Newspaper Page Text
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ROSALIE.
A MEMORY OF THE LATI* Ql AHTER.
nr wn.i.mi i.e uikix,
Author of “Whoso Findeth a \Vif>"lf Sinners Entice Thoe,” “The Eye of Istar,"
“The Great War in England in H97,'' “Devil's Dioe.” Etc.
Copyrighted, lsiis. tiy t\ illiain I.e Hnenx.
A few days ago I forsook the pre.-cPt and
plunged for a brief hour into the past.
I was in Paris, the city which ii;t.~ gn at
est cliarm for me, because in the old days,
before I abandoned brush and palette for
the pen, I formed one of a quartette of art
students as reckless as any in th. quaint
old Quartier Datin, and lived a lif- of
feast one day and fast the next. Amid out
gay, careless set a man was nevt r Judged
by his coat or cravat, and our si ells of
spasmodic work in shirt-sleeves wert in
variably followed by wild outbursts of
pleasure. Those bygone days were indeed
full of happiness. Little we knew and less
we eared for the worries of life 1 , * \lsting
as. we did in Bohemia, our world apart.
Along the Rue Rivoll I chanced to be
passing, and having an idle hour to spate
I became seized by a desire to revisit the
spot where the five happiest years of my
youth were spent. To satisfy this longing
I crossed the Pont Nenf to the opposite
side of the Seine, continuing along the
quays until I reached the high, dingy-look
ing house, the grey front of which faced
the river, whore in the bare, ill-furnished
sky-attic we had lived, idled, and work
ed, smoking our rank cigars purchased in
the “Boui Mich” at ton centimes apiece,
and quenching our insatiable thirst with
an exceedingly inexpensive wine possessed
of a bettor color than taste.
As I glanced around I sighed to note
everywhere a change. Bohemia seems,
alas! no longer io exist there. In the lit
teen years that have passed since, in a lit
of despair because i had failed with a
picture I thought my masterpiece—and
which now hangs in my study as 1 write—
I shook the dust of Paris from my feet
and set out alone, broken by disappoint
ment and sorrow, to tramp the level dusty
roads to Germany, the Qual Montebello has
become respectable. It Is no longer the be
loved old Quartier which was once my
home. Its old-world charm has passed
away because it has become modernized
and has assumed a sorry air of mock gen
tility. I stood and looked up at those four
well-remembered windows. There were
actually lace curtains there!
Yet, as I lingered sadly, n host of mem
ories crowded upon me. recollections of
those happy, idle, half-forgotten days
Winn the quips of Droz convulsed us,
when the pathos of Merger caused a lump
lo rise in our throats; when time was
counted by the dales of remittances from
home, and when, in our youthful enthus
iasm, we all of us believed our works
would one day be hung in the Luxembourg
for the admiration of the world. What a
merry, cosmopolitan, open-hearted crowd
we were! The names of many of those
happy indolent revellers with whom we
used to dine so frugally each evening at
Mother Gery’s little cremerie in the Rue
Galar.de arc now household words. No
fewer than five of my boon companions
in those days have seats in the present
House of Commons, fully a dozen are
members of the Chamber of Deputies, one
is a distinguished A. R. A., another Is
editor-ln-ohief of the most scurrilous An
glophobe newspaper Paris has yet pro
duced, another a brilliant French novel
ist, and yet another the most renowned
painter of the modern school in Italy. The
ttvo last-mentioned lived with me in our
sky-parlor and may be known in this scrap
of autobiography os Jean Chauvel and
Pao’.o Sesto respectively, for it perhaps
would not be fair to give their real names
now they are so well known. The fourth
of our merry quartette was Antoine Mar
tin, a slim, dark-eyed youth, who came
from the town where my own family had
lived for generations before political com
plications compelled my father to fly to
England, the quaint old fortified.place call
ed Chateauroux, far away, in the Indre.
This little memory is mainly of Antoine,
for he was my particular chum.
One warm summer's evening, when the
rose and orange of the afterglow had fad
ed, and we had all put down our pnlottcs
and abandoned work, my three compan
ions went out, leaving me alone. They
had ttsked me to accompany them to
Mother Gery’s, but feeling in no moot for
conviviality, I had declined. The shabby
oid room, which served us 'as studio and
living room combined, was silent and
gloomy In the dusk, its four easels stand
ing in n line together, the lay figure look
ing ghostly in the half-light, while thp hu
man skull perched on the top of the cup
board grinned grimly down upon me.
I stood at the open window pondering,
gazing dreamily across the placid river
where beyond rose against the evening
sky the twin time-worn towers of Notre
Dame, the thin gilt spire of tlie Hotel
de Vlile, and the ancient gothic tower of
St. Jacques.
