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z
THE SUNNY SOUTH.
thoughts back in the dim past, back in their
first little home. “You were a dear, bonny
wife,” he said. “I can see you bustling
about doing your work, and the baby, tied in
the little chair, clapping its hands and crow
ing, as you chirped to it. That was our first
home, a tiny little nest, only three rooms but
they were all filled with love and contentment
and it was our first baby but we didn’t have
him long wife. And then came our first great
sorrow, we’ve had many sorrows since then.
I almost wish John hadn’t written us to
“break up,” and live with him, for I know
our boy—our baby—will get tired roving
some day, and come back and I’d like the old
home to be ready for him when he comes.”
Its a great deal easier to offer a home than
to accept one, but the hardest trial is to give
up the old home when all about it and be
longing to it has become a part of one’s self.
If ever anybody in the world married for
love it was Hiram Drew and his wife. They
had climbed the hill together and traveled
down and now when they were almost ready
to sleep at its foot, to have to abandon the ac
cumulation of years, cast it aside, sell it for
what it would bring as “old rubbish,” and
give up the old home and go to live among
strangers and strange environments, was the
very refinement of cruelty, for theirs had
been a long life of love—genuine love—that
did not measure^its service but gladly gave
all it had, and was sorry it could do no more.
The neighbors, good, kindly souls, gath
ered about the house and yard with solemn
faces. It was the day of the sale.
The gleanings of sixty years are piled up
in the great square rooms, and to the weather
beaten men, who had earned all they pos
sessed by the sweat ot their brow, the sale
was a sacrifice and a great folly.
The crops had been gathered and the fields
were brown and bare, except where the faded
plumes of the goldenrod waved along the
fences and the sumac shed its scarlet leaves
in the path of departing summer. The
crickets chirped in the garden walk, and the
scent of sweet herbs, crushed by the feet of
the sturdy old farmers, filled the morning air.
In the house the clean feather beds, pudgy
and plethoric, were pilled upon the old-fash
ioned bedsteads, now denuded of their snowy
curtains and trim valances.
The corner cupboard, pulled out from the
wall rested uncertainly on two legs; the
little round mahogony candlestand that had
ver ^ held the light for three generations, the hard
“We shallY 00< * chairs, the old black rocker, worn and
ly to the im rn * t * ie long massive sofa, slick and shin-
— *he discnyk w * t l' a profligate waste of i brass tacks,
ie old dinnig-table, with its wings let
down like a tired bird, and hundreds of other
things were piled helter skelter in the car
petless rooms.
It did look like rubbish, but it came, piece
by piece, with such honest toil.
It was what the children had slept in, and
sat on, and eaten from, and each piece had a
'history of its own.
“Take that back, neighbor,” said the old
man, as one of the neighbors brought out
the little cradle.
“We’ll keep that.
I reckon John will give
us a place in the garret for that and the little
green chair.”
He lifted the little chair tenderly and set it
in the cradle.
The neighbors turned away, they were on
holy ground and there was a sob in his wife’s
oice, and tears behind the smile she gave
im as she laid her hands on his arm.
“I can see each little curly head, ” she
said, “that has fallen asleep in that chair. I
feel their chubby arms about my neck, and
their warm faces against my face as I lay
them in the cradle and rock them to sleep. It
all comes back to me and hurts me. We
were all together then, not one missing.
What rugged, healthy little chaps our boys
were, noisy but good natured and pleasant
spoken; they kept the old house lively
enough.”
was taken first, so white
I never saw him still be-
That was our first sor-
“The first born
and cold and still,
fore in all his life,
row.”
“Ah, yes, wife!” the old man brushed a
tear aside with his sleeve, “we thought
then our hearts would break, but-we’ve been
through the deep waters since that summer
morning.*’
Three months Hiram and his wife had
lived in John’s city home, and it seemed like
three years.
The novelty had worn off after the first few
days, and already their hearts were sore for
the old home.
“I know John would be hurt if we was to
tell him how we feel, but wife, in the even
ings I get so lonesome in this big, fine house.
’Taint home to us. I’d give all I’ve got to
go back to the farm where I could hear the
katydids and the crickets, and the cattle low
ing on the hills and the frogs chirping in
the meadow. I long to ,-eton the porch where
it's still and rest and think. Somehow, I feel
nearer to God there where it’s quiet and
peaceful. It’s all strange here and full of
confusion and noise. I can’t get used to it.
Sometimes I dream I’m back at home and my
heart is so glad I could cry for joy, but in the
morning when I wake and find it’s all a dream,
I want to go more than ever. I want my
children with me like it used to be when we
were so happy working together. ’Taint
money that brings happiness nor fine houses
and fine things, for John’s worried more over
what he’s got than them that’s got nothin;*
and Solomon was right when he said, ‘the
increase of riches was the increase of
trouble.' ”
The old man was homesick. His thoughts
ran in a painful trend.
“I wonder where our boy is;” he con
tinued. “I’ve been thinkin’ ’bout him more
than common lately. When did we hear
from Harry, wife?”
She, too,, had been thinking more than
usual of the wandering, wayward boy, but
they had had no word from him for many
months, and she could give him no comfort.
