Newspaper Page Text
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BRUSHY >7, 1900.
A.
<THE SUNNY SOUTH
< mnu> <PAGE
i he Crossed Coffin ^
By O. B. STEVENSON.
HE following story may or
may not toe true; at least
It Is strange, and to hear
It, one winter's night in a
larm house kitchen, is al
most to believe it. The
wind howled outside and
rattled the casements; the
wearily home I noticed she <logged Jan
et in a fashion uncanny to see; an
when we got to the brigg I heard her
say these words:
" ‘Eh! my bonny honey, the step may
not lag, nor the lips cease fra’ smiling,
but a heart crossed I’ love betrays it
self.'
“ ‘What do you mean. Gamma?” cried
Janet, fiercely. ‘Take your ill-gotten
glow of the peat live lit I proverbs to him that needs ’em. Gam
up the face of the narra
tor^ She was only a rough
country woman, but so
convinced was she of the
truth of her narrative,
that, when ehe had finished, we were
almost convinced too.
M Janet an’ Bess were the prettiest
leases 1’ all Braittowaite moorslde, and
as good as they were pretty, said some;
though, for my part, I never could see
much o’ goodness 1’ Janet. She were a
tall, black-haired wench, as straight as
a lance, with a sharp tongue an - a proud,
defiant way. Bess were never much of
a lass, poor thing, always slight and
puny-like, but varra bonny, an' right
civil and ldnd; there was no one but had
* good word for Bess.
“No one could tell what It was that
bound these two girls together, for Bess
were as different Ira’ bold, fierce Janet
as night fra' day. As children they had
sat together on the same bench i‘ the
dame school at Bralthwaite, and oven
then, in play hours an’ out of ’em they
were never far apart. As Urey got up
and grew to be young women, they
seemed as fond of one another as ever.
Whether it were that Janet really liked
Bess, or tiiat it mebbe only pleased her
to see how strong and tall she was agen
poor sickly Bess, I'll not say; but cer
tain it is that she could twist Bess
round her 1 it Lie finger, an' Bess looKed
up to iier as she might ha’ done to the
queen on her throne.
“Now, in BralL'hwalte there lived a
young carpenter. Joint Rowe by name.
He had just finished his apprenticeship
in the town and iiad come back to make
a start lor hissclf in the village. Ho
were a braw lad—aye. and as good and
hones L a lad as ever stepped.
"In the old times, all Utree, Janet, an'
him, an’ Bess, had been schoolmates.
And now of an evening, when his work
was done, folks were always seeing him
Out wi' 'em in the country lanes or by
the beckside. He was courting one of
them, they said, but .which one? John
scarcely knew himself. He admired
Janet, and laughed at her fleerin’ words
an' saucy jests; but 1 think he loved
Bess, Bess, who was so gentle and calm,
an' looked at him so kindly out of her
bonny eyes.
“Well, Ui Is courting, or whatever it
was, went on for a long time; and then
John’s mother died. Now, John was a
thrifty, long-headed chap, an’ it went
sorely to his heart to see his clean, tidy
Blouse all amuck; for the old woman
who waited of him was neither tlirilty
nor clean. folks said as she drank,
and. when he was out, would sit croon
ing over tit’ gin bottle, instead of red
ding up tlie hearth an’ luying out Ins j
tea: so tiiat when John got home of a I
night, instead of the Hoor being nicely !
sanded and all clean and menseful, he
would often as not find the lire out, and
the old Gamma at the garden w r icket,
clacking as fast as her tongue would go
wi’ the next door neighbor.
” ‘Well,’ thought John, after much
consideration, "there’s no help for it, 1
must e’en just get nte a wife.’
"He thought of Janet. Yes, she were
a braw lass enough; but when lie mind-
ma Dawson. As for me. 1 want neither
your good words nor your foul.’
“ ‘Aye. honey, honey’—and an awe
some smile crept over the old hag’s
wrinkles—‘an mebbe the’ll have need of
me yet, mebbe thee’ll ha’ t° thank Gam
mu Dawson yet. for tlie same stroke
falls on me as on thee—thou losses thy
bonny sweetheart an’ me my home. An’
all for the sake o’ tiiat waxen-faced
doli—curse her—that has stepped In an
fooled the young master’s heart. Aye,
an’ It’s a bonny lass, too,’ sue muttered,
as she followed Janet's lithesome figure
up the hill, ’but as bonny a lass was 1
at her age. an’ as proud, woe's me!’
“John and Bessie’s wedding day was
sore overshadowed, for a week after
they were made man and wife Bessie’s
sister died.
“Two nights after the poor thing was
taken, Janet was standing on the brigg
looking down into tlie water, when
Gumma Dawson appeared.
“The Gamma stopped and peered out
■of her little beady eyes, drew nearer an’
touched Jnnot's hand.
“Janet started.
“ ‘Still grieving for that sweetheart,
lassie?’ said the old woman jeerlngly.
‘Tomorrow’—and she nodded in the di
rection of the cottage where the dead
girl lay—‘tomorrow there’ll be a bonny
funeral. Two flowers sprung fra’ one
stalk—yan to the church garth, t’other
to John Rowe’s breast. Aye, honey,
honey, a bonnier bride thou, than yon
puling fool, that’s robbed thee of a hus
band an' me of my bit o’ bread. Aye,
my lassie, an’ if I stood i’ thy shoes
tonight, tomorrow should see the first
spadeful flung out of anotuer grave as
well. Hast thee never -heard, Janet Gill,
that 'be it man, woman, or child tiiat
crosses the corspse's path to the kirk
gate, even so i'_that same year shall
the dead man's hearth see beside it an
other shroud, and one o’ his flesh and
blood shall gang tlie same gait he went
to the burial-garth?’