I cared not to go out, therefore I lit
the lamp, and in order to distract my
thoughts recommenced work upon my
picture, the one which I fondly dreamed
would bring me renown. The subject was
a weird one. It represented the gate of
an Eastern harem, on the polished steps
of which was lying the decapitated body
of a woman whose head, struck oIT by a
gigantic negro eunuch, had tolled aside.
Its title was "By order of the Sultan.”
and those who saw it iu Us incomplete
state declared its conception and color
ing to be remarkable. It was their well
meant but foolish praise that led me to
expect so much.
For fully two hours I had worked in
silence, pipe in mouth, until, tired out, I
at last flung down brushes and palette
and casting myself upon the-old frayed
Couch, dropped off to sleep. It was near
midnight when a hand on iny shoulder
caused me to jump up with a start, and
I saw Antoine white-faced and scared,
standing beside me.
"Quick, old fellow!" he gasped, out of
breath. "Tell me what to do. I want
your advice. See!"
And turning, he indicated with a wave
of his hand a figure seated in thi great
roomy old armchair. It was a young girl
with a face mote beautiful than l had
ever before beheld. Her cheeks were pale
os death, her eyes wore closed, her ehin
had sunk upon her breast, her clothes
and hair wpre wet and muddy. She was
soaked to the skin and unconscious.
“Who is she?” I gasped starting for
ward, gazing nmazediy at her.
“i don't know," he panted, exhausted
by his efforts in carrying her up the four
long flights of ricketty stairs which led
to our studio. She seemed very young,
scarcely more than 17. Her clothes were
of good quality, and although hatless her
gloves were almost new. and her thin
soled shoes were evidently from one of
the fashionable shops on the Boulevards
“A quarter of an hour ugo. while stroll
ing home*along the quay, f saw her in
front of me," Antoine said, in answer to
my quick interrogatory glance. "Shi was
at la dark spot, leaning over, looking in
tently Into the water, when suddenly, no
ticing my approach, she sprang upon the
parapet and threw herself into the Seine."
"And then?"
"Well, I dived in after her ami got her
out." ho said simply, as If It were a most
ordinary occurrence. “But isn't she Iteau
tiful? I couldn’t give her over to the po
ii-'. so brought her up here. I wonder
what the fellows will say?"
1 was compelled to admit that her face
was almost flawless, but in alarm I asked
whether she hud yet returned to con
sciousness.
“Yes. once,” he answered. "It was that
tact which makes me think she is but
little the worse for her foolish attempt. I
wonder what could have induced her to
act like that?”
“Some love affair," I suggested, still
gazing upon her.
Has s ' r a lover? Do you think she
b is? he inquired quickly, an intense anx
ious look upon his face.
' \ly dear follow, how should I know?"
I exclaimed, laughing. "But if we’re going
to keep her here we must put her to bed
ai once and try and resuscitate her. If
not. the chill may kill her.”
"Ah, yes." he cried, quickly, his eyes
iglow. "She shall havb my room. 1 can
.-hip on the couch—anywhere. Wait here
with her while I rundown and get Mother
l.rigitte to undress her and give her some
hot cognac,” and he bounded away down
the stairs to find our concierge's wife.
As l Stood, regarding the beautiful face
of the fair unknown, her eyas slowly <>t>en
'l. They were large, expressive, and of a
clear child-like blue. When she saw me
she started perceptibly, gasping in Kng
ish-
"Where is this? Where am I?"
"You are ru>l well, 1 ' 1 hastened to as
sure her. "You—you've had an accident,
and must remain here in our studio until
you are better.” I told her my name, and
added: "Will you not tell me yours?"
"My name!" she echoed, blankly. She
raised her hand, and the sight of tier wet
dress-sleeve evidently brought back to her
all the sadness and despair of the past
few hours, for she shuddered.
"You are English, so am I!” I went on.
‘Shall I go to your friends and reassure
them of your safety?"
"No," she answered, in a low, cultured
voice, as she gazed around our shabby
room. "You are my friend—l feel assured
you are by your face, therefore, I am
content to remain here—if I may be per
mitted. But ask me no questions. Call me
only Rosalie.”
"Rosalie,” I repeated. "Only Rosalie?"
The effort of speaking had, however,
proved too great, afffl a few seconds later
she had lapsed again into unconsciousness,
and remained so while we carried her into
Anrortie's barely-furnished little room,
where old Mother Brigitte removed her wet
clothes, put her tenderly to bed, and gave
her cognac with hot water.
It was nearly 2 o’clock before Jean and
Paolo returned, hilarious after a night at
a ball somewhere in the vicinity. They
burst into the studio laughing and singing
as they were wont to do, but suddenly be
came hushed and interested when breath
lessly we tdld them of our pretty and mys
terious guest Sleeping in the room beyond.
Both were on tiptoe of excitement, all ea
gerness to see her, hut were compelled to
wait until the following morning.
