Eee Eee Jetge Totes se tet w» 1B was a kindly-looking, oldish H man, with soft eyes and a soft brown beard that had streaks of gray in it. You would hard- ly think that any one could have scen fim on this icy day, shivering for want of a warm overcoat and a hot break- fast, a wretched old tippet of knitted wool about his neck, and his blue avrists sticking out of his pockets, with. out a touch of pity. If he had been holding his battered hat in his hand and asking alms he avould have fared better, but he was not down to that level. He was look- ing for a job; no special sort of work— evidently he had not been in the way of looking to his hands for a living— Just some vague sort of work, which he faintly hoped might be of use to somebody. There were several thousand men in the city that winter looking for the same thing, for any job that would pay them a dollar and a quarter for a day's work; and as a good propor- tion of them were brawny fellows, who could lift heavy weights and strike hard blows, there was evidently but small chance for this pinched little man with gray in his hair and beard. Yet he kept on, from one denial to another; not so much because there was any hope left in him as because the action had become a mechanical one. Even despair becomes dull in time. There was no apparent possi- bility for work, for example, at Me- Nichol & Sons’ Foundry and Machine Shop; he was neither a molder nor a machinist, yet it was the next place along the street, and he turned in. It was a small plant—one disposed to be critical might have called it a one-horse affair—but its air of snug- ness, of complete sulf-sufficiency, was more forbidding than the biggest plant of the most heartless industrial trust. The elderly man paused with his hand on the latch to the office door, balf- minded not to open it. But it was avarm in there, no doubt, and it might take two or three minutes to get rid of him. He opened the door and slipped unobtrusively inside. It was warm, but that was the only feature of comfort the office possessed. The lights of glass in the windows were small and dusty, the furniture and fittings were of the most primitive description, and the noise of machinery from the floor above and from the other side of the wooden partition was deafening. There was no ostentatious veneer about McNichol & Sons. At an old-fashioned desk in the light- est and most remote corner sat a pow- erfully built man in his shirt-sleeves, a man with small, twinkling eyes and a sandy beard. Quietly as the door had opened he had seen it, and at a glance had taken the newcomner's measure, “What do you want?’ he called. The applicant's voice would never ‘have carried so far above the din. He made his way to the side of his ques- ‘‘tioner's desk. “I want simply. “A position or a job?” McNichol de- manded. He had not looked up at the other's approach. His eyes and a good half of his attention seemed engaged ‘with some letters on his desk. “Any sort of work; anything “Anything means nothing,” the proprietor commented, trenchantly. “Haven't you found that out yet? What's your name?” “White. Alexander H. White.” “There's nothing for you in the office. Are you a big, strong man who could be worth a dollar a day as a laborer?” _ “I'm stronger than I look.” ' MeNichol’s mrduth twitched sidewise “Well, we'll see about replied. He shot a glance at pant of the next desk, who roadly. Then he turned quick- to Mr. White. # you notice a big pile of shells, hells, under the shed in the yard? I want ’em broken up. If you're man enough for the job it'll keep you busy for two or three days. Go to the blacksmith shop and get a sledge. Phey’ll show you where the shells are.” As he finished, McNichol looked up smiling openly. It was not exactly the sort of a smile you might have expected in the circumstances. It went {11 with the tremulous eagerness of the other man’s gratitude. You have seen such a smile, perhaps, over a rather cruel practical joke, and you might.al- most have supposed it was some such thing he offered, instead of a benevo- lent chance to earn a dollar a day. In the blacksmith shop the request for a sledge seemed to be a familiar one. A quick look of intelligence passed between the smith and his helper. The latter grinned a little, but the older man looked grave. “Not that sledge, Jim!” he command- ed, sharply. “The light one yonder. It'll serve as well’—he smiled faintly himself— “and I guess it’s as heavy as our friend here is used to swinging. Look alive now, and show him where the shells are.” As they went out he turned back to his work. “The black-hearted old ras- cal!” he murmured. “Well,” said the helper, when he had returned to the anvil, “McNichol may see the joke to that, but I can’t say I do. It was different with the chap we put at it yesterday, a big, two- fisted beggar like him! He banged away like ® good one, and the things he said werk rich to hear. But this little old gent eman—he's all scrooched over, tapping ay as if he was trying employment,” he said, " BORERRORACIEN ROHR A “Freeze -Out.” BY HENRY K. WEBSTER. 