Harry had been gone years and years.
Sometimes they heard from him in a foreign
land, but they had not heard for so long they
had almost given up all hope.
He had been a wayward, but not a bad boy,
and when every one said it was as natural for
boys to “sow wild oats” as ’twas to eat, and
just to let nature have her way, his mother
comforted her heart with hope, but she soon
learned the fallacy of that theory; for nature
when trained and bridle-wise, will often run
at unlegitimate paces, and there was always a
wild streak in Harry that kept the mother’s
heart uneasy.
He drank more than was good for him be
fore he went away, and when long intervals
of silence passed, it was natural to suppose
the worst; only Jhis mother could see him
through the eyes of love, and remembering
his early, simple life and training, continued
to feed her heart with a spark - of hope. She
had years ago created an imaginary home
coming for him. He would come back to the
old farm, and they would be there to welcome
the prodigal son, for the robe and ring of
pardon was always ready for him. He would
be bronzed with travel, grown so big and
strong they would scarcely know him, but his
blue eyes would be the same heavenly blue
they Used to be when she kissed the tears
from them years ago.
He would take the old farm and run it,
and they would end their days there, and be
laid to rest in the little square upon the
hill, where the children that had “gone be
fore” were sleeping, watched over by the
stars at night, and the quaint old Lombardy
popU?s by day. Ths*' , \as the pi*tv for the
end. That was the vision that ran ^through
her mind as John entered the roJm unan
nounced.
“Mother,” he held an open letter and his
hand trembled.
“Oh ! it’s from my boy,” she cried, reach
ing for the letter; catching the whiteness of
John’s face, she stopped.
“What is it,” she said.
“Harry is dead,” he blurted out quickly.
It was John’s way of dealing with painful,
unpleasant things.
She looked at him as if she was thinking of
something else, and had not heard him.
There was a dull sense of pain at her heart
and a strange feeling about her head.
“Sit down, mother,” he said, laying his
hand gently on her shoulder. She looked up
in his face, but did not move.
“Tell me again,” she said in a dazed way.
“Say it over.”
Her white hair was no whiter than her
face, and her eyes had a strange look in them.
“Harry is dead,” she repeated. “My boy,
my baby is dead.”
The letter that told how he had tossed with
fever for weeks and begged for home and par
don, in his wild delirium lay on her lap. No
matter now. He was dead. There would be
no home-coming for him, never again.
“Oh! my son! my son!” she cried,
“would to God I had died for you.’’
It was a sad season. The old folks grew
homesick. They had need of comfort, and
none to comfort them.
At last John took them back to the old farm,
hoping to revive their drooping hearts. It
was springtime and all nature was full of .
promise. The air was laden with sweets
of honeysuckle and purple lilac, and the gar
den walks were pink with falling peach blos
soms.
They sat on the porch in the shadow of the
vines, the old father and mother, and talked
of Harry. They could talk about him now.
His faults were all forgotten. Death had
sanctified the past.
Was it the shadow of some flitting swallow
that flashed before their eyes? No; it was
the tall, stalwart figure of Harry that folded
them in his strong arms. He had been to the
gates of death and turned back a wiser and
better man.
Best Rest. Test
The best —and the
And when the rest
There are two kinds of sarsaparilla:
rest. The trouble is they look alike,
dress like the best who’s to tell them apart ? Well, ** the tree
is known by its fruit.” That’s an old test and a safe one.
And the taller the tree the deeper the root. That’s another
test. What’s the root,—the record of these sarsaparillas ? The
one with the deepest root is Ayer’s. The one with the richest
fruit; that, too, is Ayer’s. Ayer’s Sarsaparilla has a record of
half a century of cures; a record of many medals and awards —
culminating in the medal of the Chicago World’s Fair, which,
admitting Ayer’s Sarsaparilla as the best—shut its doors against
the rest. That was greater honor than the medal, to be the only
Sarsaparilla admitted as an exhibit at the World’s Fair. If you
want to get the best sarsaparilla of your druggist* here’s an
infallible rule : Ask for the best and you ’ll get Ayer’s. Ask
for Ayer’s and you’ll get the best.
A HORSE IN THE NAVY.
string-
An ex-
showed
could be
“To be
Official Regulations a Little Vague as to the
Treatment of Live Stock.
Several years ago a board of naval officers
was ordered by the commandant of one of our
naval stations to hold a survey on one of the
horses belonging to the station. The board
met, examined the horse, found that he was
suffering from “the scratches” and
halt,” and was generally run down,
amination of the navy regulations
that only certain recommendations
made by the board as follows:
“To be turned into store for use,”
retained in or for use,” “Sold,” “Used for
scrap metal,” “To be issued for any other
purpose,” “To be thrown on the dump,”
“To be transferred to some other station,”
“To be used for repairs for some other arti
cle,” or “To be extensively repaired.” Since
it was the unanimous opinion of the board
that he ought to be treated by a veterinary
surgeon, it was recommended, in conformity
wii^ the regulations, “r'tiat he be extensively
repaired.”
This was three or four years ago, and he
was “extensively repaired” by a veterinary
surgeon, but evidently the “repairs” were not
lasting, as the sequel will show.
Recently there came a recommendation
from the present commandant that the horse
be shot, as he was old and worthless, and that
it would be a kindness to put him out of his
misery.
In the same mail came a requisition from
the same commandant asking for authority to
buy ten tons of Ax, first-class fertilizer*
It was then that the navy department in
dorsed on the requisition, “Why not use the
horse to produce the fertilizer?”
The commandant promptly returned the
paper with the indorsement, “Since the horse
is not an A i, first-class horse, being old and
decrepit, he is incapable of filling the bill.”
And here the matter stands for the present.
—Washington Star.
AN ENDEMIC DISEASE.
The highest ideal has. strongest attraction
and influence; so many are content with
secondary Ideals of mind or matter.
Malarial Poison is in the Air, Earth and Wa
ter—Dr. Hartman’s New Book.
Malaria is an endemic disease; that is to
say, malaria is a poison that infests certain
localities. This poison germinates in the
ground and finds its way into the air we
breathe, the water we drink, and the food we
eat. There are two kinds of malarial poison—
the acute and the chronic. The acute malarial
poison is more common to new localities
where the ground has not been thoroughly
tilled. This kind produces the regular old-
fashioned chills and fever, or fever and ague.
The poison of chronic malaria is is common
to older sections and is more or less prevalent
in all parts of the United Sates. It occurs in
late summer and fall. Chronic malaria finds
its greater number of victims after a hot sum
mer. The heat and moisture of the past sum
mer will undoubtedly be followed by a great
deal of chronic malaria. This poison does
not produce distinct chills or fever, like the
acute variety, but makes its victims horribly
miserable in many indescribable ways. One
will have nasty cold sweats, followed by
Hashes of heat, aching bones, creeping rigors,
and great irritability. Furred tongue, foul
breath, irregular appetite, sluggish feelings,
constipation, dizzy head—all these, in whole
or in part, mark the presence of chronic
malaria.
The only natural remedy in existence for
chronic malaria is Pe-ru-na. It eradicates
the malarial poison from the system, and, at
the same time, stimulates the deranged func
tions of the body. Digestion is corrected,
nerves restored, feelings revived, and health
returned. The Pe-ru-na Drug Manufacturing
Company, Columbus, Ohio, is sending free
to any address, Dr. Hartman’s latest book
on malaria.
He Knew the Story*
On neutral ground they met, the man from
Kentucky and the one from Ohio. It was in
the middle of the Newport Bridge, and they
shook hands and looked through the railing
at the river below them.
“I heard a good story to-day,” said the
Ohioan.
“Something about a Kentuckian’s dislike
for water, I suppose?” said the blue-grass
chap, with a tired look in his face.
“No, about a Texas race. Fellow that saw
it said he never saw such running dene in
his life. It was a foot race between a cowboy
and a college graduate. They got together at
a saloon down in the southern part of the
State and ran to another ’ saVboir'' ITve
away. The college boy beat the cowboy hands
down and”—
“And you told the man who told you,”
interrupted the Kentuckian, “that you could
not believe the story because saloons in Texas
aren’t that far apart, eh? Yes, that was a
good story when you and I were young.”
Then the Kentuckian meandered Ohioward,
while the man from the Buckeye State
couldn’t seem to get the satisfaction out oi
his cigar that he had before.—Cincinnati
Tribune.
How’s This?
We offer One Hundred Dollars reward for any case of
Catarrh that cannot be cured by Hall’s Catarrh Cure.
F. J. CHENEY & CO., Toledo O.
We, the undersigned, have known F. J. Cheney for
the last 15 years, and believe him perfectly honorable in
all business transactions and financially able to carry
out any obligation made by tbeir firm. WEST &
TRUAX, Wholesale Druggists, Toledo. O. WALDING
KINNAM & MARVIN, Wholesale Druggists, Toledo
Hall’s Catarrh Cure is taken internally, acting direct
lv upon the blood and mucous surfaces of the system
Testimonials sent free. Price 75c. per bottle. Sold by
all druggists.
The Ants Talked About it.
It is becoming the general belief among
naturalists that all living creatures have some
communication with each other, at least to
the extent of making their wants, fears, etc.,
known to others of their species. A writer
on ants recently investigated the matter as
far as those interesting little insects were
concerned. He saw a drove of ants of a small,
black variety, which were apparently moving
to new quarters, those going in a certain
direction all carrying eggs or sick and help
less relatives, while those moving in the op
posite direction appeared to have just de
posited their burdens and to be returning for
another load of “household effects.” They
were probably pretty well along with their
work, judging by the leisurely way in which
they jogged along, and upon meeting, they
would frequently put their heads together as
though chatting about their new quarters or
some other interesting subject. It being a
question in the naturalist’s mind whether
they were really talking or not, he hit on the
expedient of murdering one of their number
to see if the others would run and teil what
had happened. He says: “The eye witnesses
of the murder hastened away and laid their
heads together with every ant they met,
whereupon all would turn and scamper away.
No more ants passed along that path during
the day.”—St. Louis Republic.