We were seated together in the studio,
our bowls of coffee before us, when the
door slowly opened and she entered. With
one accord we rose to greet her. I glanced
at Paolo and Jean, and saw they both stood
agape, amazed at her matchless beauty.
"Good morning!' 'she laughed, bowing
gracefully.
"I have to thank you all for your kind
hospitality.”
"To Antoine Martin," I exclaimed, point
ing to him. "To our comrade Antoine, most
of all. It was he who—who found you and
brought you here."
WHh frankness she held out her slim
white hand to him, thanking him. Their
eyes met. I saw how* his quailed before her
calm, steady gaze, and I knew that already
he adored her.
Her clothes had been dried by Mother
Brigitte, her hair had been brushed and
dressed with taste and care, to her cheeky
the glow of health had already returned,
and as she took her seat with us und
daintily sipped, her coffee, I, like the rest,
thought I had never before beheld a coun
tenance so absolutely perfect, so open, so
indicative of goodness and purity.
The meal was a merry and prolonged
one. She wad given the softest roll, the
last pat of butler, and her bowl was care
fully vy- 1 shod and dried by Antoine before
he placed It liefore her. fin her part she
was gay and happy, chatting without re
straint, laughing at our jokes as if she
had known us for years, and subsequently
gave us permission to smoke, accepting
one of my corporals and laughingly join
ing us. being compelled, however, to place
it aside after the first few whiffs.
Yet sno was entirely a mystery. Through
out that long summer's day she busied
herself nbout our studio, tidying it up,
putting things in order, and chatting guiiy
all the time. One thing alone caused her
alarm; she walked round my easel where
1 was at work, gazed upon my picture
long and earnestly, then turned away with
it shudder. It was too reulletlc, she de
clared;, its sight horrified her.
With one ticcord we called her Rosalie,
as she had urged us to do, and ere the
day was out she had addressed each of us
by our Christian names. Into our dingy,
shabby studio she had come to brighten
our lives ami prevent us by her influence
from lapsing into utter barbarism, and it
is no exaggeration to say that within those
few hours she captivated tlie heart of
each one of us. She was. Indeed, an en
ehaniress.
Days, weeks, months wont by. At our
invitation she remained with us. occupied
Antoine's room, where she eould relire
and rest secure from intrusion when she
pletwed, lived at our mutual expense, and
ruled our strange Bohemian household
firmly, if - oquettishly. Her dross had
been ruined by immersion, therefore we
compelled her to purchase two others, one
for ordinary wear and another far Sun
days and fetes, together with hat. gloves
and various other things, all of which we
paid for out of our own frugal combined
funds. Many a time did all four of us
deny ourselves cigars, tobacco and wine
in order to squeeze a franc or two to pur
chase various little trifles and dainties
for the fair-faced gir! wltoni we had chris
tened the "Queen of Queens." She sat to
us as a model, but it wits I’aolo who paint
ed the beautiful liorirait, striking because
she Is represented as a "Madonna," whieli
at this moment hangs in the royal gallery
at Turin, ns the property of King Hum
bert, mid Is considered a specimen of the
noted painter's best work. All others
proved failures. Only Paolo could catch
the true expression of candor and purity
in her lovely countenance.
In the days of early autumn it became
plain to us that Rosalie preferred Antoine
Martin’s society, for she accompanied him
to dinner each evening to one or other of
the little (ferneries in the Boul Mich', and
would afterwards go for walks ulqng the
Boulevard or through the Tuileries (Rtr
dens, where the leaves were falling. Dur
ing the day, too, while at work, we did
not fall to notice the love-look in her face
whenever he addressed her; therefore, I
was not surprised when one evening
when alone together he confided to me that
he loved her, and that she reciprocated his
affection. To him, Rosalie was all in all.
We all envied hint. Yet she stll re
mained cur gay, light-hearted friend and
companion, petting all of us indiscrimi
nately with as playful affection as if we
were spoiled children. That Antoine
THE MORNING NEWS: SUNDAY, JANUARY 23, 189S.
adored her none of us for an instant
doubted; besides we agreed that he had a
right, inasmuch as he had rescued her
from death. She was his idol. His every
thought was of her; It seemed as if her
extreme beauty had entranced him.
Month swent on. Paolo had finished the
Madonna he had painted from Rosalie’s
model, and disposed of it advantageously
to a dealer for a sum we considered large
in those days. My own picture was com
plete, too. but it was, alas! adjudged an
absolute failure. Spring had come again.
The trees in the Tuileries Gardens were
budding, and Paris was bright and fresh
beneath a dear sky, when one morning a
quarrel occurred. Some trifling matter had
aroused Antoine's quick jealousy, and he
announced his intention of leaving us and
placing Rosalie, who had promised to be
come his wife, in the care of his married
sister over at Charenlon.