3 ER He JELROERERLRE eek to chop kindling with a hatchet, won't last more than ten minutes.” The shell that Mr, White had begun upon was, except in point of size, like all the others, a hollow, cast-iron sphere about eight inches in diameter, with one small hole in it; the sort of shell that in the old days was filled with gunpowder and fired out of a smooth-bored cannon, It was empty now, of course, and hearing its hollow ring and noticing the thinness of it, you would have expected it to crunch under the impact of the sledge like an egg-shell at a tap of the spoon. That, at least, was what Mr, White expected. His first gentle taps merely glanced off the rounded surface. When he struck harder the shell lazily rolled away. He tried to hold it with his foot, and narrowly escaped crushing that member without damaging the shell in the least. At last he settled it into a bole in the pavement that held it firmly, and struck with all his might —still with no effect whatever. Then he tried one or two others from the heap. Evidently they were all alike. He might reasonably have quit then, well within the ten minutes the black- smith’s helper had allowed him. He had exerted his utmost force, and ap- parently if he had had twice as much it would still ba less than enough. But he kept on striking laboriously, with the blind patience of despair. The noon whistle blew, and from shop and foundry the men straggled out toward the gate. Some stopped to look and laugh, some flung out a jocose comment in passing, many did not look at all. The spectacle was a fa- miliar one to them. Still the elderly man swung the heavy sledge. When he stopped there would be nothing to do but take up again the dreary, hope- less search for wo¥k. He turned about presently at a touch on the elbow, and saw the smith stand- ing beside him. “It's no use,” he said. “You may as well quit. I can’t break these shells myself, and my big helper can’t, either. We've tried again and again, for fun. It looks easy, but it can’t be done. If you could get a crack at them from the inside you might do somathing, but not this way. Not in a thousand years.” Mr. White dropped the sledge. His tired, hopeless eyes looked bewildered. “Then why did he set me to work at it?’ he asked. “Just for a joke,” said the smith. “He didn’t really mean to give you a job at all.” Mr. White said nothing. The smith glanced at him, then looked away hastily. “You'll have to hear the story,” he said, leaning back against the wall. “You see, up to three years ago Me- Nichol had never been done. I guess, so far as he knew, anyway, he'd got the better of every man and every trade he ever tackled. But at that time he bought this lot of empty shells at a condemnation sale at the arsenal. He thought he had a bargain, all right. It was the kind of iron he wanted to melt up in his cupola and pour for castings, and he got it cheap, I sup- pose. So when they were dumped in the yard here he ordered five or six men to turn to and break them up. They have to he broken, you see, be- fore they can be put into the cupola. Well, not a single shell did those six men break in a whole morning's work. They didn't like to say so to the old man, so they came to me. I abused them a little for a lot of weaklings, and went and tackled it myself. It took about half an hour to convince me. Then I went to the old man myself. I didn’t exactly like the pros- pect, but there was nothing else to do. “‘We can’t break those shells,’ said I. ‘It can’t be done.” “He wouldn't believe at first that I really meant it. When he found that we'd been banging away all day with- out cracking as many as one, he was so mad his language fairly singed his red whiskers. Then he took off his coat. “‘Get me a twenty-four pound sledge,’ he says. ‘I’ll show you milk- sops that it can be done, and then I'll fire every man of you’ He used to be a blacksmith himself. “Well, inside of ten minutes he had fired four men, not for being milksops, but because they laughed. I've got a naturally straight face, and that was all that saved me. I was laughing away inside fit to burst. He was a ter- rible hitter, and he was mad enough to.have staved in the side of a battle- ship, but he didn't come any nearer cracking any of those shells than we had. Quarter of an hour of it was all he could stand. Then he threw down the sledge and marched off to the office without a word. “He didn’t get over it for a month. Then a big, husky chap came out here looking for a job. McNichol put him at this, and when he gave it up, Mec- Nichol grinned and felt better. It’s been Lis joke ever since. He never seems to tire of it.” The smith might have gone on at greater length. It was the noon hour; he had just regaled himself on two beefsteak sandwiches, an equilateral triangle of pie, three doughnuts and a cup of coffee. It amused him to dis- course about McNichol. But at this moment his eye fell on the meager, shivering figure before him, and he stopped his narrative ab- ruptly. “Come inside,” he said. “It's much too cold to be swapping lies here out- side.” He