“Janet’s eyes biggened wl’ terror, an,’
wi’ the old hag’s words surging i’ her
ears an' burning i’ her brain, she tied
swiftly up the hill.
"There was a great whispering o’ gos
sips an’ clashing o' tongues tiiat next
day i’ Braith’waite village, for slowly
an' deliberateTy just afore the funeral
procession reached the lych-gate, Janet,
l'ra’ no one knew where and wi'out
turning her head to this way or tiiat,
j crossed bodily before tiie coffin an
! entered a side-wicket that led in to tlie
! Parson’s garden.
I “Whether it was o' purpose or notjione
I eoulu 'tclf, but e_veryone looked on It as
an evil sign; a:.d, sure enough, soon alter
ic's marriage, when folits heard s..e
laid caught a bad cold at her sister’s fu
neral, everyone began to say it was tne
evil sign tiiat was workin’ and to lay the
iblame at Janet’s door.
“And it was just as T am telling you
bairns—before the year was out John
was a widower.
“Now, why. r know not—whether it was
because poor proud slig^cd Janet couldn t
bear the sight of the woman who had
robbed her of the man she had set her
toit crack wi’ thee for \| e Ka ke o’ auid
times.’
“ ‘It’s a rough night ftotthee to be out.
Gamma,’ said John. An’ | COU id tell by
his voice 'lie we’re mftie sj, we j| pleased
at seein’ her.
“ 'Aye, it’s a wild night, |, ut a fittin’
yan, a fittin’ yan,’ croaked 1*^ 0 id witch;
an’, as siie spoke, she looken at Janet.
“ ’It’s All Hallow’s E’en tonight, as
ye’ll mebbe rekillect. They me dead
walk—young an’ old. them that ha’ come
to their deaths by fair means Bn > them
that lia’ by font. They’!! walk tonight—
oh. a bonny set. a gladsome bon„ e y set!*
"I stole a look at Janet an’ aa. w that
she trembled.
■ ‘Aye, but it ’ull be a fine set,’ went
on the Gamma, rodking herself back
wards and forwards, ‘there’ll be your
old .mistress. Martha. Jackson, an' old
Bam Weatherhead—sweethearts once they
were, an’ fell out about another woman.
Aye, John, an' there’ll be your mother,
au' she tiiat ought to ha’ been set asia e
thee now but for you dark-eyed tvench—*
“I heard Janet give a sort of ga9p;
an' John, he put his hand on hers an'
cried fleree-like to the Gamma:
“ ‘Stop. I tell thee!
“IBut she held up Iter hand an' seemed
to force him. to whisht.
’ ’Nay. not yet, not . yet,’ she cried,
gettln’ up an’ laughing’ shriller titan any
cock crows at dawning. ‘I will ha’ .my
say first. I've waited long for it, an’
now I’ll hev it.’
‘What dost thee think, John, that but
•for you hussy aside thee, wi’ as black a
heart as ever beat In white breast, I
shouldna be living on rich folk’s charity
an’ t'other poor lass lyin’ rottin’ 1’ the
•hurch garth?’ She murdered her. I tell
Jhee—she, whose nand thou'rt holding i’
thine. Murdered iter—aye. as much as
any one who ha' had to swing for it.
Did she not cross the coffin o' tlie poor
body’s sister?—Aye. an' wi' her purpose
writ plain in her face—to bring death on
Bess. An’ she's gotten her wish—but
Boss'll ' walk tonight? Aye, she looks
fair enow an* good enow clinging to
thee like that— a young tree come to its
budding, but—I tell you—there Is blood
at the roots o' the tree; it and Us fruit
shall die!’
“Janet shrieked an’ John sprang up wl’
a curse; but the Gamma pushed by him
an’ was out o’ the house like a shot. As
I turned to tend Janet, I heard her
laugh at tlie window, an’ the sound
seemed fair to turn the marrow In my
bones to Ice.
“Janet had fainted. AVe were a long
time in bringing her round, an’ when
we (lid. I saw too plain harm had been
done. —'
"She was ta’en bad not long arter
midnight; an’, a.s I let John out to gan^
for th’ doctor. I l“?Tw the night had got
ten up again—the wind was hushed an’
tlie .moon risen.
“The doctor came. John—he couidna’
bide in tlie house, poor fellow—gat him
out an’ sat i’ the tool shed, nigh to tne
unfinished cradle. He telt me afterwards,
the moonlight kept shinin’ upon it so it
seemed as if an angel stood there.
"At 4 o’clock the child was born, as
healthful an’ bonny a lookin' bairn a.s
you could see; but it nobbut drew two
breaths an’ then it died.
“I felt the Gramma’s curse was on us.
Janet were like some crazed woman; she
talked o’ nothing but blood. Blood swam
before her eyes, blood dyed tile counter
pane. blood stained the walls, blood was
on her hands an’ on her pillow.
“In the afternoon she seemed to mend a
bit: an’ John, lie begged sae hard to see
again, John,’ she said very slowly an’
sadly.
“ ’Well there’s Martha there, she’ll
mebbe do it for thee an odd time or two,
till thee's able,’ cried John.
“ ‘Thee’s mine, not Martha's, said Janet
flrcely.