I hat night, Antoine being compelled to
keep a business appointment on the op
posite side of Paris, Rosalie dined with
tne, and when I asked her for details of
the uffair which had thrown our strange
little menage into such confusion, she
shook her head, saying:
It Is all so foolish. Antoine Is so ab
surdly jealous that I really fear to speak
o either of the others. Yet you have all
been so extremely kind to me. for you
you have saved my life."
quirted dW y ° U W ‘ Sh t 0 end U? ” 1 ,n ‘
, * have ended it,” she answered, sighing.
' fa mHy I am already dead. 1 died
from‘”he n ßeine.” hf ‘ n Amoi,,e draSged ,ne
“You love him," I said.
,T'°, f course," she answered with a smile.
He has been so good to me."
~a t ni s ht lone of us retired to bed un
til the early hours, for Jean Chauvel was
to bid us farewell next morning. His uncle
at Lyons had died, leaving him possessor
ol a fair Income, therefore he was parting
from us. not, however, without considera
ble regret. The high words of that morn
ing had been forgotten. In wine we drank
long lire to Antoine and Rosalie, and after
wards toasted each other, subsequently
retiring to rest.
How long I slept I know not, but it was
Antoine who dashed into my tiny white
washed room and awakened me.
"fxjok!” he cried, trembling, his face
pale as death. "Read this!"
1 started up and eagerly scanned the
lines of hurried writing. It was a brief
note left by Rosalie, saying that she had
left Paris with Paola, whom she loved,
and urging Antoine to forget her.
"And they have gone?" I cried, dis
mayed.
Yes," he ahswered, in a voice broken
by emotion. "Yes, they have gone—they
havd gone! But I will follow." And
snatching up his hat, he crushed the cruel
letter into his pocket and dashed out and
down the stairs.
Neither Jean nor myself touched our
coffee that morning. We discussed the af
fair dolefully, and tried in vain to account
for Rosalie's sudden desertion of the man
who loved her so devotedly. At eleven,
however, I saw Jean off to Lyons. He
gripped my hand before ascending into the
carriage, but at that moment of parting
no word passed between us, so full of sor
row were both our hearts. Unexpectedly
our quartette had been broken up. 1 alone
remained.
To the silent, deserted studio I returned,
heavy-hearted, and. entering Rosalie's
room, glanced around. In a drawer I dis
covered a note written to her by Paolo
which made it plain that he had for a
long time loved her, and that she. on her
part, feared to cause pain to Antoine, the
man who had rescued her from death.
Alone In that old place, the scene of so
, much gaiety, so many happy idle hours
and so much good-fellowship, I patiently
awaited Antoine’s return. I felt that he
must come back, yet although I waited
three whole days he neither wrote nor re
turned.
On ihe afternoon of the fourth day I
could hear the suspense no longer, there
fore having left a message with the con
cierge, 1 went out, wandering along the
boulevards for hours, wondering whether
my friend had discovered the fugitive pair.
Until sunset 1 walked on and on my return
my footsteps led me behind Notre Dame
and past the morgue.
Involuntarily I turned in, carried on by
the crowd of morbid sight-seers, and the
first object that greeted my gaze behind
the dingy glass partition was Antoine,
cold and rigid In death. The body was
lying propped up with face exposed to
wards the crowd, awaiting identification,
and at its feet was the letter Rosalie had
written, spread open so that all could read.
His clothes were dripping with water and
covered with mud. He had drowned him
self in the Seine.
In an instant my eyes took In all' the
tragic details, then turning I fled from the
presence of the body of the man who had
been so cruelly wronged, crossed the river,
and blindly climbed the stairs to onr
studio. Disappointed that my picture
should have been a failure, heart-broken
at the loss of my dearest friend, I resolved
to leave £arls forever. In an hour I had
sold to a second-hand dealer all my few
belongings, and with the eighteen francs
he gave me in my pocket I took my hat
and stick and that night set out from
Paris alone and friendless, heedless of my
future or of where I went.
Ah! tiie days that followed I can never
forget. Without money and without friends
I trudged forward, picking up a living
by doing various sorts of menial work,
often thankful to sleep in barns and out
houses. and sometimes glad enough to eat
a turnip or an onion from a field. Still I
pressed forward through many hot weary
months until I at last found myself In
Italy, doing eleven hours daily in a mar
ble quarry near Carrara.
How I developed from a cosmdtxiUtan
out-ai-elbow tramp into a London jour
na'ist, and subsequently into a writer of
fiction, does not concern the present nar
rative. This is not an autobiography, but
merely a memory.
In my capacity as journalist I attended
one summer's evening six years ago, a
fashionable wedding at St. Paul's,
Kniglnsbridge, and judge my amazement
when, on arrival of the bride leaning on
her father's arm, I recognized bur myste
rious and errant Rosalie.
Like one in a dream I’sat watching the
ceremony until it had concluded, and all
the parties had left. Then 1 entered the
vestry to inspect the register. Yes, there
was no mistake about the signature. Her
Christian name was written in the same
well known angular hand ns upon that
letter exhibited at the foot of Antoine’s
lif. less body in the Paris morgue. Eager
ly I p ad the other entries, and from them
learned that the beautiful mysterious girl
whom I.e had rescued from death was
npne other than the youngest daughter of
the Karl of Brantwood, and that the man
to whom she had been married half an
hour before. was Lord Windermere, who
h id just relinquished his post as British
charge d’affaires at Lisbon.
Once, only once huve we met. Not many
months ago he sent me, through my pub
lishers, a brief note, m response to which
] C l!, Id one afternoon at her house in May
fair. When she greeted me I at once saw
how, as a loader of society, my gay little
friend of by-gone days had become pain
fully artificial in l>oth manner and speech.
She was no longer our happy comrade who
joked, sang, smoked our caporals and
drank our wine like the rest of us.
"1 have often read your books." she said
at last, after we had been talking over
the teacups, "and frequently I've been
seized with an intense desire to meet you
again. I wanted to explain the mystery
surrounding me, and to tell you how it
was that owing to my father's compelling
me to tiecome engaged to a man I hated, I
tried on that night long ago to drown my
self. Besides,” and she lowered her voice
until it sounded hatsh and strained, "be
sides, I wanted to ask what has tiecome of
Antoine.”
"Antoine.” I echoed sadly, "Antoine kill
ed himself because you left him." •
"Killed himself 1" she gasped, the color !
fading from her cheeks. “Ah. poor fellotv,
poor fellow!” she said, the tears welling
in her beautiful eyes. "I—l never dreamed
that he loved me so well.
"And what of Paolo?" I asked gravely.
"Paolo?" she exclaimed, puzzled in a
voice scarcely above a whisper. "Ah! of
course—l understand. You uelieve that I
left Parts with him; but I did not. He left
litcause of the quarrel, and I only said I
had accompanied him so that Antoine
should consider me worthless and forget.
I returned that day to England, and was
welcomed hack by my family, who had
long ago mourned for me as dead.” •
"Then you never loved Antoine?" I said.
She did not answer, but burst into a tor
rent of hot bitter tears.
Before we parted I shook her small white
be-jewelled hand, and promised her that
if ever I told the tragic story I would
never reveal her true name. And I never
shall.
The End.
A MECHANIC YI. FERHET,
t Device to I)rltc Itnliliits From
TUeir Harrows.
From the' Milwaukee Sentinel.
It has remained for a La Crosse sports
man of an inventive turn of mind to pro
vide rabbit hunters with an
inanimate substitute for a fer
ret, the use of which is prohibit
ed by the game laws of Wisconsin, a bit
stock and flexible'wire cable attached to
a perforated iron bulb being capable of
driving "bunny” out of its subterranean
home.
At this season of the year rabbits are in
their prime, and within a small radius of
Milwaukee they are extremely plentiful,
but the wet weather during the last week
was unfavorable for hunting until Thurs
day’s cold wave froze the surface of the
boggy ground frequented by rabbits, and
gave the hunters a more secure footing.
In Waukesha county, and particularly
in the immediate vicilnity of Pewaukee
lake, between Watertown and IMadison,
west of Raetne, and in Dodge county. Mil
waukee hunters enjoy their best sport in
December and January, and with the first
fall of snow three weeks ago a great
many rabbits were kilied by local sports
men. In spite of the laws forbidding the
use of ferrets, hunters have evaded the
vigilance of game wardens, and unless
they are tsefiut-ely muzzled the rodents
seize the rabbits in their burrows and en
joy a feast, while the hunter impatiently
waits above for the appearance of his
quarry. With the new hunting apparat
us, however, the hunter is equipped with
a device which is sure to drive the game
to the surface and give him a shot. The
cable Is flexible, but sufficiently rigid to
cause the iron bulb attached to it to ro
tate positively throughout the entire
length of the burrow, following each ram
ification with a lateral, snake-like motion,
and does not become entangled in the roots
and bushes or trees. A depth of twenty
feet can be reached successfully, and those
who have used the device say it is infalli
ble. The bulb* sthofild first be placed In
the burrow where the rabbit has taken re
fuge, and then 'the hit brace revolved
to the right, pushing on the cable at the
same time. The bulb will follow all the
deviations in the hole until it strikes the
animal, which becomes sufficiently alarm
ed to leave its refuge and take lb the
open.
To withdraw the apparatus the operator
should continue to reveive the brace to the
right and pull on the cable. The threads
on the bulb and coupling are made right
handed, as are the strands of the cable.
If the hunter desires to smoke a rabbit
out of his hole, he can fill the iron bulb
with cotton waste and then heat the metal
until the filling begins lo smoke. After
inserting the cable in the hurrow one of
the holes should be closed, and the rest
is easy, provided the hunter is proficient
in the use of a gun.
This winter a number of hunters have
atso used a section of garden hose, which
they insert into the rabbits b’urrow, and
then use the hose for a speaking tube. A
horrible racket is created by this method,
and the game is scared out, but the cable
and bulb, are said to be much more ef
fective.
STAGE KISS.
It Had to lie Given. Even at tire Risk
of Bloodshed.
From the Chicago Record.
It Was a home talent show, nnd we sat
patiently waiting for the unexpected to
happen. The unexpected always happens
with a homo talent show, and an inner
mountain village is not proof against this
long-accepted stage fact. We strangers
from the unregenerated East, who were
there in the mountains for our healths'
sake, felt assured, therefore, of an experi
ence before the night should be over.
"It was the 'Mikado' which was to be
presented, tattered and torn by Its transit
from first-class theaters in the East to the
town hall Of Teton City. We had heard
Nanki-Pooh as he had sung about being a
Ihing of shreds and patches, and we had
heard Ko-Ko’s announcement of his
theories and ideas, and were getting along
fairly well in our listening when the kiss
ing song was reached. Then Red Pete
Barker, who w*as singing Nankl-Poo, ad
vanced to the footlights.
“Ladies and gentlemen," the tenor singer
began, "this is a mighty poor place in the
show lo interrupt the proceedings to make
a speech,hut as ceriain things are about to
happen, I think it is only fair that you be
put on. I have heard that Holy Moses Per
kins, who is known and generally hailed
and greeted as the eventual husband of
Miss Bet tie Hoy lor, who is taking the j>art
of Yum Yum, has announce to all con
cerned that if I followed out the directions
of the book of this play and insist on kiss
ing the lady, there will be five different
kinds of trouble. I hereby announce that I
am going lo la-gin kissing the young lady
in about three minutes and shall keep
right on kissing her through the whole
blamed song; and I further announce that
I shall do that kissing in full view of the
audience. Moreover, it may be of interest
to you to know that I have secreted in
these long and flowing robes tWo first
class six-shooters right ready for business.
I am also armed with the fact that Holy
Moses Perkins is sitting in seat No. 167,
which is in plain view from the
stage. As the scene which is
about to be presented is a cross
between a delicious love song and a homi
cide, and as 1 shall caress the young wo
man with one eye oh her beauteous
charms nnd (he other on seat No. 167, I
hots- you will overlook any little short
comings in the affair. I hate to mention
such coarse, low things, hut the gun which
I shall use first ts a self-cocker and has
been recently oiled. Thanking you for
your kind attention, the show will now
g - on."
We listened to the rendition of the kiss
kiss song with great interest, especially
thoce who were in range of sent No. 167.
Nothing happened, however, Mr. Perkins
remaining statuesquely mute. But when
the applause continued on its demand for
an encore, Mr. Barker appeared once more
at the stage front.
"Thank you," he said, “for this vindica
tion, but if you want some more of it I am
compelled to say you can't have it. I re
spect Mr. Perkins’ c’aims on the premises.
Thank you one and all,-nnd especially Mr.
Perkins, who has this night sacrificed his
feelings for the advancement 3of art. The
show will now proceed."
We then leaned back 'and listened, re
spectfully while Pooh-Bah told nbout his
trouble and his expectations.
WALK ASHORE!
A YOUNG WOMAN’S PERIL AND HER
PILOT.
Hotv She Drifteil Into Danger anti
How She Wan Saved.
It all happened at one of those pleasant
seaside resorts, where life is comedy from
day to day and tragedy has no place. She
just stepped on the raft which she thought
was moored, and in pure idleness of mood
fell to rocking it from side to side, as she
watched the white sails shining In the sun,
far out at sea.- But the raft was not
moored. Her rocking had slowly dis
lodged it from the sand, on which it was
grounded, and when she turned, around she
was afloat and the shore a rod behind her.
She cried for help and was-heard by a lone
ly fisherman who sat at some distance on
the beach mending his nets. How slowly
he got up. How slowly he tramped across
the sandy shore. And she was drifting,
drifting, drifting! "Save me!" she cried,
"save me!” as the old man came to the
water's edge. The grizzled marine;; raised
his hand to the side of his mouth and
cried hparsely, "Walk ashore!"
Walk ashore!
“WALK ASHORE!”
That's all there was of it. She was still
In shoal water. All she needed was the
timely word of instruction and advice.
But supose it had not come? Suppose she
had not heeded it? Was there no dan
ger? The open sea, a frail raft, and a
frailer woman! There are all the possi
bilities of a tragedy in these. Many and
many a drama of the sea has been played
on a smaller stage.
The woman on the raft is a type of hun
dreds of thousands of her sex who are
drifting into danger. Up to a definite day,
a given hour even, they have been enjoy
ing life in perfect security. Then, in a mo
ment, a sense of impending danger comes.
They realize that they are at the mercy
of disease, as dangerous an enemy to the
body as the great sea and its tempests are
to a raft. Every day increases the danger.
They are drifting, drifting, drifting away
from peace of mind and ease of body to
that silent sea where hope and help can
never come. Then comes the cry for
help. To thousands of appeals there has
come the answer from Dr. R. V. Pierce,
chief consulting physician to the Invalids'
Hotel and Surgical Institute, Buffalo, N.
Y.,
WALK ASHORE! WALK ASHORE!!
You are still in the shallow waters of
disease. You can still get back without
more than inconvenience to the land of
health behind you. All you need is just
the right word of advice and common
sense instruction in time, and the grip of
a. helping hand. That is lust what Dr.
Pierce offers to every one suffering from
disease; timely, health restoring, life sav
ing advice, practical help, fit requires
some confidence to take advice when your
own senses are against it. The woman
on the raft could not see the bottom of the
roily water, and the land looked so far
away. So the woman in disease can’t see
how she can be cured, and recovery of
health seeems hopeless. And, perhaps, the
very disease that has begun to threaten
her is consumptive, that dreadful disease
regarded by millions as incurable. Her lo
cal doctors perhaps say, “We can make
your suffering a little less, but there's no
hope." There Is hope! Who says so? The
man who knows the whole sea of disease,
has sounded it, diagramed it, described it
and charted it in his great work. The
Common Sense Medical Adviser, a million
two hundred thousand (1,200,000) copies of
which have been supplied to American
homes where this Dictionary of Disease
and Herald of Health Is regarded as a
veritable "Bible of the Body.” On what
ground does he say It? On the ground of
a record of cures covering tens of thous
ands of such cases. Were they sure
enough cases of consumption? That's
what the doctors said and the patleniv
said. What did Dr. Pierce say? He said
they were cases of "walk ashore." You
can understand thatr You can't drown in
shoal water, unless you are scared to
death. It’s the scare and ignorance that
speed the consumptive on his way. He
may be in shoal water, hut ho doesn’t
know' It and just gives up his
GRIP ON LIFE.
When Dr. Pierce says "walk ashore.”
he says it in the knowledge that those
words have been New Life to a iiost,
doomed by fear and friends and igno
rance and physicians to a consumptive’s
grave. Does Dr. Pierce claim to cure
consumption? That question isn't worth
arguing. Look at the record. Take a
case in point. Here 1.? a man (or wom an)
with a hacking cough, a hectic flush,
night sweats, great emaciation or wasting
of flesh, spitting of blood, shortness of
breath and all tne other symptoms. After
every remedy and every local physician
has tailed, lie. as a last resort, takes
"Golden Medical Discovery," and the
cough vanishes, the cheek gets back its
natural color, slee'p becomes sound and
refreshing, the spitting of blood stops,
flesh and muscles become firm, weight
increases, and life goes along In quiet
and comfort to the full limit of the
three score years and ten.
But may lie it , wasn't consumption
after all? May he it wasn't. You know
it was something that was attacking the
very citadel of life, and it was some
thing that was cured by (he use of Dr.
Pierce's Go'.den Medical Discovery.
And Dr. Pierce is curing such "some
things” right along with a record of
over a quarter of a million cases, and
not more than three per cent, of failures.
One fact, at least, is well established.
That the "Golden Medical Discovery"
does cure weak lungs, bleeding from
lungs, obstinate, lingering coughs, laryn
gitis, bronchitis, throat disease, and kin
dred affections of the air passages, which,
if neglected or badly treated, lead up to
consumption, can no longer be doubted
in view of the many thousands of well
established cures of such cases reported
by the most trustworthy citizens. Many
of these cases have Bren pronounced
consumption—and incurable—by the liest
local physicians before the sufferers com
menced the use of Dr. Pierce's Golden
Medical Discovery.
Whether the doctors have erred in
their judgment in these numerous cases
or not is not for us to decide.
Suppose w r e put some of these so
called "incurables" in the witness box.
Let us call Mr. John Brooks of Boyl
ston, Worcester county. Massachusetts.
(Sawyer’s Mills), who says: “I write to
you to tell you of the great benefit I have
received from Dr. Pierce's Golden Medi
cal Discovery. About a year ago I Was
taken with a bad cold, which settled on
my lungs. The doctors said I was in
consumption, and could not get w T eIl. I
took Emulsion of Cod Liver Oil and it
did tpe no good. After taking it four
months I heard of your 'Golden Medi
cal Discovery,’ and wrote to you for
advice. I have taken your medicine
and it saved my life. I felt so sick
when I wrote to you I thought I would
not live through the winter.”
And here’s another witness. Mrs. Emily
Howe, 7 Park avenue, Chicago, 111;,
writes: “About two years ago my son was
afflicted with wha>t seemed to be symp
toms of consumption. I purchased three
bottles of Dr. Pierce's Golden Medical
Discovery and it cured him completely. He
is now in the best of health, and we can
not recommend 'Golden Medical Discovery’
too highly.”
Still another witness writes: “I had a
bad cough and got so low with it that I
could not sit up.” Thus writes Mrs. Mit
tie Gray, of New London, Union county,
Arkansas. She continues, “Our family
physician told my husband that I hail
consumption. I had pains through rr.y
chest and spit up blood. I took your
‘Golden Medical Discovery.’ and it cured
me. it saved my life. I don’t think
any one would die of consumption
who would take Dr. Pierce’s Golden
Medical Discovery.”
Mrs. Lucy Stevenson of Corinth, Grant
county, Kentucky, says: “I will add my
testimonial to your list for the good your
wonderful medicines have done ine. I
suffered more for five years than tongue
could tell. I took medicine from three
doctors, but got worse all the time. I
went to another doctor, and he treated me
for two years. He gave me help for a
while; then I began to get worse. My
lungs became affected. I suffered all the
time with my head and lungs. My limbs
and back would be so sore and stiff in the
morning that I could hardly get up. I felt
tired and had sore throat and coughed
night and day. I also had congestion and
inflammation of the womb and constipa
tion. I was so weak I could hardly walk.
Had pimples and blotches; hair fell out;
had no appetite; swgnming sensation in
my head. I wrote to Etr. Pierce and de
scribed my feelings the best I could. I re
ceived an answer at once and started to
take his ‘Favorite Prescription’ and ‘Gold
en Medical Discovery' and 'Pellets.' I be
gan to feel better before I had finished
the first bottle. My health has been im
proving ever since. I worlt all the time
and do not have any more trouble with
my lungs, and my womb trouble is almost
gone.”
But w-hy can't other doctors effect
cures like the foregoing? Well, for many
reasons. One reason is that Dr. Pierce, iu
his world-wide practice, with his eighteen
assistants, treats a thousand cases of any
given form of disease to the one case treat
ed by the country doctor. He knows the
regular forms of the disease and the vari
ations. He puts his finger on the real issue
at once. Somebody or a dozen somebodies
may have given you up, but if Dr. Pierce
says “walk ashore,’ you're safe. But
there's another reason beyond study,
knowledge, experience and observation,
and that's natural faculty. Dr. Pierce is
a successful specialist by birth, by choice,
by training. That is why Dr. Pierce has
cured so many thousands of cases. It’s
faculty. It's the know how. It's the never
fail—the never give up. He treats the so
called hopeless cases, and he succeeds to
the amazement of the physicians who have
plenty of learning nnd medical equipment
but lack the special qualification of fac
ulty—the know how. Are you drifting In
danger on the Dead Sea of disease? Walk
ashore. Try it. Ninety-seven people In
every hundred who are suffering from dis
ease for which Dr. Pierce's medicines arc
recommended cun he cured by Dr. Pierce's
Golden Medical Discovery and his “Favor
ite Prescription." Are you one of the
three or one of the ninety-seven? Which
is the more likely? But remember that you
are daily drifting farther fiom the land
of health. If this message reaches you,
act on it. Bogin to-day.
WALK ASHORE!
Sometimes someone wants more spe
cial nid. Some sensitive soul says "that's
all right and I believe it, but please tell
me Just how deep the water is." Dr.
Pierce Invites those who ore in need of
specific advice to write to him. Every let
ter is held sacredly private, and a woman
may set down the secret thoughts of her
heart in absolute security.
Don’t accept any substitutes far n
Pierce's Remedies. The shadow of su
is Imitation. Imitation remedies ■’
cure, any more than the imitation '■"? 1
quets of the stage feed the hungn ‘v
want a cure. Don't accept the shadow 1
the substance and "spend your mon " ,p
that which Is not bread." J lor
GIFT TO OUR READERS.
That great chart of the Sea of Di
known ns Dr. Pierce's Common - "
Medical Adviser, will be sent fr<’ ', 9
every reader of this paper who wi I °
the cost of mailing only. On this \I
- may see the sounding of the i "l
Sea of Sensuality, 'the- Red Sea of ‘
Blood, the Black Sea of Pain. | , !
rock and shoal and quicksand of .
physical life is pointed out. and 1
route to health and happiness )t |
indicated. It is a book of knowledc
every woman and every man. It IVv r
the hidden things of physiology and i
plain the darkest problems of q-
Send 21 one-cent stamps, to cover i
mailing only, if you want this book in ,
per covers, and 31 cents in stamps for jh>
stronger and more durable cloth bin ■ ,
Address: World's Dispensary Medical A.'
sociation, Buffalo, N. Y. This great
page Dictionary of Disease and n.'i'Ju
formerly sold at $1.50.
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