led the way to the door of the shop. Beside the door, projecting from the wall, was a water-tap; beneath it a wooden bucket to catch the drip, It was half-full of ice. The smith Kicked fit, earnest when things freeze that,” he said. Mr, White drew his breath in a quick little gasp. Looking at him, the smith saw his eyes alight with excitement, “I know low to do {t!” he cried. know how to do it!” He ran back for the shell he had hammered so vainly, held it under the tap, and filled it full of water, Then carefully he balanced it beside the bucket, so that the water could not run out. “It won't take long to freeze on a day like this,” he said. The smith looked at him for an in- stant, speechless. Then he caught him by the arm and dragged him into the “It's cold In up like ol smithy. “I'm blowed!” he murmured. “Blowed!” and then his “naturally straight face” began to crack up in a smile, the smile widened to a grin, a deep subterranean chuckle welled up louder and louder, until he shook and bellowed with laughter. “The old man'll never get over this!” he man- aged to gasp, between spasms. “He'll be madder'n when he bought ‘em.” Mr. White, holding his thin hands over the dull red coals in the forge, watehed him, smiling himself, al- though rather tremulously. At last he moved toward the door. “I think I'd better go back to work now,” he said. The smith caught him by the arm. “Wait!” he commanded. “I'll manage this thing. You do just as I tell you.” McNichol had not long been back from lunch when the office door opened, and, unobtrusive as before the butt of his perennial joke appeared. “What,” be demanded, with a crude affectation of surprise, “finished al- ready?” Again Mr. White made his way to the desk before he replied. “No, sir,” he said. “What's the matter, then? Don't you like your job? Do you want something easy?” “No,” said Mr. White, “it isn’t that.” “Come, now,” McNichol went on, “how many have you broken so far? Did vou take the trouble to count them 2” “There's one—"" “One!” roared the employer. “And at that you've told me one too many. I think I'd like to see that one.” “It isn’t really broken yet,” Mr. White explained, “but it's started, I think, and I'll have it done before long.” “And do you think I'll pay you a dol- lar a day for nearly breaking one shell 2” “I thought,” said Mr. White, “that you would pay me, perhaps, by the piece—so much for each one.” “A dollar apiece?” jeered McNichol. “Or would you be content with fifty cents?” “Fifteen cents, White, gently. His employer shot at him a glance of quick suspicion, but was as quickly reassured. The fine sensitiveness in the man's face and the tired, worn lines about his eyes spelled business incompetence in capital letters. “It's worth ten at the very outside. Suppose you break one a day, how will you live?, Do you look to steal enough to make up the rest?” Mr. White did not answer that ques- tion in words, but for some reason Mc- Nichol looked down suddenly at his desk again, dully red about the ears. “Well,” he blustered, “ten cents apiece is the figure for all you can break in the next twenty-four hours. I can’t have you hanging about here longer than that.” “It's a bargain,” said Mr. White. The phrase was not like him. It sounded like something he had been cautioned to say. Also there lurked something like a twinkle in his tired eye. Suspicion kindled again in MeNlch- ol’'s face, and with a heavy frown he eyed his. employe all the way to the door. If he had not been exceedingly busy and a little afraid of making him- self ridiculous he would have followed him ii person. McNichol was, according to his lights, a good man. In his business dealings he considered himself immac- ulate, and if a literal fidelity to his spoken or written word is the whole duty of the business man, he was quite right about it. The phrase, “It's a bargain,” bound him as absolutely as a contract, signed and sealed, could have done. He was committed to pay Mr. White ten cents apiece for as many shells as he could break before to-morrow noon. He dis- #%iked to be committed to anything at all save after the most mature delib- eration. However, he was very busy, and in a few minutes he had forgotten all about it. Mr. White did not go directly back! to work on leaving the office. He had a quarter in his pocket—an unsecured loan from the blacksmith—and he took it to a small eating house near by, where it was regarded as the equiva- lent of a “square meal”—soup, meat, vegetables and pie, all complete. It was a deliciously hot little room, and it smelled of such comfortable viands as fried pork chops and cabbage. When Mr. White came out he looked a new man. Thus fortified he attacked thie heap of shells again, not this time, with the sledge. He was applying tide smith’s suggestion to go at them fi®m the in- side. One at a time he cgrried them to the hydrant, filled them, hen ranged them shoulder to should @r, carefully right side up, with milit:;@y precision, in ranks of ten and comp:fies of a hun. dred—314 spherical iron Shells. It was hard work foyghim; the larg- est