“John stared; he was never quick nr
the uptake like some folks as can almost
read a body’s thoughts as if they was
their own.
“The next minute she burst out. w!’
a voice that thrilled through me:
“ ‘Thou’rt mine, I tell thee. Haven't I
done more than other women would to
win thee? Aye, steeped my very soul in
blood. I did— in her blood— she as. next
to thee. I was fondest on 1’ all the world.
Oh, God forgive me. I loved you both,
but I loved thee better. John, an’ I
couldn’t help It. The Gamma set me up
to it. but for her I should never ha’
thought on It—an’ I crossed the coffin. I
crossed the coffin I were mai
wi’ Jealousky an’ spite—an’ It was so
easy. I thought as there'd be nobody
would know. . . . An’ then when .t
were done an’ I could get no rest for
thlnkin' on it, I thought I should ha'
gone out o’ my mind. . . . but I got
thee at last. John, thou'rt mine—not hers
—mine to the end—lift me up.'
“He took her In his arms an’ she lay
there panttlTg, her head agen his shoul
der .
“ ‘I don't know what thee’s hinting at.
my poor lass,’ said John, speaking very
slow an' plain, so that lgis words might
reach her through the trouble i’ her
brain, ‘nor what thee thinks thee’s been
an’ done, but let me tell thee, Jenny
thee ever <lld aught wrong by Bess i'
ony wa.v. she forgave thee long sin’.
Aye, Indeed, she did. for she spoke r’
thee kindly to the very last.’
“Janet looked at him, mazed like.
“ ‘Will she take tlie blood off me. think
thee?’ she asked; ‘for, John. I am main
sorry for it now. she little knows.’
“ ‘Aye. lass, aye,” said John.
“An' at that she nestled into his arms
like a tlred-ont bairn. For a while she
lay so quiet we thought she slept, until
some sparrows twittered oij *the roof an’
rousji her.
“She opened her eyes.
“ ‘It’s Bess.’ she said, an’ looked to the
foot o’ the bed, where no one stood. The
next minute she raised liersel’ an' tunned
to John, holding out her hands.
“ ’Not red. not red,’ site cried, ‘but
white.’
"An’ wi' that she fell back on her pil
low—(dead.
“And you may thing It naught but
foolishness, gentlemen, but John an' me
will always think that Bess corned and
forgiv’ her.”
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.ed him o’ that sharp tongue of hers, it [ heart oti-
■yve him a sort o’ quiver, for at no j that Bess lingered Janet was away.
^ne had lie a liking for a virago's i “The day after Bessie's sister's burying
Jtongue. Then his mind turned to Bess; j s h e j )ad i e ft the village in the carrier’s
'and, after a good deal of shilly-shallying, ,. ar t. and jt was said site hud taken ser-
Bess lie settled it should be. j vice in the town.
“So one Sunday afternoon John put j “ft would be about a year after Bessie’s
on his best clothes, and took the little j death when, being on. my way to the
path by tlie back that led to Bessie's j grocer's, who should I see, as bold as
home; for Bessie’s sister was dying of j brass find handsomer than ever, but Ja-
eonsumption, and he knew he should ; net crossing the market place,
find her nowhere else. And, sure | “ ■‘So you’ve gotten back at last, Janet,'
enough, she <*ae in the little garden, ! said J.
her head just showing above a row of j “ 'So it seems, Martha,’ said she.
raspberry canes.
"He was what he had never been, .shy
And awkward; he could liurd*y get tlie
Words out; but when he did, he spoke
them plump anil plain; and Bess, she
said ’Yes,’ and burst out a sobbing.
her, that I let him in; hut she wouldn’t
during tne whole o' the time | suffer hint to touch her nor come night
her, lest the blood should Mover him as
well, she said.
“She axed about the bairn, an’ John,
poor lad, oouldna find his tongue to tell j
her.
“ 'It’s dead,’ she said, quite quiet like, |
‘tlie blood ha’ choked it—her blood!’
“Then on a sudden she cried out:—
’But surely it was not upon It, not
upon a little innocent bairn like it. John,
tell me, its little hands were white?’
” ‘Come. Janet, come, why shouldna
they be?" he said to soothe her.
“She shook her head.
‘Thee heard tlie Gamma’s words—hard
an’ cruel words, but true—oh, God ha
mercy on me—true!’
“She lay still a while after that, but
not for long.
'It I] stain the ground.' she moaned.
By PHIL. WALTHAM.
Written for The SUNNY SOUTH
WO doors from the corner
of South Clark and Har
rison streets, in one of
tlie worst districts erf Chi
cago, a tin sign on an
iron rod hung over the
crowded sidewalk at the
foot of a stairway none
too clean.
This sign had once been
resplendent with varnish
on the background and
letters of gilt; but the
varnished surface had
grown dingy long ago and the letters
were faint and rusty, so that one hud
to look sharp to read the inscription:
“Teresa Costa.
“Trained Nurse.’’
It mattered little, however, how di
lapidated the creaking sign had become
for no one, man, woman, or child, was
better known in all that section of the
city than was “The Queen of Little
Italy,’’ as Teresa was known to plebeian
fame.
“Little Italy," by the way. Is an in
definite area of squalid structures,
crowded together, heaven only knows
how, in a section of tlie city where the
buildings are all thus crowded, where
there is a great deal of filth and vice
and misery, and where a babble of
every tongue in Europe may be heard in
the space of four or five blocks. Syri
ans, Poles. Russians, Greeks. Chinese,
Hungarians, and a host of other peo
ples. eacli dwelling separate and apart
front the others, can be found In less
than five minutes walk from the domi
cile of Teresa.
