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**Tour hsir 11 twisted 1b a soar!JHBM And Just look at that hand! It looks m though ’twere newer wMhed- How tare you sny ’tl* tanned 7 •‘Ton've been a fishlna, sir, I ■'ueav- What! been to see the match 1 You'll have a fit of sickness, sir ; A pretty cold you’ll catch." • And thea she talks for half an hour And only stops to say, "Yonr gather’ll bear of this to-nlgbt What do yon think he’ll say 7" My friends in complimentary way Declare to me they see A close resemblance—very marked— Between the boy and me. But nothing that they see In him In either form or face Bespeaks my son as do his pranks- In these my own 1 trace. And why should I at tattered clothes Or dirty ones repine 7 In him I live my yonth agatu— God bless the bov 1 he's mine 1 LITTLE MISS TURPIN’S FATE. A little conversation took place, one day, on the top floor of a dingy old lodging house in the metropolis, that led to strange results. It was in the front room, but made its way vary readily through the chinks and crannies in the mortar to the neighboring apartment, where little Miss Turpin was preparing her frugal breakfast. The toast ing fork almost fell from her hand, and her dimity apron narrowly escaped baiog se ducec by the sumptuous flame from the grate, when the harsh g uff vo'.ce of her landlord fell upon her ear. "I want my money," Mid Mr. Shadrack, “So do I," replied the young doctor, "and more. 'He that'wanto money, means and content, is without three good friends.'" “Can I have my money to-night ?" "I think not" 'To-morrow V “It io extremely doubtful.” “Then you must get out of here. 1 want my room.” “When do you‘want it - ?" "As soon as possible." "Will to-morrow do?" “Yes.". “Thon leave, friend; the room shall be jours to.morrow morning.” The young medical student was a man of spirit, and would have vacated these not very alluring premises at once, but he had nowhere to lay his head, and there seemed a vital necessity just then for some such proceeding on his part. He bad discovered two days before that the faltering and shab by source of his pecuniary supplies had ut terly failed, and the knowledge that he was without money and friends in a strange city together with an inability to beg, borrow or steal, had robbed him of sleep. The loss of this necessary rest to a tired brain and worn out body, rendered him tbe prey of many different sensations during Mr. Shadrack's visit. An iron band seemed to compass his forehead, his eyeballs burned, bis hands shook, bis knees seemed at times about to collapse beneath him, as he walked to and *- fio the length of the dreary apartment, for lack of nourishing food chewing the cud of many a bitter fancy. He asked himself over and over again if this was to be the end of it all, and why he had been such a fool as to fancy he could pursue the study of medicine with tbe wretched capital of a worn out body, a distracted mind and barely enough money to keep flesh on his bones. That an indomitable spirit had prompted him to go on, hoping for a little desultory practice by the way; -that tbe r se color with which youth and inexperience are apt to tint those fallacious dreams had been too vivid in his case,—that these and many other excuses could be made for his folly availed little just now. A systematic course of semi-starvation and over work had broken his indomitable spirit, and turned the rose colored dreams to exceedingly greenish hued nightmare. The only patient he had during his nine months' stay with Mr. Shadrack was a poor little work woman in the neighboring room a washed out, timid, wretched little creature, with scarcely enough stamina about her to rally after a slight touch of pneumonia. Her little fee bad been ready for him after every visit—in fact, obtrusively ready, for it was out of the question, of course, to take money. “It was merely a neighboily service,” be said, when, upon his fii'h visit he found her up and at work again, and on his departure she had stammered out something about his bill. “I am only too glad, Miss— Miss —" “Turpin," she whispered. “To be of service to you, and beg you will call me in whenever my presence is desirable.” Miss Turpin faltered out her thanks. A burning blush chased tbe pallor out of her face, as he warmly pressed her trembling hand in his and bade her good bye. “Poor little devil I" he said, as he strode 1 away to the lecture room. “It's bad enough for a strong ox like myself to face and oattle with this grim old grindston j of a world, but for a miserable waif like that —phew, it’s monstrous." He thought of her pityingly till he Crossed the threshold of tbe college, then gave him self up to tbe sobject in hand, which so engrossed his mind, that he forthwith forgot the existence of little Miss Turpin. But she, upon her part, repeated over and over the words of young Dr, Blake, blnshing again when she became conscious of the fact-that she real’y had the temerity to dwell upon hie genial but commonplace ■ Miss Turpin’s work was delicate and are tistic, but not soul absorbing like the doc tor’e. She could tint her photographs all the better for this little episode in her life. The vines and tendrils took tender shapes under her deft little fingers; a sby, sweet melancholy helped to make the shadows at least more and more perfect; under the rose buds grew the thorns; but there seemed to lurk even in their cruelty a subtle, myste rious charm. It was enough for Miss Tur pin to dream. Tbe physical and practical reality of the doctor’s nearness, had its weight, but not consciously so, to the little woman. She never ventured to get up a cou«h or cramp for the sake of stamping more cl< arly his shape into these vague but extravagant feats of fancy. In truth, so timid and afraid was she of a pulsation of practical joy, that she actually shunned and shrank from its approach. But more and more imposing, grander and grinder grew this one figure of her faccy around which revolved the satellities df health and wealth, popularity and fame all that could render life sweet or desira ble. ' Perhaps it is detrimental to my heroine to say that shs would have been quite con tent to have lived upon the fruits of her own fancy for ’he remainder ofter natural life. Had circumstances compelled her to change her abode, and bad she thus lost sight of Dr. Blake, the dreams would have gone along just the same, the fact of his dying in a neighboring hospital of weakness and want, and the quenching of all her material in a pauper’s greve not interfering in the least with Miss Turpin's airy fabric. It would have been impossible to convince Miss Tur pin that he could reach so dire an extremity, bad not tbe knowledge been forced in upon her in away that she could not possibly re fuse. She absolutely heard the gruff voice of Mr. Shadraoh upon the morning in question and the low, musics', but bitterly mocking words of the doctor in reply. She sat down upon the rug, and clasped both her hands. He was going away then? Until that moment she had not realised the extent of such a disaster. She could have borne, perhaps to have been compelled to go away herself, becanse the inevitable for her had become, long since, a matter of course; but to have the iron hand of inexor able necessity grasp this magnificent young man was terrible lie had the flashing eyes, the lordly mein, t! e exultant step —for thus had little Miss Turpin been wont to classify the somewhat alluring personal attractions of young Blake—he had become the prey of an adverse destiny I Miss Turpin's breakfast that morning was a failure. By dint of long practice and an exceedingly gracious gift of housewifery she had.always managed to get up extraordin ary little meals (or herself. It was as if a little, sooty angel sat up aloft in the chim ney and assisted the culinary efforts of the lone*little woman. Her toast was of brown the most golden, her coffee was of Mocha the most delicious, her bit of steak so juicy and appetising, that sometimes poor Blake, in the neihboring room, with some chunks of brown bread floating helplessly in a chalky fluid before him, fiuding this savory odor under his nostrils, raised his clenched hands at the stern wall between them in envy and despair. But even the litttle angel in tbe chimney became impatient with the behavior of lit tle Miss Turpin that morning. The little woman, usually so practical and capable, while straining her ear to listen to faulter ing, stumbling steps in the next room, de liberately burned the toast and boiled the coffee, and the sooty wings spread them selves, taking flight in disappointment and disgust. She held her breath as the familiar foot step passed her door, and slowly one by one went down the worm eaten stairs. Ob, where was he going? What would he do ? She had read sometimes of an evening, when working hours were over, tbe shaded lamp upon the table at her side, the coals leaping and blazing in the refulgent grate, her little slippered feat upon the fender— she had read of people who, having neither money, means nor content, had drifted into a moment of frenzy and despair, and thus leaped the awful bar that separates the known from the unknown, content to risk any fate which awaited them there. She had read thus of poor, strange unfoitunates, and her heart had ached in their behalf. Bat now ? Well, now her heart almost ceased to beat. She put away her work — of what a .-ail was it, all blotted and blurred by her tears or ruined by her shaking brush? All day she feared and trembled ; at night fall some intuitive lope caused her to brighten the fire, cook a dainty meal, and placing the table opposite the door, leave the tempting, cozy room open on tbe wind swept, gloomy corridor. Then she waited and waited. The clock struck at midnight; then one, two, three, from a neighboring belfry. The meal was cold, the fire burned low; the chill, gray morning had almost dawned, when at last it came; yes—thank God! faltering and slow; but it was his footstep ; none other could quicken little Miss Turpin’s pulse He reached the landing, the door (of he room. Why, truly, he did pause—jeJ, and stagger in. | ’ Any other woman, but think peihaps, would have recoiled with di •gust»' hor ror, and, above all, with fear, lor the. oung man was evidently not himself. His hair, damp and dishevelled, hung in heavy dis order about his face and neck; his eyes, glassy and lurid, blazed upon here ; <t red flame burned in his cheeks; a slight foam flecked his trembling lips. He fell into the chair st the tab e, and looked wonderingly upon the food before him; but that which would have been fran tically devoured six hours before, was like the ashes of bitterness to him now. He had not tasted food for thirty-six hours. But it was not hunger that tortured him ; it was thirst—an appalling thirst He drank tbe pitcher of sparkling water from little Miss Turpin’s hand, and looked pleadingly for more. “Do not be afraid to give tbe patient wa ter." he mnrmnred eagerly. "In caies of febrile debility they sometimes suffer—suf fer. I recommend, by all means, water water—water.” Then he fell back with a groan of agony. Miss Turpin ran out o! the room and down the stairs; pounded on the door of the German tailor below, who, with his wife and five children, was enjoying in sleep tbe only immunity granted them from endless labor and toil; bade him fly for the best doctor in the neighborhood ; ran up stairs again like a deer, and found Dr. Blake insensible, his head thrown back upon the chair, his eyes half closed, his stentorian breathings audi ble in the corridor below. Tbe little tailor returned with the very beat medical aid in the vicinity, even that of the eminent Dr. Havershaw himself All this fuss and confusion had aroused Mr. Shadrack, who followed them up the ataira and protruded his very long and hairy chin in at the doorway. “It is, perhaps, beat that you should know, madam,” said the surgeon to Miss Turpin, “that this is a doubtful case. Your husband is in a very critical condition. If this worthy man will assist me we will get him to bed. Our ouly hope will be a pow erful sedative, to be given at once.” The worthy man alluded to was Mr. Shad rack, whose eyes almost left their sockets when he found the doctor preparing to put his young lodger into Miss Turpin’s bed. "Why— why," he gasped, looking at Miss Turpin, “this won’t do, will it ?' Mias Turpin bowed her head. She could not speak, but it seemed to her that her heart made all the noise that was nece.sary. Its convuhive throbs moved the shawl that she had thrown over her shoulders. "Don’t chatter here,” laid tbe doctor, thinking Mr. Shadrach was addressing him "Just do what I bid you, and the more qui etly, the better. Now then, lend a hand.” Half an hour later. Miss Turpin was atom again, eave for the body of the doctor that lay upon tbe bed. He was helpless there, perhaps dying, his face was strai ge and distorted, his eyes half closed. A con fused, unintelligent murmur flowed from his lips, bis hands clenched and unclenched; at times a groan seemed wrung from his vitals. Mias Turpin's features were pale and haggared, her eyes streaming with tears Yet, in the midst of an anguish that par took of despair, with throes of pain and terror unspeakable, there was born to her a solemn and almost sinister joy, the first ever given to that sterile soul When the doctor came in the evening he thought he had never seen so patient and noble a face; there was something in it that wnni to his noble heart. "Be comforted,” he Mid, "let ut lely on the youth and strong physiqne of your husband,” The incoherent muttering of his patient attracted the doctor’s attention. Sharp and strong sentences fell upon his ear. that ex cit. d his professional curiosity. When he heard from Miss Turpin of the enthusiasm and zeal of the young student, as much as ‘she dared tell him of his defeated apirations and hopes, the good doctor's dark eyes kin dled with sympathy. “Let him only get well,” he said, "and we will sweep these lions out cf his path." Miss Turpin smiled through her tears. "He will get well, thanks to you,” she Mid. "And to you,” he added, Icoking around the room with approbation. It had been suddenly metamorphosed into the model of a chamber for the sick. The open fire, with its cheerful blaze and veutilatiug draught; the subdued light; the white and warm drapery of the bed; her own little couch near by; pretty, shadowy pictures upon the walls tinted by her own hands — an eloquent silence reigning over all. “Il is lucky for yonder lad," thought the doctor, "that in all this big, wretched bar rack the one little snuggery is his own.” And so the days went by, each one fteighted with hope and fear. There came one at last upon which rested the life or the death of the young medical student "Some time this evening," said the doc tor to Miss Turjin, “he will regain con sciousness; be sure that you do not leave his bedside. I would not for the worl.f, at that critical moment, that a strange face should meet h's own.” Miss Turpin turned pale, and then streached out her bauds with a gesture of: entreaty. Then she slipped from her chair I to her knees and from hence to<the floor. Now had come tbe supreme moment of tor ture. Now her labor, her joy, her life itself, was done. A strange face I What face could be stranger than her own ? "Tut, child,” Mid the doctor; “I thought you had more courage. There is every hope for him Can’t you bear joy,as you have sorrow? I only want that la shall see of his wife, tbe dearest to him in the world.” He put down his hands to her, but still she hid her face from his. Her whole frame trembled. She wished at that moment, so unhappy seemed her fate, that she could die there and then. “Oh, doctor,” Mid she, lifting her eyes to his, “how can I tell you ? how can I make you know ? I am not his wife ?” The doctor drew back coldly; .but as her farnk earnest eyes causht his own, he could not tbe, innocent pleading there. She might be a pocr Magdalen even, but he had never sren so childlike and yet womanly a creature. “We mucst think of nothing now but onr patient," he Mid, gently; “your face is at least familiar and dear to him.” "Alas ! no,” she said; “ it is strange, al most unknown. It is far better I should go away." Then she told the doctor all. /nd as she went on to confiss how she had dared to shelter this poor neighbor of hers, without a roof to cover him, without money, with out friends; sick unto death, helplees and alone —how she had dared at any risk to shelter him and to nurse him back to life — the good surgeon's eyes blinked under his ■baggy brows. He put his heavy hand in benediction upon her bowed head. “Thou goo I little Samaritan 1” he said. And two big hollow, handsome eyes upon the white bed in the corner also filled with tears. He was so weak, this poor young Blake, th t he could scarcely help sobbing outright at so touebi >g a story. “Why—why,” he faltered to himMlf, "in little Miss Turpin's room ! 0 thou merci ful Heaven I in little Mias Turpin’s bedl With the cheery little fire in tbe grate to foil yonder biting blast, with all the little Knick -knacks and furbelows about—the lit tle pictures on the wall, her bird-cage at the window, a neat little medicine stand, with lots if spoons in various does, each spoon with little Miss Turpin’s name; and to her then under heaven, I owe my life! Ab, may God do to me, and more, alao, if I de sert little Miss Turpin, or let little Miss Turpin desert me I” ’ ' “And now," Mid the sweet, tad voice of Miss Turpin, "take me to hie bedside. I am foolishlp weak, I can scarcely see. Let me look upon him just once more before I go. You will take care of him now, doctor, won’t you ? But let me My- goodbye.” The doctor, undecidely, scarcely know* inw what to say or do, half carried her to his bed. “Good bye, good-bye,” she said, bending over him, her warn- tears falling on his pale, sunken face, her hot. trembling hands clasping themselves together. But suddenly two other hot, trembling bands seize hers in a f-cble grasp—the hok low, sunken eyes of the student fasten them selves upon Miss Turpin's face with a very hungry tenderness. “Oh, no,” heMiJ, "you cannot go from here, not for the world; you tee the good doctor has Mid it will not do to have a strange face at my bedside. Yours is the d< arest to me in the world. I love you, Miss Turpin. It perhaps a sal fate 1 offer you; but, oh I be still more generous—be my wife. I have loved you so long I" He didn’t say bow long; he was too weak to talk. He din't tell her taat perhaps his loved dated only a little hxlf-hour back, when be listened to that wvnderously touch ing story of hers. What mattered it? Cannot love be m strong as life and deep as the sea, however and whenever it is born ? Good Dr. Haver shaw took care of their future. It began in a mat, two-story brick house, with a big braM sign upon the door, to which the worthy surgeon drew Lis attention enough to set the bot to boiling. And now in her stylish brougham, with a liveried lackey at her command, with her rustling silks and dainty laces, with her wildest fancies more than realized, who could find fault with the fate of little Miss Turpin ? — ■oxart. A slovenly, commonplace wife, low, dis orderly connections, and reckless habits, reduced him to a system of constant over work and constant borrowing. One child after another was born and died, his wife was continually ill, symphonies had to be sold before they were written, usurers had to be resorted to, till the catastrophe came, which the father, the unwitting but original cause, was mercifully spared from witness’- irg. Mozart, whom the poor, anxious chapel master of Sa'xburg had hoped to see “at the head of a comfortable Christian nousehold”—feverishly anxious to get eight pupils—writing a masterpiece, tbe “Zauber flote," for a suburban theatre of planks, owned by a harlequin—begins, according to his own expreMion, to have the taste of death on his tongue, dies miserably and painfully, leaving only six florins to pay his debts, and is hurriedly buried in the cheapest manner in the common ditch of the public cemetery, without even a cross to distinguish his resting place from that of the beggars around him Mozait believe' l he was being poisoned, as Pergolesi had believed himself to be when he, too, died in obscurity and want, but what need could any of his enemies have had to poison him? He could never have struggled out of the' wreck of his fortune.tof nia career, and of his health. The stury is a miserable one, and, being that of Ahe composer of “Den Giovanni” and tbe “Zauberflote,” contains a deep, tragic interest for us; yet it is in reality the story of hundred . of other mu* sicians of small or no gilts; and tbe only really strange circumstance is that this commonplace tale of failure should be that of a man of genius like Mozart. This an omaly we have partially explained by showing how h'S father arranged matters as if be had positively been planning an ob score and unaucceMful career for his son ; the other half of tbe explanation must be sought for in Mozart’s own character, which, compared with his genius, was almost as commonplace as was his life, and which might, like it, have been that of a very me diocre artist. A Real Mm Girl. I saw a girl come into a street car the other day, though, who had, I was ready to bet, made her own dress and bow nice she did look. She was one of those clean, trim girls you see now and then. She was about 18 years of age, and to begin with, looked well-fed, healthy and strong. She looked as though she had a good sensible mother at home. Her face and neck and ears and her hair were clean —absolutely clean How Midcm you see that. There was no pow der, no paint on the smooth, routded cheek or firm, dimpled chin ; none on the moist red lips; none on the sheik tinted, but not too small ears; note on the handsomely set neck—rather broad behind, perhaps, but but running mighty prettily up into the tightly corded hair. And the hair I It was of* light chestnut brown and glistened with specks of gold as the sun shone on it, and there was not a smear of oil or pomatum or cosmetic on it; there was not a spear astray about it, and not a pin to be seen in it As the girl came in and took her seat, shs cast an easy, unembarraued glance around the car, from a well opened gray eye, bright with the intimitable light of "good condi tion, *' such as you Me in some handsome young athletes who are "in training.” There were no tags aid ends, fringes, furbelows or fluttering ribbons about her closely fit ting but easy suit of tweed, and, as she drew off one glove to look in her purM for a small coin for fare, I noticed ts at the gloves were not new, but neither were they old; they were simply well kept, like the owner awHheirs'wi>er's hand which was a solid hand, with plenty of muscles between the tendons and with strong but supple fin gers. It would have looked equally pretty fashioning a pie in a home kitchen or fold ing a bandage in a hospitable. It was a hand that suggested at the Mme time womanlileu and work, and I was sorry when it found a five cent piece and had been re gloved. One foot was thrust out a little up on the slats of the car floor —a foot in a good walking boot that might have plashed through a rain storm without fear of damp stockings—an; an eminently sensible boot on a two and one ha’f foot with a high in ttep, a small round heel, and a prett" broad tread. Tbe girl was a picture from head to foot as she mi erect, disdaining the support of the back of the seat, but devoid of all ap pearance of stiffness. Perhaps the whole outfit to be ee.n, from hat to boots, did not cost |4O; but I have seen plenty of outfits cost’ng more than ten timee or even twenty times that, which did not look one-tenth or even one-twentieth as well If our girls only knew the beauty of mere simpiieity cleanliness and health, and their fasc-i nation! —Washington Cap'tsl. Cutie Garden Scents and Incidents. Castle Garden, on tbe whole, is a sad place, Mys a New York letter. Among the myriad of swarthy faces which meet one's gaze, it is ruely that one encounters a smile or a laugh ; the emigrant, though he has just Mt foot in "the land of the free and the home ot the brave,’* is still an emi grant, -ithout a home and among strans gers. The Italians, of whom vast numbers are now crowding in upjn ut, have a pen sive look, especially the women, that is particularly toojhing. The Sveedish and Danish emigration just now h beyond all precedent As a rule, the women are as strong and sinewy as the men. If poor, they are usually r eady and comfortably dratted, and th. re i« a frank, open expres sion in their countenances that at once in forms one they arc fi om countries that have escaped the centuiiea of serfdom which have taken the spirit of independence from other populations that have been less fortu nate. They can look you straight in the face without being ashamed. Their child ren, with which every family is liberally provided, look as tou.h as pine knots, and are just the kind of human machinery need ed to develop a new country. Sveedish girls, for domestic strv'ce, are in active demand by city people, and all that offtr are read ily taken at wages ranging from twelve to sixteen dollars a month. 1 heir imperfect knowledge of the v-tnacilar is a serious drawback, as it necessitates frequent panto mimic performances in the kitchen and at the dinner table; but then, as they quickly learn, the little d fli u't:e< ate soon forgot ten. The Norwegians are a people of a coarser fibre than the Swedes and Danes. Their industry almost equals that of the he then Chinese: but it is not a skilled industry, and it must find its appropriate sphere in the bald and forest rather than in the workshop and the manufactory. Hence, a great mjority of them push out West as soon as they leave the ship. All shades of gray are popular. GEMS OF THOUGH". In all the superior people 1 have met, I notice directness, truth spoken more truly, as if every.king of ohstruc ion, of malform ation, has been trailed away. —Emerson. “But it's an ill wind as blows no g x:d to nobod i; that’s what I always My when them lads has a wisitation. The world is chock full of wisitations A wisi'atiop, sir, is the tot of mortality."—Squeers. Reason is always imperfect in judging of character, since the logic of the Creator overpasses tbe logic of the school-; and our thought may not grasp the premises of a human soul.—M. A. Tinck- r. Get yosr breastplate of truth first, and every earthly stone will shine in it.—Rus - kin. • There is naught eIM worse than the sea to confound a man, how hardy so ever he may be.—Homer. It seems to me that, on the same princi ple on which Government ought to superin tend and to reward tin soldier, Gbvernment ought to superintend and reward the schoolmaster. —Macaulay. I returned, and mw under the sun, tha 1 the race is not to the swift, nor the bat'le to the strong, neither yet bre«. *■> the wise, nor yet riches to men of understanding, nor yet favor to men of skill: but -ime and chance happenetb to them all.—Ecclesi astes. There are no times in life when oppor u nity, the chance to ba and do, gather so richly about the soul as when it has to suf for. Then everything depends on whether the man turns to the tower or the higher helps. If be resorts to mere expedients and trick', the opportunity is lost. He comes out no richer nor greater; nay, be comes out harder, poorer, smaller, for his pain But, if he turns to God, the hour of suffering is the turning hour of his life Phillips Brooks. Our brains are Mventy year clocks. The angel of life winds them up once for all; he closes the case and gives the key into the hand of the angel of the resurrection. — Holmes. Take this for a golden rule through life-. Never, never have a friend that is poorer thanyonrMlf.—Douglass Jerrold. Sense endureth no extremities, and sor rows destroy us or themsel’es.- Sir Thoma* Browne. As long as there is life in the plant, though-? it be sadly pent in, it will grow towards any opening of light that is left for it. —Helps A very considerable share of the diMsee and deaths of our race are tbe natural ef fects of sin. or wrong dcing. 10WBIMT Linimenl f n/rititrf, jtnaaSa, oa. avta-ata Twvzs Szia<glas fox 1»."W For all In J urlaa In man or boast nothing equals Hikscm LrwmzwT. Relief from Cough in Ten Minute« n DENISON’S n Balsamic syrof OF Bed Spruce Gum and Button Root. A PLEASANT AND POSITIVE OUBE TOK ALL DISEASED OF THE CHEST and LUNGS, V CUdt, Lot of Voice, Spitting of Blood* D\jkull Breathing, etc. Thia Balaamic By rup will pravant and cura Conaumption when taken <n time (bugMng, in many caeee, eeaeee In ten minutee qfler it le taken. Reetleeeneoe ie gone, and eiceel, tieop eneuet. Tha moat agraaabla and affectiva Cough Ramedy in the world i BYee from Opium and Morphine. Can be taken in etifety by the moet deltoate. The family Cough and Lung Modi* cina— oanepariet. PEMBERTON, IVERSON A DENISON, MAIUFAOTUIIIG CHEMIETk, soli raorziiTOM, ATLANTA. • - - GEORGIA.