of them when full$f water were quite all he could liff§ and the cold added to his difficultig$. But he was perhaps,” said Mr. unconscious of fatigu§p and his only anxiety about the cold was lest it should not last long enough, The work went slowly, and it was perhgps an hour after quitting time when the watchman, who had been an admiring spectator of the last of the proceedings, let him out of the gate, Three hundred and fourteen shells, In strict military array, their stomachs most uncomfortably full of cold water, were left to watch out tae night. They were a sorry spectacle before morning, a shattered army, collective: ly and individually, for the cold held and their contents changed from wa: ter to ice, a quantity of ice their rigid iron jackets could not contain. No longer upright, their military align: ment sadly disturbed, they lay about with great weals of ice projecting through the crevasses in their sides. The rage of McNichol when he saw the spectacle transcended speech. It was twofold—first, that three winters had passed without suggesting the simple expedient to him: second, that he had again most egregiously “done.” Ten cents apiece! “You're a swindler!” he cried, when he could get his tongue round the words. “I'll pay you for this trick!” “Yes,” said Mr. White, gently, “thir- ty-one dollars and forty cents.” “Go to the cashier and get it, and then get out!” roared McNichol. As Mr. White was leaving, he had a casual encounter witu the smith, who, after a cautious glance about, clapped Mr. White on the shoulder and allowed himseif a grin. “Across the street,” he said, “and two blocks down. I told their fore- man about it last night. They'll give you a job, sure. You'll see their sign —Barnes & McBurney.” And, to be sure, when he turned into the office under the sign men- tioned, he found a man smiling broad. ly in welcome. “Yes, we've got a place for you,” he said, in answer to the question, “if you're the man who got ahead of Sandy McNichol.”—Youth's Compan- ion. COUNTERFEIT BLOSSOMS. Showy Leaves of Wood and Garden That Masquerade as Flowers. When the dogwood is in bloom in the spring woods that would be a very unobservant traveler who did not know it; yet it is questionable if one out of fifty out of the multitude of people who come home from their country walks with arms full of the snowy branches has ever seen the real flowers of this beautiful little tree. As a mat- ter of fact, what are commonly re- garded as the petals of the dogwood are no part of the floral structure at | all, but merely four large white leaves, | which during the winter served as pro- tective wrappers to the flower buds. The real flowers are about the size of shoe-pegs, of a greenish color and are bunched several together in a small cluster in the midst of the four white leaves, and if noticed at all by the | average wild flower gatherer are mis- taken for stamens. So, too, with the flowers of the pretty “painted cup,” whichiwhen in biossom in May frequently makes whole mead- ows rosy with brilliant color. Pluck- ing one, we may think we are looking at a spike of gorgeous, flame-colored flowers, while the fact is that the striking effect is produced entirely by numerous reddened leaves intermingled with the real flowers, which are as plain as Cinderella's sisters and prac- ticallly hidden from sight. Indeed, so fond is Mother Nature of befooling her unobservant devotees that she has caused cne whole family of plants to be given over to this make- believe habit of flowering. To it be- long that favorite little preacher of the April woods—Jack-in the-pupil; the arrow arum that shares muddy mar- gins of shallow streams; the skunk cabbage, and that aristocrat of the greenhouse, the immaculate Calla lily. Of all these the flowers are unrecog- nizable in themselves as such except by the initiated, being minute and crowded on a fleshy spike which is more or less closely swathed about by a funnel-shaped leaf, and this, be- ing graceful in shape and pronounced in color, naturally passes for the flow- er itself. Another gay deceiver is the poin- settia of the hothpuse. In this case it is a clrclet of Scarlet leaves which popular estimatifn rates as the flower, while the poor fittle real blossom clus- tered in the midst of these robbers o their good name live and die unap- preciated by all but a select few. Rel atives of the poinsettia are the wild spurges of’ our sandy fields. The flow- ers of many of these, inconspicuous in themselves, are similarly provided with relatively showy appendages, de- ceiving all but students. Some particularly interesting exam- ples of counterfeit flowering are fur- nished by the ferns. but some species develop their spores in clusters that bear a superficial re- semblance to bunches of tiny flowers. Best known of these are the species of the genus called by botanists the osmundas. One of them is popularly known as the flowering fern and is common in wet woods and shady swamps. The mock flowers are borne in panicles at the summit of the leaves, and turn gradually in color from a rich green to brown. In a kindred species the “flowering” takes place not ‘at the tips, but in the middle of the frond; while another variety, the cinnamon fern, equally common, sends up from its root separate fronds devoted ex- clusively to spore bearing and resem- bling slender spires of warm reddish- brown blossoms. They are to be looked for in May just before the appearance of the ordinary green fronds of this fern. They wither and jlisappear with- in a few weeks.