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WONDERFUL CURE
Great Suffering and Wonderful
Cure of a Religious Woman
in Kansas.
HER HUSBAND’S LETTER
He Says It is Next to Work of Mira
cles.
Have you ever read of the case of
Mrs. C. R. Stone, of Lawrence, Kas.»
given up by many doctors to die, over
14 years ago, yet today alive and well,
ae a result of taking Wine of Cardui!
If not, the following letter from her
husband will give you the details of her
ease. You will find it absorbingly inter
esting to read about.
My wife, the Rev. Mrs. C. R. Stone,
was raised from the grave the doctors
had given her up for, and restored to
health by the virtue of the Cardui Home
Treatment. She has now been taking
Wine of Cardui since January, 1897. The
ten years prior to that, she was a bed
ridden invalid, as a result of female
troubles, two years of the ten helpless
as a new-born babe. Our physician, no
doubt, exerted his utmost ability to cure
her, but failing, he wrote her parents
that she could not live. Every physi
cian called to see her, from time to time,
decided, each in his turn, that it was
useless to expect a cure, as it was con
trary to the nature of her case for her
to live. So it was only a question of
time, some setting her death to occur
within a month. In spite of this, she
yet lives and is now well, and regular
in her place in the different departments
of church work. This beats being a
constant bed-ridden invalid, at an an
nual expense of SIOO. Wine of Cardui
and Thedford’s Black-Draught (like the
apostles who healed the damsel that
brought her master much gain) healed
my wife, and the M. D.’s lost this regu
lar income. I will gladly personally dis
tribute some of your books, at ray own
expense, amongst people that I know
will be benefited by WL.j of Cardui.
It is a pleasure to recommend so good
a medicine, the result of using which
ia next to the work of miracles.
J. F. STONE.
Wine of Cardui is a gentle, non-intox-'
icating, strengthening tonic for women.
It relieves pain, regulates irregularities,
restores the functions and gives new life
and energy to the weary frame. All
druggists sell it in $1 bottles.
Free Medical Advice, and a valuable
64-page Book on Female Diseases, will
be sent in plain wrapper to any lady
who will address: Ladies* Advisory Dept.,
The Chattanooga Medicine Co., Chatta
noefa, Tenn.
NO PEACE CONFERENCE.
“Are you going to strike, ma?” asked
the little boy, as he tremblingly gazed
upon the uplifted shingle.
“That’s just what I’m going to do.”
“Can’t we arbitrate, ma, before you
strike?”
“I am just going to arbitrate,” she
said, as the shingle descended and
raised a cloud of dust from the seat of
a pair of pantaloons—“l am just going
to arbitrate, my son, and this shingle is
the board of arbitration.” —Clothing
Trades Bulletin.
An egotist is a man who talks so
much about himself that he doesn’t
give you time to talk about yourself.
About the first step toward reform
ing a man is to catch him in the act.
VOICES OF YOUTH
DON’T WAIT UNTIL YOU ARE
MEN.
“I’d like to be a man,” said Fred,
Who was a lad of nine,
“So I could help my mother dear —
Ah, wouldn’t that be fine!
For mother works so hard, you know,
Since father died, one year ago.”
And yet, when mamma kindly said:
“I wish my boy would go
Out to the shed and get some wood,
For mamma needs it sb,”
Fred answered as no good boy should,
And mamma went and got the wood.
Now, little boys, remember this:
Don’t wait until you’re men
Before you help your mothers dear —
You may not have them then;
But register a great big vow
To help them then, and help them
now!
FRANK MARION.
Wlftb ©nr Correspondents
WHEN MY CITY BEAU CALLED.
Let me tell you what an embarrass
ing position I found myself in one
morning not long ago:
Although I live ten miles from our
nearest city, I have quite a number
of friends there, and they often come
out to spend Sunday with me. It is
very seldom, however, that I have a
city caller during the week. On Mon
day morning it was part of my work
to milk the cows. I had on a blue
calico dress and a gingham apron that
almost hid my dress. My head cov
ering was an old hat of my brother’s
which had long ago been cast aside
and pronounced unfit for a decent
person to wear. In spite of the nu
merous air-holes in its crown I had
it perched on my pompadour.
It has ever been a cheerful habit
of mine to sing while working, and
on this special Monday morning I was
singing that well-known rag-time song,
“Alexander” in a high key. On
bounding through the gate after an un
ruly calf, I found myself face to face
with one of my city beaux—the one
whom I had intended should be spe
cially impressed with me!
Well, can you imagine how I felt?
I can’t tell you how I struggled through
the next half hour of conversation
with that young man, but I can tell
you I felt very much like burning
that old hat, and I don’t think that
I have ever exercised my vocal or
gans on “Alexander” again.
With best wishes to all,
Clifton, A. T. “BAPTA.”
DINNER BY THE CREEK.
The village children had been prom
ised a picnic for a long time, so one
taorning at Sunday school it was
announced that the picnic should be
given right away. Only the chaperons
and the youngest set of children were
allowed to go. The place decided on
was down in our meadow, a cool,
grassy spot, shaded by large trees,
with a clear, rippling brook running
through the meadow. The banks of
the stream were covered with ferns
and mosses and wild grape vines
clung to the branches of the trees
overhead. It was an ideal picnic
ground for the young folks, and they
seemed to enjoy every minute of their
time.
One of the ladies who chaperoned
the little folk, made a short, appro
priate speech, and this was followed
by one from each of the children. Af
ter that, dinner was spread on the
Ware’s Black Powder
digestion. Flux ancf Headache. Write,Patton- WorerTarn
Oi ui; Company. Dallas. Texas, for Circular-
The Golden Age for October 31, 1907.
grass—and such a dinner! I won’t
tell you all the good things we did
have; I’m afraid it would make you
hungry if I did. After dinner we all
played games, gathered ferns and
flowers, hunted wild grapes and, best
of all, we went wading in the creek.
We tried fishing, but met with poor
success; the only thing we were able
to catch was an old terrapin.
It was getting real late when we
started homeward. It would have
been a treat to see the bright faces
of the children, and to hear them tell
about the “bestest time they ever
had!” BESSIE DAVIS.
R
MUSIC.
(Written for the prize.)
How many of you are fond of music?
I love music with all my heart. The
violin is my favorite instrument. It is
said to be the instrument whose tones
are most nearly like those of the
human voice. It can wail and implore
just like a real person. It is said,
you know, that Paganini, the most
wonderful violinist that ever lived,
played on one string only, and imi
tated every sound.
We have violin solos at our Sunday
school, and I enjoy them greatly. The
performer is a skilful musician. It
seems to me the violin must be diffi
cult to master. I am taking lessons
on the piano. Are any of you per
formers?
It takes such great and constant
practice to learn to play well. I
heard a gifted pianist play not long
ago. He could almost make a piano
talk. Sometimes its tones sounded
far-off like an echo; then loud and
near; again soft and low. He re
ceived only five dollars for his per
formance that night, but I don’t think
Padarewski, the famous, long-haired
pianist, who receives $5,000 a night
for playing, could have given me more
delight.
I would be satisfied and proud if
I could play half as well, then I would
not annoy people with my crude at
tempts.
PATTIE S. TUGGLE.
17 Ashland Ave., Atlanta.
R
A NEWSBOY’S BIRTHDAY.
The air was chill, yet there was in
it a hint of spring, as befitted Valen
tine’s day. It was, also, my birth
day; no one would imagine that I was
nineteen years old, for my lameness,
brought about by an accident, had
stunted my growth. There was no
one to remember it was my birthday.
Once —so long ago, it was like a dream
or a long ago told fairy tale —
there had been a lovely woman—my
mother —who had remembered the an
niversary and baked a great, white
birthday cake for me; who had kissed
me and called me her valentine. One
day, when they had taken her to the
hospital, I hung around its gloomy
walls, but they would not let me see
her. Days passed; then I was sent
for to see her dear face in a coffin,
and to follow her to the city’s charity
burial ground. When the clods fell on
the pine coffin, I realized that I had
lost my only friend.
I continued to sell newspapers for a
living; I no longer had a home. I
herded with the other newsboys, and
slept as did some of the others, wher
ever I could find shelter. One day,
I was crying papers at the great un
ion depot. The big policeman who
guarded the gate was always kind to
me, and when I asked him to let me
go inside, he allowed me to pass, and
• - ■■
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with a smile on his good-natured face
he said, “Well, Jack, you can slip
through and inspect the trains today.”
There was a network of tracks, and
big, puffing trains were coming and
going in every direction.
I was a little city boy, .and all my
life I had cherished a longing to travel
and to see the country—God’s land.
Seized with some unknown and wild
impulse I swung on to the ladder of
a freight train just leaving the depot,
and climbed to the top of the car.
In a few hours I was carried miles
away from the big city. It was a
new and thrilling experience to me,
and I had not the slightest idea where
I was going, or what was to become
of me.
Before I had been in my new quar
ters very long the brakeman found
me and carried me to the engine
where the engineer took charge of
me. He was very kind, and seemed
to take a great fancy to me. I stayed
in the engine with him and looked
out the window while now and then he
. explained to me about the scenery,
all of which was wonderful to me. I
found that I had taken a southern
bound freight train, and that we were
on our way to Florida. I can never
tell you the feeling of delight and
amazement I experienced when I saw
the orange trees laden with golden
oranges, and the bannanas and cocoa
nut trees, and the palms. It was
like a new world to me; I could hardly
make myself realize that I was not
dreaming.
When we reached one of Florida’s
most southern cities I was put in
charge of a wealthy civil engineer who
was going to Cuba, afterward Panama
and other places of importance. When
he heard my pathetic story from the
kind-hearted engineer on the freight
train, he became interested in me, and
wanted to take me to Cuba with him.
I was more than glad of the oppor
tunity, and promised to be of use in
any way that I could. When he found
that God had given me a talent for
music, and that I could play the violin,
he said that he felt well repaid for
his kindness.
We traveled through many strange
lands, and after several years of happy
companionship, we have at last re
turned to my native state. We came
back on Valentine’s day, and cele
brated my birthday by giving the
newsboys a handsome dinner.
This is a page from the life story
of a crippled newsboy.
JACK HARKAWAY.
New Albany, Miss.
K
IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN.
Today, while I sat with a little bou
quet of sweet violets lying before
me, there came to my mind the sim
ple and sad little story of a love
that never found fruition in this world.
She was my schoolmate at dear old
Wesleyan College, in Macon, Ga., the
oldest female seminary in the United
States. She was just past six
teen. She often received letters,
so we inquisitive girls discovered, that
were not from the home folks. They
were directed in a man’s firm, clear
writing. After w e had been kept in
the dark for months her secret came
out. She was engaged;—with her par
ents’ consent —or she would not have
been allowed to receive the letters of
her affianced. He was a young
preacher, gifted and earnest. She read
us passages of his tender eloquent let
ters.
What an important little personage
she became in our eyes! But, school-
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