“The Queen of Little Italy” was one
of the few redeeming features of tills
neighborhood. She seemad to havq
conceits, the coquettish rasnion in which
she wore a shawl or a bit of lace, ail
these thoughts had ibeen like sunshine in
the somber place where he had been.
The day after his return to Chicago he
dropped In to tlie Oampar? *iome to see
Ills divinity, whom he found even more
beautiful than when ho went away, but,
alas! even more vain and selfish, her pret
ty little head and shallow heart complete
ly turned by the wholesale adulation to
which she had now become So accus
tomed, and which had in ruin become a
necessity. 'She accepted Giuseppe's hap
py greeting with an air of indifference
that chilled him. But he thought her a
thousand times more fascinating than
when he went away.
The prison had done one good service
for this unfortunate youth—it had given
him a trade, Tiiat of the shoemaker.
He was assisted toy “The Queen” in
finding a job, she having all sorts of
means, ready to hand, for getting work
for any young fellow who wanted to
straighten up and “make something- or
himself.” So Guiseppe wns <july Installed
at a low ben-ch, where he sat for nine
hours a uuy and sewed half soles and
tacke'd on heels
Every evening, just as her other .proba
tioners did. the lad paid a visit to the
home of “The Queen,” wnere he made a
verbal report of the events of the pre
ceding twenty-four hours. The other fel
lows, most of them, made these reports in
writing, but Guiseppe had never mastered
that art. so he became a pupil at a
night school, determined t 0 add 'book
learning to the other forms of educa
tion which he had picked up, one way
and another, since that fateful night when
he viomtcS the sanctity of McCarthy’s
saloon.
At the night school, being' a beginn’STh
he was placed in a class of which al
most all tile members were youngsters,
many years liis juniors. But he felt no
hame at this, toeing determined to over-
■omelevery ITTistacle, and he felt no shame
voices below him, around a turn in the ;
staircase. One of the voices he knew j
to be that of Antonio, the rascally broth-;
er of Marie Campari, who gambled and>
drank and indulged in petty thieving, al
though hitherto he had escaped with noth-1
ing worse than a police court sentence. |
The voice of the other person Guiseppe j
recognized as that of another young manj
of the same sort as Antonio. Evidently
they both were in a terrible passion.
“There, take that," he heard Antonio I
cry, with an oath. Then a gasp that!
was awful cut short an angry remark!
of the other’s. He heard the sound of a,
falling body and of hastily fleeing foot-1
. .. At a big expense have preparM a s
steps. Then all was silence. His blood 1 '*». >♦-- .
running: cold. Guiseppe passed on down j
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. bred poultry for market and show ring. They are worth a
the staircase and in the yellow glare Of j hundred dollars to anyone interested in the subject. Send
rliF* !nmn tlio hnflv of nnp nf the ! £5 rents to pay fora six months subscription to ComnaciAL
tne lamp ne saw t ne nocn or one or tne , PorL TRT and the complete course of lessons will be s«nt you
young men—not Antonio Campari—lying i free at once. This offer is made to introduce commmcial
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prone on the steps. Guiseppe, trf mblin & and which is tho best, brightest nnd most practical poultry
from head to foot -with horror, bent and ^ rn, n published, commercial: POl ltry, 6.V
Washington St., Le
examined the motionless form. The man
was dead. Antonio Campari’s knife had
done the bloody work
Lesson Dept. 20, Chicago.
Slowly Guiseppe rose, placing his hand! about the house,” where a dense and
••' low. »permanent screen is desired, such
for suoport against the sooty, greasy
wall, and like a. man weak from long! as cannot be given b Y the taller decid-
illness, made his way to the sidewalk “<»«» , trees - Bat ' aside from such occa-
toelow. The air of the autumn night re-i' SIOnaI as ,aeSf *' do not tha
vived him somewhat and with a step more! conifers in th ® sou : b - ° 111 ' naUve for '
firm he hurried off in the direction of the; ests ar “ 1,1 themselves evergreens.
Harrison street police station. His face; PERENNIAL GRASSES,
was pale as the face of the dead, but h1s And now let us take a short stroli
lips were set and there was a look of In-1 among the tall grooving, hardy, peren-
finite resolution in his black eyes.
And
a mom
nial grasses. There are some beauti-
"Sergeant.” lie said laving one hand i ful specimens among Chem that can well
on tlie desk of Uie police station office. ! be employed, by way of pleasing contrast
The station sergeant looked up care
lessly. asking: "Well, what do you
want?’’
green background of lawn and
“T have just killed a man around on
Clark street,” said Guiseppe. quietly.
“The thunder you have!” exclaimed the
j to t-he
: shrubs. They are rapid in growth,
graceful in s"ha.pe, and many of them are
of odd and beautiful colors, both in
flower and foliage. Prominent among
these grases are the Eulilla japonica.
been scn t by a relenting providence, to j ln doing anything that meant progress,
beoofne a good angel, where good angels | even though he had to begin as a young
man what so many take up us c.fTildren.
“It was not long after that it got about
tiiat John and she were keeping company.
1 wouldn’t believe it, because the thing
tiiat. happened at Bessie’s sister’s funeral
stuck i' my throat.
“We could not help fancying—an’ some
“Now, Janet, too, had .set her heart | of us said aloud—that, had it not been for
oil getting John for her husband; and i her crossing before poor Lizzie’s coffin, j ’it'll all be r ed. an’ every one’ll know-all
when she heard, as she did next day, { John wouldn't have been a widower, nor | r, '<l. all red. all red
that he was going to marry Bess, she j his wife in the cold church yard,
was just mad with jealousy and spite, i “How Janet caught him I don’t know,
And so it’s you is It, that John's I but one night 1 saw 'em coming down tile | the doctor come afore tea-time, he wouldl fenses, ranging from pocket picking to
I sent John away down. He was just
dazed wi trouble, poor chap; an’ when
were needed sorely
She nursed the sick and suffering with
a sort of rough, homely tenderness. Site
closed the eyes upon which eternal
shadows had fallen. She lit the tapers,
whose gleams were shed upon lonely
coffins, and then sat down herself to
watch beside the dead. She knew, too,
how to soothe and comfort frightened
and desolate orphans, or grief crazed
mothers, on sitoh sorrowful occasions.
Sometimes her services as a nurse re
ceived pecuniary reward- but oftener
they did not. But payment or no pay
ment, It iwas all the same to Teresa.
Tony, the husband, had "a good job”
as a teamster, and they were well off
ln a way. Teresa went out as a nurse
simply because her heart was big and
loving and full of sympathy for every
other heart that ached.
"Tlie queen was versatile ln philan
thropic enterprises. In addition to her
nursing, she was a sort of probation
mother to a choiop company of sixteen
or seventeen young criminals, lads who
had “done time” for a variety of of-
you
aljout to wed?” she said t-o Bess.
"They were standing at the time in
one of Squire Braithwaite’s meadows,
where we were busy haymaking, and I
happened to be close beside them,
though I don't think Janet knew it, as
if she had. she would have taken more
heed not to show tir- malice that was
poisoning iter so clearly.
“I heard Bess give back some answer,
but she spoke so low I couldn't tell
what it was she said. ln reply Janet
laugheff out loud, as if site were mak
ing sport of her. And then I saw tiiat
I was not the only one who. had been
hearkening to them, for in the hedge-
bottom behind me 1 saw Gamma Daw-
noil, the old body who kept John's
house.
•That night as the haymakers trudged
Indigestion
Stomach trouble is not really a sickness,
but a symptom. It Is a symptom that a
certain set of nerves Is ailing. Not the vol
untary nerves that enable you to walk and
talk and act—but the AUTOMATIC STOM
ACH NERVES over which your mind has no
ccnlrol.
I have not room here to explain how these
tender, tiny nerves control and operate the
stomach. How worry breaks them down
end causes Indigestion. How misuse wears
them cut and causes dyspepsia. How neglect
tray bring on kidney, heart, and other trou
bles thvough sympathy. I have not room
to explain how these nerves may be reached
and strengthened and vitalized and made
stronger by a remedy I spent years in per
fecting—now known by physicians and Drug
gists everywhere as Dr. Shoop’s Restorative
(Tablets or Liquid.) I have not room to
explain how this remedy, by removing the
caute, usually puts a certain end to indiges
tion, beichlng. heartburn, insomnia, nervous-
nes:’, dyspepsia. All of these things are
fully explained In the book I will send you
fr»e when you write. Do not fall to send
for the book. It tells how the solar plexus
governs digestion and a hundred other things
one ought to know—for all of us. at
some time or other have Indigestion. With
book I will send free my “Health Token”—
an Intended passport to good health.
For the free book Book I on Dyspepsia,
and the “Health To- Book 2 on the Heart,
ken'* you must ad- Book 3 on the Kidneys,
dress Dr. Shoop, Box Book 4 for Women.
7901 Racine, Wis. Book 5 for Men.
State’ which book Book 6 on Rheumatism,
you want.
Dr. Shoop's Restorative Tablets—give full
three weeks treatment. Each form-liquid or
tablet—have equal merit. Druggists everywhere
Dr. Shoop’s
Restorative
lane together, an’ there was suinniat
about 'em that made the lassie tiiat was
with me turn round an' stare.
’’ 'What are you gazing at'.” sez I.
' "At yon pair o' sweethearts,’ sez she,
'for as sure as my name's Mary, there'll
be a wedding atwixl they two soon.'
"We all pitied John the day he led her
from the church, she on his arm an' as
proud an' smilin' as you please. We all
thought he'd live to repent him of his
bargain; but it seemed as if fra’ tlie day
Janet became his wedded wife she was a
changed woman.
“Saucy and sTiarp-sptoTTen, siie would
always oe, but mere was a light in her
eyes an’ a softness 0 n her tongue tiiat we
had not known before. T Ciifirk sTie just
worshiped John; and in at: tne village no
housewife was so thrifty and saving as
siie, nor none that made their husband's
homes more comfortable.
“Only one remained bitter-speken agen
her—and that was old Gamma Dawson.
“Well. It .would just be between eight
or nine months after the wedding that
John came to my house ona. night ana
asEed* me to go an’ stay wTT: them a bit.
“ ’Janet wasn’t varra strong,’ he said,
‘expecting as she was to be ta’en to bed
onytime, and if i d go an’ bide wi’ them
till it was over, they’d take it as a real
kindness.’
’The otter mazed me at IfrsT, for Janet
and I had never been that good friends,
that she should be wanting me at such a
time; however, I went, n:;e very well we
hit it off together.
"At first Janet was quiet and shy; -lit
after a bit 1 conid see she was glad of my
Help, though not a hand's turn would she
let me do for John.
"As for me 1 was capt with all I saw
the house was that well ke,pt, an’ Janet
so gentle and stain, an* never a wron <r
word t'wlxt her and her man.
“She was just longing for her bairn-
The varra first flight 1 was there she
Showed me tlie bits o’ things she had
made for ii, all put ready in a drawer so
neat an' pretty, wi’ sprigs o’ lavender
among ’em; and then we went to John’s
workshop at the bottom of the garden
to isee the cradle he was making in his
spare time; and she laughed that softly,
an’ laid Iter T?tnd upon it, as if siie
would fain never fake it off.
“It was (lie 30th of October an' a wild
night. As I sat. at my sewin' over the
fire, I ciiear the wind fratehin’
about the house.
“Janet was sewin’, too, stitchin’ some
kind o’ fancy frilling on to a baby’s
robe. She liad just finished when seme-
one rapped—one rap at tiie door.
“John shouted, “Step in wi’ thee,’ an’ |
wiia should enter but Gamma Dawson. |
” ’It’s sae lang sin’ I saw thee, lad,’ i
said she, speaking wi’ a tongue as soft i
as if it were sheathed 1’ silk, ‘that 1 !
thought X wad just drop in an’ hev a '
Ive us no hope.
John ivaj touch neyther bite nor sup.
but went out into the garden. There, at
the gate, he met Gamma Dawson.
“ ’I've been lookin’ for thee, lad.’ she
said. ’How’s Janet tonight?’
“John was beginning to curse, when siie
siezed his hlind.
“ ‘ See thee. John.’ she said, ‘let me see
Janet an* I'll cure her—aye, as no doctor
can.'
"Rut John came to me anl I bade him
bring her in; for I thought if there was
one could bring her to her senses, it wad
be siie who had east tlie spell—an’ a spell
It was, for shore!
“She/went straight upstairs an
followed an' stood at the door.
Janet, sai d tlie Gamma, speakin’ as
gentle as to a bairn. ‘Janet
“ ’Go away,’ sez Janet, shrinking away
from her, as if s he were feart. ‘Go away,
I tell thee. i hou ha* been tlie curse o
my life; there’s naught but blood i' the
place, and it gathers thickest round me
and thee.’
’’ ’Whisht, Janet, whisht wi’ thee, las
sie,’ the Gamma said.
" ‘But I tell thee it’s true,’ said Janet,
‘round thee like a red cloud an’ coverin’
me. Blood before my eyes, blood on my
hands—’
" ‘Whisht, Janet, whisht, my iamb,
only put thee hands 1' mine. I’ll make ’em
white for thee.’
“But Janet only clenched ’em tight be
neath the clothes.
“ ‘ Na -V. then, nay,’ coaxed the Gamma,
•what, thee needn’t be fenrt on me, honey?
Just gie me thy poor hands one minute
an thee sal] see ’em grow as white as
lilies.’
"But 'Janet turned her face to the wall
groanin’ like one i’ bodily pain.
“The Gamma came out; me an' J.flm
was waitin’ 1' the doorstead.
■1 heard the watch thrice.” said she
‘an seed a white dove at the win1»w :
she Fill die.’
“An - she drew her shawl round her
an' hobbled down the stair like an evil
tiling.
“John went back to Janet an’ I fol
lowed him wi’ a heart as heavy as lead.
She turned to him at once, an* pointed
wi’ a .“linkin' finger to the western sky,
which she could see through the window
fra’ her bed.
“ ‘See,’ siie said, ‘it’s covering the sky
—the sky's red with it.’
“ ‘Nay, nay. wife, it’s nobbut the sun
settin'.’ said John.
"And as he spoke, he sat down aside
her an' tried to draw her to him.
"‘Nay. John, nay thee maun’t do -oat
—an’ agin thee white Kytle, where 't’M
shew so plain.
“ ’And what odds. Jenny? The Kytle’il
wesh. wain’t it?’
“She gave him a look that went to
my heart, it was that long an' wistful
“ ’It’ll he a long time afore I wesh
murder.
Guiseppe Napoli, for instance, had
been sent up for burglary, lia/ing
broken into a saloon. Guisepee was
nineteen years of age and possessed but
one eye, hating lost the other in a fall
down stairs at that tender age at which
infants acquire the art of walking.
This youth was not bad at heart. His
criminal operations, according to a story
prevalent in “Little Italy,” had been in
spired by the desire to purchase pret
ty trinkets for Marie Campari, a florid
beauty, who lived on the third floor of
a building half a block above the resi
dence of Teresa. Marie had a regular
army of admirers, and poor Guiseppe
was her devoted slave. She was vain
and loved to adorn her pretty person, so
the infatuated youth broke the door of
McCarthy’s saloon-^and tlie criminal law
as well—in a desperate effort to procure
the means of buying silks and laces for
his brunette guddess.
“WTiat a fool,” said Marie with a
careless laugh, as the policemen bore
her lover away to prison, “he would die
for me—the ugly one-eyed thing. I’m
glad he's out of the way. He troubled
me, with his passionate glances out of
that one eye of his.”
His devotion and self sacrifice cost
Guiseppe a sentence of five years, but
he went away to prison contentedly.
“Some day,” he said to himself, “I’ll
be out again and.theft 1 find a way to
get silks and rings for her. Ah! If I
but had money, or could do some great
heroic act—then she would love me, in
spite of my ugliness.”
The months wore away and became a
year, and then two years and the time
was at hand when Guiseppe, who had
been a model prisoner, was entitled to
a release on probation, provided some
one would stand sponsor for him. And
Teresa Costa agreed to do that, as she
had done for a dozen or more of others.
So, Guiseppe came home again to the
squalor of “Little Italy.”
“Now, you must work and save and go
to night school" and leartk"" said his pre
ceptress in the art of being a good citi
zen, “you must redeem yourself, Guiseppe
and toe a good man.”
This remark was made on the evening
the convict arrived from the state re
formatory, brought to the home of "The
Queen” by an officer.
“Yes,” said he; “I will work and study
and make something of myself. Perhaps
If I do Marie will not treat me so coldly
as she used to do. though, for the mat
ter of that, such a divine girl as she could
hardly be expected to care for anyone
disfigured as I am, no matler how rich I
might become."
Through all the long weary months in
prison Guiseppe had thought of nothing
else but the fascinating Marie. The mem
ory of her, of her airy graces, ter little
.'here was
school work. He would .stand and painfully
spell out such sentences as "The cat can
run,” written with chalk on the black
board by the teacner. And after he had
mastered this reading lesson, lie would
turn to tho srtlooi room with an air ot
pride, but a paternal note in his voice,
wishing to inspile the pupils with tha
tru£ .spirit and say;
“There, you see wTial l did—and I hftve
only one eye.”
And the teacher would smile gently and
ilie children would laugh fondly, for they
loved liitn. It' did help, too. That was
one of the most industrious and 'best be
haved night schools in Chicago, after thi
advent of Guiseppe.
By the time a half year of conditional
freedom had elapsed Teresa Costa was
UeliglitecT with the accomplishments ot'
the ambitious ex-burglar. The prison
authorities, who had grown to like him
during nis period of incarceration, were
greatly pleas«-u with the reports of him
that came to them, and the warden
wrote him a kindly letter, praising hini
tor w hat had been done already, and
urging him not to grow weary in well
doing. And Guiseppe was happy—that
is, he would have been nappy, but for
one thing.
Marie treated him as if lie were a dog.
Site laughtd at his devotion and made
him a but: for her cruel witticism in the
presence of others. Every cruelty of this
kind was a terrible wound for the poOr
love-sick youth. He would have gotten
down and crawled Tor tlie_ woman lie
loved for no outer reward "than a smiie;
but he was never vouchsafed even that
much. Still he came back again and
again, seemingly unable To resist, tlie
temptation of looking at the face ho
loved, although realizing that he bore
a strcr,g likeness to tho moth who dashes
itself into the candle mimes.
On one occasion he poured out his
heartaches in a long confidential chat
with Teresa, whom he called "Mama,”
as did the other probationers under her
protecting wing. She endeavored to com
fort him, but his trouble was too deep-
rooted to yield to mer e words. His love
had long ago made him its slave, and n*ow
it had become his tormentor.
Matters were In this shape when the
end of the first year of freedom roiled
around an d the memorable night came
when Guiseppe called for the last time
at the home of Marie, the heartless.
The stairway leading up to the Campari
home was dark and winding, and more
over, not as clean as it might have been.
Between each floor a sickly lamp, stand
ing on a bracket fastened to the wall,
shed a wan illumination, ln which it was
sergeant, all animation in a twinkling-! ^ itb,ts strangely marked varieties, the
I %ebnna graeillima., and the variegated
! sumach. These, intermingled with the
I green grasses, give a charming tone of
! the rich red autumn coloring so dear to
the lovers of nature. The best of the
“Hi, Bill, this Dago says he cooked a
chap over on Clark.”
A giant in a. blue coat strode up, seizing
Guiseppe roughly by the arm.
“Where?” he demanded.
“Come I’ll show vou.” replied the sumachs for ,his P ur P ose are the Rhus
young man j glabra, and the Rhus typhina. Only a
'Two other policemen joined them and fbw r00ts of any of the ' plants named
they hurried on to the building where' abov « w,n bP -cessary; to^stpR- *Uh.
a pathetic heroism in his i n dwelt Marie and Antonio Campari. No i as they can , a l be »nf/»a*e<d indefinitely
He would stand and painfully one bad been nlnmr the stsirwar since! b Y the division of tht root stalks.
one had been along the stairway since;
Guiseppe cam e down and the body layi R not <,n,> J - or S rou P s and screens
in the ghastly light, just as it had fallen. I tbat these hardy grasses are to be val-
“What’d you soak 'im for?” asked one ued- but also as ,b -e centerpieces of
of the policemen, turning to the palej fIower bei * s ’ 1 he graceful pampas grass,
young Italian I for instance, and the Arundo donax in
“He guved me about-about being one-: tbe center ’ surrounded by the dark
eyed.” said Guiseppe. I loaved varieties of the canna, with a
Two months after that Guiseppe was border of r ‘ ch coleas outslde of thasa ’
preparing to depart again for prison. niake a S -' m of outdoor uplio1 -
This time however, it was not to be a! 6tery ' a beaut - v spot certaln to attract
matter of years. The barred doors hadj a<Jrnlrlng attention of every passer-
closed upon him forever. Never again
by.
would he bound up the stairway where!
One of the most effective plant screens
hung the sign. “Teresa Costa. Trained! for unsightly buildings and tall board
Nurse.” Never again would he say to the is that fornifjd h - v the Rudbeckda
scholars at the night school: “You see! Gt>lden Glow ‘ The ‘writer has in mind
what 1 did-and I haven’t but one eye. I such a scr9 en. where an ugly board fence
Never again would he sit down in the in a vllage garden was converted by the
dingy little living room of the Camparis ( Golden Glow Into an actual beauty spot.
Never again would he cherish the hope The ottner of the garden could iiol puli
of being a great and good man. He had I dorK ' a the f f. nc , e ’ “J^as not his property,
been sentenced to prison for life. But
still he might be happy, even as things
were. He was waiting now. hoping
against hope.
Suddenly he sprang to his feet. The
cell door was thrown open by a turnkey”
and “The Queen of Little Italy*” stood be
fore him.
“Marie!” he cried; “is she coming? Is
my Marie coming?”
Great tears came into the eyes of Teresa
Costa and Guiseppe Napoli bowed his
head when he saw them. The good wom
an came straight to him and laid her
hand upon his shoulder in a gentle, moth
erly sort of way.
"No—no!” sobbed Guiseppe in a voice
of one who is striving to suppress an
overwhelming grief: “no, it would not be
right, for one so good and sweet as my
Marie to come to a place like this to see
—a murderer.''
A Guaranteed Cure for Files.
Itching, Blind, Bleeding. Protruding
Piles. Druggists are authorized to refund
money If PAZO OINTMENT fails to cure
in 6 to 14 days. 50c.
FASCINATING OUTDOOR UPHOLS-
tery for the Southern Home.
(Continued from Second Page.)
ful one at that, with its drooping lower
branches.
We have but little need of the coni
fers in the south. We do not require
them as reminders of the living green
of the vegetable world, this we have
always with us, and so are more for
tunate than our brothers of the north.
In some ways, however, we may find
barely possible to recognize a familiar i them useful in our upholstery work. ICor
face. instance, the lighter conifers are in or-
As Guiseppe left the Campari rooms and I der for emphasizing slight elevations,
started down stairs, lie heard angry* I Again, theyrtare “very handy* to have
neither could he afford to buy expensive
plants to use as a screen, in sufficient
quantities to hide the offending barrier
toy the growth of one season. A friend
gave him a jleck of Rudebeckia roots.
These he divided, and set out a foot
apart, making a single row along the,
fence, twelve feet long. Tie took good
care of the plants, and the next spring
dug them up, again divided them, and
iset them out. and this time the row
was sixty* feet long. ,
The third season the plants were dug
uip In January, during a thaw, and were
again divided, and replanted. The re
sult was rather problematical at that
season of the year (it was in the north),
as the ground was .frozen in places, and
the roots actually* had to be .put out in
the sun to thaw. But they grew, for all
that, thus proving their hardiness. This
third planting gave a row one hundred
and fourteen feet long, in one direction,
and forty-five feet long in another. Th-*
fourth year, the one row became two.
with a depth of two feet, and a length of
two hundred 1 and twenty*. All the plants
—there were over three thousand ot
them—were healthy and vigorous.
“I wonder.” says tne patient owner of
this beautiful flower screen, “whetner
such a record would be possible with any*
other flower than the Golden Glow. I
believe it is the most (popular plant Intro
duced (in the last twenty-five years.
The hideous fence is now hidden by a
living wall of green, dottel alt over
with thousands of handsome golden blos
soms. Ordinarily, the Golden Glow
glows to a neight bf six feet, but with
me, it attained a height of nine or ten
feet.”
ln order to keep this living screen from
faling forward, a row of strong stakes
sixi feet high were driven into the
ground, parallel with the fence, ten feet
apart in the row, and two and a half
feet from the fence. Along the tops of
these stakes is a heavy- wire, which holds
the plants upright, and prevents the
flowers from drooping downwards. Every
two feet, all along the wire, are short
wires fastened to the fence, which pre
vent the long wire from sagging.
THIS IS A NISN-SMM SUOSY, SOUTNtRR STYtl, WITH
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QUAR1ER-T0M AND MM LEATHEROASH; HAS
rHRELIATHCR4KT^*W ROOT, TULL LERSTH
CARfET. 0UI0R- J SHiniHS fHAfT
C0UM.INM, ROLLER RUR IRORR, RUSOIR PAOCEO STEPS,
TSlil
fully tsimhes ass silver nourteo.
BOR'T SIRS TSUR ORSER19 R FAI-A-WAY FACTORY OR YMl
ORDER HOUSE. ARO PAY $5.00 APOlTlOAAl FAtlfltlT,
URTIl VOU HUR PROW UR.
. WE MARUFAOTURC RUR RQLOEN EASLI •UMIES-HERP'tH'
ATLANTA, M., ARO SELL. OIRtfT TO'OONSUMER At LOWEST
WHOLESALE PSICE. RET OUR PRSPOSITIM.
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l WILL LET TOU NAVE SHE RET WITH EAOH BUROV, A TOW* EXACT
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I WHEN YSU BUY VOUR IUOOY FROM US, TOU ARE TRAOINlj
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OUR OWN BU09ICS IN OUR OWN FACTORY. WERE AT HOME.'
* WHY NOT RIVE US A TRIAL T
1 MOREY IS MONEY, AND OUR OUARANTEE OF SAVIRO, AND OOt
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[YOU
[mect]
BOLDEN EABLE BU08Y CO.
DO & ISO Kdgewocxt Ave..
^ M*H.thtaConpoa^for.Catalogue. No. S7