—Philajlelphia Record. Indiana's factories nul nbered 7912 in These graceful | plants never produce genuine flowers, | 1905. Grandma's Posy-Bowl. On grandma's birthday, Maud and Doss, and Pearl and Ned and Clare, They paid our dimes aud nickels in, and bought a jardiniere But grandma says that jardiniere Is quite too long a name, And so she calls it “posy-bowl,” which means the very same. — Della Hart Stone In St. Nicholas. The Mocking Bird. He wears a gray coat. There are black and white trim- mings. In his wedge-shaped tail there are white quills. He measures from 9 to 10 inches in length. Outside of cages he is seldom seen north of Delaware. He is neat, slender and graceful. His song is rich and tender. You find him in the torrid and temperate zones of the Two Ameri- cas. He cares not for travel, rather choosing a home and remaining there. He is altogether intelligent, and mischievous—thanks to his initiative talents. As a parent, filling four to six mouths withe insects and berries, he is a great success. His house, on the whole, is rather shabby loosely constructed of leaves, feathe.s, grass and even rags. The Obedient Egg. Take a raw egg and empty it by means of pin holes. As soon as the inside of it is dry fill it quarter-full of fine sand, and then, with a little wax seal up the holes. It now looks like an ordinary egg. The next time you have boiled eggs for breakfast take your prepared egg and substitute it for the one that is given you. Then you may safely announce that your egg is ready to obey your com- mands. You can place it at will in any posi- tion you desire. It will stand on the edge of a knife or on the rim of a glass whether you put it edgeways or sideways. . In the last case you will cause more astonishment, because it will seem to trespass against the laws of gravity. The only precaution you need observe is to tap the egg gently, so as to cause the sand it contains to settle each time at the bottom, and thus it will assume any position you wish. The Soldier Ant. The lion is the king of beasts, but all of his magnificent strength and ferocity would avail him nothing when he faces a mere ant. But this ant is not the usual kind which peace- fully goes about its domestic duties day by day. It is the terrible driver, or soldier ant, said to be the most in- vincible creature in the world. M. Coillard, a French missionary in the Barotse Valley of South Central Africa, thus writes of these terrors there: “One sees them busy in innumerable battalions ranked and disciplined, winding along like a broad black rib- bon of watered silk. Whence come they? Where are they going? Noth- ing can stop them, nor can any object change their routes. If it is an inani- mate object they turn aside and pass on. If it is living, they assail it ven- omously, crowding one on top of the other to the attack, while the main army passes on business-like and si- lent. Is the obstacle a trench or a stream of water then they form themselves at its edge into a compact mass. Is this a deliberate assembly? Probably, for secon the mass stirs and moves on, crosses the trench or stream and continues in its incessant and mysterigus march. A multitude of these soldiers are sacrificed for the common good, and these legions, which know not what it is to be beaten, pass over the corpses of these victims to their destination.” Against these tiny enemies no man or band of men, no lion or tiger, nor even a herd of elephants can do any- thing but hurriedly get out of the way. Among the Barotse natives a favorite form of capital punishment is to coat the victim with grease and throw him before the advancing army of soldier ants. The quickness with which the poor wretch is dispatched is marvel- ous, when it is considered that each ant can do nothing more than merely tear out a small particle of flesh and carry it off. Yet in a surprisingly short time the writhing victim will have been changed into a skeleton.— Golden Penny. A Russian Fairy Tale. This is the Skazka, the fairy tale, that now circulates in Russia: Once upon a time there was a little emperor who adored winter and win- ter returned this love to him, hanging its icy trophies on the trees, on the straw-thatched cottages, the roofs, making its rigors more and more se- vere every year. Ome day the little emperor noticed that the ice was be- ginning to thaw, that the air was be- coming warm, and he was no longer able to wear his furs. Greatly dis- turbed, he called his ministers in council. “What's this?” he asked. going on?” “Sire,” they said, “this is the fore- runner of spring.” The little emperor stamped with his foot. “Spring!” he said. “I den’t want any spring in my dominion. You will “What's suppress the spring. Bring me the calendar. Winter alone should reign in my empire.” y The council of ministers bowed and spring was erased. Some months passed. One morning while the little emper- or still slept, an old man entered his bed-chamber and awakened him. “Little father,” said the old man, “thou art wrong. Thou dost not know what hast happened. They have hid- den the truth from thee. Our wheat cannot ripen, our cattle die for lack of forage. Thy people succumb to famine. The trees are bare. Soon, when the sun darts upon us, we shall be devoured by his fire if we lack shade. The streams, the rivers, the canals, remain frozen. There is no more navigation, no more commerce. This is ruin.” ° “Ha!” said the little emperor. had not thought of that.” He called his ministers “You will replace spring in the cal- endar,” he said. “You will bring it back to the country.” “Impossible, sire. One cannot bring back spring when it has passed.” “I will have it!” Then reflectingly: “Let there be a springtime; but a win- try springtime!” The ministers made a sign of as- sent. The gardeners began to put flowers in all the parterres in order to simulate spring. The poets sang of spring and the courtiers repeated their poems. Yet there was no spring. Winter would not permit itself to be de- throned. It had iced the earth to the heart and all vegetation was dead. Then the little emperor wept, bes cause inclosed in his palace, he awaited the springtime which came not.—Translated for The News from Le Cri de Paris. Story of a Fairy's Gift. “Oh, I wish I was beautiful!” ex- claimed Flora. “It is so dreadful to be ugly.” “You can be beautiful.” Flora started. Who had spoken? She had been playing with the other children, but they had teased her and celled her “Ugly Duckling,” as they often did, so she had run away into the woods, as told in the Philadelphia Record. She was very unhappy and cross looking—an ugly duckling in very truth. “You can be beautiful. you if you like.” Again that voice. Flora looked all round quite nervously, and then she saw a tiny fairy perched on a bush beside her. “Oh! do, do!” cried Flora. “Then you must come with me,” said the fairy. “I would do anything ugly,” Flora exclaimed. Then hundreds more fairies ap- peared, who surrounded her and car- ried her off, for, small as they were, their wings, laced together, held her easily. Suddenly they stopped and set her down. When she gathered her scat- tered senses she found herself in a bare-looking room, very dull and com- fortless. The only person in it was one old woman in a stiff-backed wooden chair, who looked stern, but spoke kindly. | “Good morning; my little servant, my dear?” Flora burst into tears. * * * * » * So the days went on till at last Flora grew to pity the old woman so much that she forgets her own troubles in longing to help her mistress. “I wish I could make her a cushion,” she said; and behold! next morning there was a bag of feathers and a plece of woolen stuff, with the other things. So Flora made a cushion. When the old woman saw it, she kissed her and pulled a mirror out of her pocket, saying, “Look, my child.” Flora looked and saw her crooked eye was straight. “I wish I could wheel her out into the sunshine,” said Flora. “1 I will help not to be on the chair, so she wheeled it ot. side. Again the woman kissed her and held up the mirror, when Flora saw her mouth had got such a pretty curve to it. “I wish I could take away her pain,” said Flora, and then rubbed the poor stiff limbs for hours. The old woman kissed her once more, and again held up the mirror. Flora smiled as she looked and found two dimples had come in her cheeks. “You can go home now; you are beautiful, my child,” said the old wo- man. Instantly the room was full of fairies, who lifted Flora with their wings, flew off with her and put her down again just where she had utter- ed her wish to be beautiful. They nad all vanished and only one fairy was left. “I have kept my promise, child,” she said. “See thou lost not that which thou hast gained. Farewell.” “Qh, stop,” cried Flora; “the poor old woman—who will take care of her?” “I was that poor old woman.” “But she was all crippled with pain.” “Yes; I bore that pain that you might grow beautiful.” Then she, too, vanished. Next morning there were rn so you are to be y » J Rw ‘ 4 Box marri “oy murm after "eC girl. mean, Adam: nothin him e “oy said tl Post. Ther Jearn t) ease th itsstag Cure is the me stitutio treatm: nally a cous su ing the the pat stitutio work. its cura dred D« Bend fo Sold | . Take In 1 French Country the de the Fr men. year © 12,000 or tw 000. down | tary p BA Skin ¥ d “l © cakes o Cuticur ekin wi face, a the ec: healthy with 1t as I cor dies he the Cu dispens: my bab is only agine tl bors ca ing cor North ¥, 1905. ‘Whe stands light it particle with tt scope. eye is 1 but the and oc STOPS =NO ble; cu Muy Give fe All dr upon Tec All ti in Berii flowers
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers