome her coming. “Ye ig in there,” came the iifeless voice. “Go in alone.” (Clyde pushed the door open gently. “Dick,” she whispered. There was no answer. : She walked over to the big, old- fashioned bed. He was lying his eyes closed. A sob rose in Clyde's throat, and block hair caressingly. “Sleeping, poor boy.” she said sofi- lv. “Oh, how cruel I've been to him all these years. Father above, help me to repay him for his never-ceasing devotion. She laid her hand gently on his forehead—but only, for an instant— then drew it away, fearfully. “How cold and damp,” she whis- pered with a shudder. “You—you see—'" It was the little aunt’s voice, calm and monotonous, 'hut with an underlying note of agony. Clyde looked at her in pitiful bewil. derment. “What do you mean?” she gasped. “He is dead,” said the little aunt, slowly. “The late! sam?2 awakening had come—too The use of snuff has again pecomée popular in Paris. The excuse is mad¢ that efaihncpwsyaade W p 12 ET H that a few pinches a day will prevent influenza. The winter homes of spiders consis of a silken. weatherproof covering you | there. | she touched the straight, “What's dat dorg good for?’ “Why, nuthin’! He's got a pedi- gree.” Getting His Answer. Old Gent—What is the extra about? Small Boy—Ah Gwan! pers. I don’t read them. I sell pa- Why, Of Course! Balooni—Ze bags of sand? Zey are to throw out when I wish to go up. Aunt Quizzie—But how do get them again when you wish come down? you to The Family Skeleton. Grandson—Well, grandpop, I've discovered that we are descended from a foreign nobleman! Grandpa-—-Wal, p’raps ye're right, Jimmy—-but th’ family’s bin re- spectable ever since I kin remem- ber!—Puck. Full Inside. Goodsort-—I have here convert thee. Eatemalive—Not on your life. The last fellow tried that and I've got too much religion in me now. come Making Her Wise. Mrs. Wise—I see by the paper that judging by the insanity returns, only sixteen cases in 1,000 are caused by love affairs. : Mrs. Knockem—Oh, well, than that fumber act crazy. more One Time. One time Ol’ Mister Trouble Take off his hat ter stay, An’ say de weather des so bad He think he'll spend de day; But Joy come lak’ a harricané An’ laffed 'im cl’ar away! —Atlanta stitution. _ | Tho diffe rence betwean Hitting and Mi: «Ing fe the te. f=rence ter een kn Accurate and an Thi curite Arm, ( roose wisaly—discriminiel Get a STIVIIN 0? Ftv years of experiencels behind our fried and Zed line KIFLES, PISTOLS, SHOTGUNS : tle Telescoper, Ete. three-color Alnminm Hanesr wil Ye for. marie for 1 cen in Samp. . TEVENS ARMS AND TOOL CO.. PLC. Bux 4006 COLar ALL Tass. U.S.A. 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Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers