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(i Months - - M
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Jfi'doi) Mill)
by CHARLES J. BELLAMY.
by the Author, and publishe.l
& by arrangement with him.
“U hat do you propose f’
“I don’t know,” muttered Curran, turning
his head half away, “but when I see the silent
rafin'? ia the hearts of the poor, when I see
thr riches squeezed out of their scant, ill led
blood, I am mad with impatience. .But [
suppose all great changes come most Iteacfi
eently if they aro slow. Then there arc no
heart sickening reaction :. Como out into the
oth-u air. it seems close here.”
The two men went out and the indistinct
murmur of their voices waa all that could
be heard.
“flow do you like my hero?” said Philip,
pleased that Bertha should have a chance to
learn from the same source whence he had
Veil so stirred. Now, she could sympathize
with him, in the new idea that ho
Celt must have such a great influence over his
life.
“He is coming back,” she whispered breatli-
Curran looked in astonishment at two
figures starting toward him out of the sha
dows. lie recognized them at once.
“Well, I hope you may have learned some
useful truths,” he aj<] scornfully, looking the
young pan full in the face.
Bertha’s lip quivered, and she came close to
him ia the moonlight and laid her white
hand 0:1 his arm. “We did not mean to over
hear your secrets,” sho said earnestly; “but
surely it could do no harm to listen to such
beautiful words. They seemed to bo wasted
on the one you meant them for.”
tv / ■
mUMk
“He did not mean to overhear your
secrets .”
Philip looked at Bertha in startled sur
prise; ho hardly knew her; then he glanced at
Curran, whose curled lip softened its stern
linos. The girl’s bonnet had fallen back on.
her neck, and her face was turned up toward
his in the perfection of graceful entreaty, her
big blue eyes showing dark in the evening.
The agitator glanced at her sparkling dia
monds, and the rich lacc shawl that lay over
her shoulders, then back into the beautiful
upturned face, and at hist his eyes 101 l before
hers. llis boldness was gone; his scorn*and
contempt for the women of the rich changed
to timidity before her.
"Don't distress yourself, my dear lady,” ho
saic at last; “there is no harm done, I am
sure ”
As his tense mood relaxed, the charm that
had so transformed the girl seemed broken,
and she drew back ns if in surprise at finding
herself so near him.
The ufcilk home was a silent one, till almost
the end.
"Do you know what I am going to do to
morrow, Bertha? lam going to put on tho
old clothes again.”
"Don’t you think it rather boyish?”
“I'm in earnest this time. lam going to
loam how to make cloth, and llnd out just
how hard tho work is, and just liow—why
Bertha, are you yawning?”
They had re.uche l the doorway. She looked
very sweet, even who i smothering a yawn
"fh her two lingers, as she stood on the step
above him, and gazed off on tho river. His
foolish heart began to beat.
"Bertha, we are not at the saw mill now,
and”
Bhe smiled. “But you were not to say
anything if I let you take mo there, and I
have let you, haven’t I?”
"But aren’t you ever going to consent
to”
"There,” she stamped her foot playfully.
"You are almost breaking your promise;”
then she looked at his reproachful face and
let him take her hand and kiss it. “You
know there is a sort of solemnity in the kind
business like talk you want so much. But
U promise this: if you will bo patient for
just one month, you can say what you please
to me.”
Philip went off in great glee, and his horse
Joe could not leap too high to suit him, for
what Bertha had said was almost what he
asked. One month # from today —that would
be a Friday early in the morning.
CHAPTER VI.
A DAY OFF.
Jane Graves was putting -on her hat and
faded plaid shawl for another dreary day's
work. Hhe hated it with all the passion of
her nature. She saw nothing in it but
slavery and degradation, and in her impa
tience thought she would rather die than
drag out her life thus. Somebody must do
the work, but not such as she, surely.
“Como here, my dear.”
She had been lingering aimlessly, only
that she dreaded to turn her feet toward tho
factory, whose tolling bell rang sternly in
her ears. Now she approached her mother’s
bed with a gentler expression on her face.
Ihe thin hands were laid on her arm, and
the sick woman drew the girl’s head down on
the pillow beside her own.
"Was I ever so pretty as you, I wonder?”
she said wistfully. “They used to say I was
the prettiest in the village.” And the sunken
eyes brightened at sweet memories, the
sweetest in the world to a woman.
‘ It did you little good, mother,” said the
girl in a muffled voice.
In a moment more she started up —-
“There, mother, I am late again: a quarter
day's pay lost, and a scolding gained.”
Tho sick woman’s eyes opened wide, and
the girl waited one sad minute more, to see
how terribly white the poor face looked even
against her pillow.
“I had something to say, I thought,” said
the woman eagerly, “but I can't remember,
I am so sick. But perhaps it wasn’t any
thing. You may go now, dear; lam sorry I
kept you.”
The girl pinned her shawl about her. What
good of looking in the glass? It could only
tell her sho was pretty, ds her mother used to
be, and remind her what a fool she was to
expect a different fate. Fifteen years, and
sfie might l>c sick and broken on this very
bed, perhaps telling her own unhappy child
how pretty she used to be. The girl shud
dered at the picture as she w ent out of her
mother’s room.
“Oh! I .remember now,” called the sick
woman.
“Did you want the tea put near you?”
asked the girl, coming back wearily.
“It is not that—but—buV you are not to go
to work today. Somebody is doming to see
you. He wants you to live with him.”
“\\hat, to marry me?” exclaimed the girl
in astonishment.
“He didn’t speak of that,” smiled her
mother, languidly, “but I can’t talk any
more, I am so tired.”
Jane Graves had learned one lesson of pov
erty, not to hope. So after this strange an
nouncement of her mot her’s she only laid off
her bat and shawl, and waited. Al ter look
ing idly out of the window for a while, and
seeing nothing that had not worn itself into
her very soul years ago, the vague woman
instinct stirred in her and she moved about
tho house arranging things. She found a
little map that hung in the sitting room a
littlo awry and straightened it. It was a
dingy map of China that had come once w ith
a pound of tea, and sho wanted to throw it
away, but the wall looked too bare without
anything. She took down a couple of ugly
little gift chromes her father had placed on
the mantelpiece and tore them up in disgust.
There seemed nothing else to do, there was
so little to arrange. She wasn’t so sure but it
was better in the mill —perhaps it was a
blessing the poor were kept so many hours in
its grim walls, w'here at least there was but
littlo chance to think. What was there to
long for in such homes and such leisure as
this?
She stopped to the closet and took out a
well thumbed book anil sat down. She turn
ed two or three pages, and then counted how
many times she had read them before, and
she felt sick with the foolish hopes and
dreams tho oft read book had used, to wake in
her.
Hho laid it away with a sigh and picked up
an old newspaper. How slow tho forenoon
went.
She read down the advertising columns.
How many beautiful things in the world, and
all for sale! Somebody must have the money
to buy them or tho stores wouldn’t be run
ning. Where was it all? Did anybody work
any harder for it than her father and herself?
Jane Graves opened her little pocketbookand
shook it over the table; but it was as empty
as the day she bought it.
Then there came a light tap on the street
door. This must be the “gentleman,” this
tall, elegant figure in a checked summer suit;
and he actually lifted his hat to her.
“My name is Ellingsworth.”
He lied In t have told her; he had figured
in tho girl’s fancy for years as the very im
personation of rank and wealth.
“I called about a maid. Mr. Graves gave
me leave to speak with his daughter. Is she
in?”
“I suppose lam the one. Will you come
She watched him ns he crossed the room to
tae nearest chair. liovv much lighter he
walked than she could; and one might have
thought from his unconsciousness that he had.
been used to just such a miserable room as
this all his life. He showed no surprise at
her being the prospective maid servant; no
doubt he knew it all the time, and the way
he spoke was only a part of his good man
ners. But then she could not imagine his
showing surprise at anything.
•‘There will be but little to do,” Mr. El
lingsworth continued, looking at her face and
not seeming to see how ill she was dressed.
‘There is only my daughter; you may have
seen her, yes? and myself. The wages will
be small,” and he named them and smiled
apologetically, as if he expected her to de
cline. “Your father spoke to me as if you
did not like the factories.”
Out at service; well, why not? Could it be
any more degrading than the life she lived?
, and such wages, too. Why, she could dress
quite prettily then; and her girlish heart
fluttered. And she eould leave ugly things
and rude people, and breathe perfumes and
have only graceful surroundings; what mat
ter if they were not hers?
She would be lifted right up in the very
atmosphere she longed for. Yesterday she
had envied the Ellingsworths, to-morrow she
eould share their beautiful life with them.
Why not ?
She lifted her bright eyes to his face. It
was in half profile at this moment, and she
could see his hair was just touched with gray.
How could men in this world ever grow old?
He was smooth shaved, showing in full effect
the delicate, cynical curve of his and
the clearly defined outlines of his chin. He
must have been very oddly affected by the
poverty pictured so mimistakably about him;
but there was not the smallest sign of it on
his well bred face.
“I will go,”she said abruptly; “when do
you want me?”
“I shall bo m way for a fortnight,” he said,
rising, with his own admirable smile. “You
can come when I return.”
She rose too, but could think of nothing
proper to say. JBut how poverty stricken she
would look in her factory clothes. Her
spirits had fallen already.
“By the way,” Mr. Ellingsworth turned, as
if a sudden business item had struck him. It
was a peculiar expressionless monotone he
.used sometimes when on delicate subjects
that seemed to have as little personal quality
as a printed page. “I always pay in advance:
be kind enough to accept your first month’s
wages and our bargain will be closed. ’
The girl found herself alone, looking at the
crisp, fresh looking bank bills he had placed
in her hands. “llow thoughtful these rich
people are. They have time for it, I sup
pose. ”
Her wardrobe was very simple. There
hung over the back of the chair the dull
check of a merino, chosen long ago to endure
the most service with the least show of it.
On the bureau before the mirror was a. paper
box holding a discarded ribbon or two, pink
or cardinal, and two or three pieces of cheap
jewelry the girl was too proud to wear.
“It won’t take me long to pack,” she said
aloud.
She suddenly took a pretty attitude of lis
tening. She had closed the door into the
sick chamber in a moment more and stood in
the middle of the sitting room when Curran
came in.
“Why, you don’t look very sick, Jennie. I
have to walk to Lockout by 8 o’clock, but
thought I would look in just a minute.”
“T am going to leave the mill.” How pre
occupied ho seemed to-night. “I am going tc
leave the mill, Mr. Curran,” the girl related
with beating heart He might n<st like her
new plan, and at the very thought ofhis dis-
approval she felt all her bright hopes taking
to themselves wings; and the old dreary pic
ture of factory gates and soiled calico dresses
came back.
“Going away, little girl?” He seemed to
speak with a slight effort, as if his mind was
not on what he said. “Well, I you
can’t be any worse off, but we shall mis?
you.”
And was that all he had to say when he
thought she was gob*; forever out of his fife
—hail he no reproaches for her?
“I am not going far,” sho began hurriedly.
“There would be no use going far.” lie
had seated himself on the other side of the
table from her, and rested his fuce on his
hand. “It is just the same everywhere.
Wherever there are a thousand souls ten will
grind the rest. I don’t suppose’ the rich
mean to be so unjust, not all of them; they
don’t stop to notice that they are getting all
the good things in the world. It sever oc
curs to them to wonder why the great earth
seems to produce only for them.”
Jane Graves sat back in her chair, her
hands crossed in her lap. Why didn't he
talk about her just a little? She looked up
at his absorbed face wistfully.
“Why, Jennie, sometimes I get so tired
trying to stand up aguinst it all, so sick of
my own heartache, that I can make nobody
share with me.” He had risen to his feet and
was walking moodily across the room. That
very night he must pour out all the precious
energy of his soul into dull, stolid ears, that
seemed so slow to understand. A hall full
of strange faces would look up coldly at him,
and his hot words would be quenched as they
fell from his lips, in the unmoved depths of
their hearts. It seemed so vain, all he could
do or say, and he felt so tired to-night, long
ing, instead, to rest his- head on some gentle
breast, and be soothed with some foolish
words of comfort and tenderness.
The girl had risen, too, and stood resting
the back of her hand on the table. But her
eyes dared not "lift to his. She tried to
speak, and her lips trembled so that her
voice came strange and unfamiliar.
“I am sorry for you. Is there no one, no
woman?” she half whispered.
“Women do not care for such as I,” he
said, smiling a little bitterly. “They love
light and pleasant things. lam too serious.
I should only frighten them; they could not
understand.”
Then he came toward her with a softer
light in his eye..
“You are a good little girl, Jennie.” He
had taken her trembling hands, which only
trembled the more. “I shall miss you very
much. What is the trouble with your eyes,
Jennie, you can't look at me? lam going
now.”
Then she raised her eyes, like lightning, to
his face.
“Oh, let me comfort you,” she cried. “I
would die for you. I will ask nothing back
but a smile now and then. Nobody can ever
love you like mo.”
His face was troubled, but cold and im
passive as rock. He still held her hands, as
she sank in a heart breaking flood of tears at
his feet.
After a moment he bent down in pity, and
gathered her trembling form in his arms.
How the sobs seemed to shake her. He
smoothed back her wavy hair from the low
forehead, and even kissed her wet cheeks.
But all he said was:
“Poor little girl, poor little Jennie ”
For an instant she lay still as a nestling
f'hild. Then she sprang back from him, and
fled into her mother's room, and wept and
moaned for shame and heartache, until the
calm of weariness came over her, as nature’s
blessed gift to her hopeless children.
CHAPTER VIL
A TEST.
“Isn’t your father going?”
It w as the same evening, and Philip Breton
was assisting Bertha into his beach w agon
for a twdlight drive.
“Father has left town for a few da}'s.
Didn’t you know ? Suppose you let me have
the back seat. The world is large enough to
afford us a seat apiece to-night.”
Bertha adjusted 1t Avraps and the horses
stepped off down the street as gayly as if
their driver had not been disappointed.
There Avas not very muoh conversation to
day; indeed there never was unless Philip
afforded it. Bertha considered she did her
part in looking well, smiling prettily at his
witticisms, with now and then a remark, if
she felt inclined. But today Philip was
moody and silent. So Bertha gave herself
up to the sensuous delight of riding, and only
spoke in mild exclamations of admiration of
the scenery as they left the village behind
and followed up the winding river.
But suddenly Philip saw a man’s form
swaying easily while he took great stride*
along the footpath.
“Curran,” he exclaimed, and stopped his
horses close beside him. The man turned, and
one might have thought he did not recognize
the occupants of the carriage, except that
there w'as the least bit of a flush on his face,
AA'hieh bore the lines of interrupted medita
tion. Then he bowed slightly to Philip.
“And you don’t recollect me, I suppose,”
smiled Bertha.
“I am not so stupid,” he said, letting his
steel blue eyes rest admiringly upon her.
“We are going to Lockout, too. You must
get in \Adth us.”
“No, I won’t crowd you; don’t move.”
And he turned a little away from them as if
to continue his walk.
“Certainly j 7 ou must!” said Bertha; “see, I
haA'e a w hole seat to myself and it is so stupid.
Please.”
And Curran took the seat she offered him,
holding back her wraus till he A\as seated,
and then releasing them.
“Do you think I shall ever learn to AA’ea\ r e
cotton cloth?” asked Philip, to call his atten
tion to their day’s work together.
“I presume so, if you really mean to. But
it is lucky you haven't got your board to pay
meamvhile.”
But Curran did not smile, and AA*as very ill
at ease. He seemed to be lifted, body and
soul, into the very life he Avas accustomed to
rebuke. The beautiful horses of tho rich
Avere harnessed today to his pleasure with
their gold plate trimmings. What right had
he here? He said nothing of it, but felt intense
ly the falseness of his position. The delicate
springs hurt him, and every sign of lavish
wealth in the dress of his companions. He
Avanted no interests with the rich; his life
work must be against them; he desired no
association AA ith a luxurious manner of life
which he ought to upbraid. There must not
be one chain of gold to unite him Avith the
wealthy class in w'hom he saw the enemies of
the people.
And yet he was taking delight iu this aa'o
man’s presence, anew delight, such as the
women of the poor had never given him
And was not she the very essence of luxurj
and refinement? He hated himself for it, bul
for all he tried to look elseAvhere he kept see
ing the sparkle of the diamonds on the
whitest hand he had ever seen. lie enjoyed
the lilies of the valley set in mosaic at her
throat, w'hieh shoAved its creamy white
against the delicate ruffles, and the comb
with its band of Roman gqld almost the
shade of the rippling hair it restrained. But
were not these the very extravagances the
poor had to struggle to earn for her? He
ought to be fulminating withering sentences
for such as she.
“I w ill get out at the rocks and w alk th
rest of the way,” said Curran nt las!, i.s ;'•*;
could catch a glimpse of Lookout i:i Hie ill -
tauce. “Tho workmen 1 want in tulk ;<■
would hardly understand my coming wAi a
carriage and pair.”
The “rocks” came but a mile from Lock
out and the horses trotted so well that the
spot was reacheilin a few moments more. Tho
road at this point had been cut through a
side hill of sandstone by dint of great blast
ing and the jagged edges jutted out angrily
at the passers by.
“There must be a wonderful landscape on
the other side of the rocks,” said Bertha, as
Philip stopped his horses for Curran to
alight. “Have you, plenty of time?” sho
asked, before the workman could express his
thanks.
“An hour to spare.”
She looked wistfully at the envious rocks
that shut them in and then at Curran’s
grave face.
“I would so like to see that view from the
top of the rocks if I had some one to help
me.”
Curran’s face suddenly flushed with
pleasure. “I should like to help you.”
In a minute more Bertha w'as climbing the
rocks with her strange escort, and Philip sat
holding his horses quite a little distance back.
“You didn’t talk very much during our
drive,” said Bertha, as she stood with her
companion looking off down the valley. “Is
it so wicked of us to be rich ?”
He shot a sudden deprecating look at her.
“Don't force me so far. I cannot say it
now.”
Bertha smiled. “Then leave me out of it;
say Philip instead.”
“He is enjoying the fruits of terrible injus
tice.”
“But would his father have been rich un
less he had deserved it?” asked Bertha.
“Is it a just reward of merit, then, that a
thousand human creatures should well nigh
starve, and he be rich? If he has deserved to
be rich, you must say they have merited star
vation.”
The girl liked to hear his earnest, thrilling
tones, and watch liis eyes flash and his nos
trils dilate with such rare passion.
“Is it just,” he went on, “that no matter
how umvearicdly a laborer works, his idle
neighbor, as surely us the sun sets, should
lay intolerable tribute on his profits so that
he must stay forever poor ? Is a day’s work
worth nothing? Then why does it bring in
some capitalist thousands of dollars for a
stroke of his pen?”
Bertha understood but little of what he
was saying, but sho could look intently at
him with wide open blue eyes, which had a
pretty trick of changing expression as if in
closest sympathy with a speaker. Curran
felt no one had half listened to him before,
that at last every word told, anil he was
strangely excited by the sweet mystery of
their common inspiration.
“Great wealth is made up of 10,000 trick
ling streams, drained from the paltry earn
ings of as many defrauded workmen. Mere
cunning scheming ought not enable a man to
turn aside the great river of plenty, which
flows for all men. Why these shrewd busi
ness men, whom so many praise, have so in
geniously placed their chains on the laborer,
that tiie harder he struggles to escape from
poverty, he only turns the faster the wheel
that grinds out fortunes for his masters, and
draws him in at last to be crushed.”
He hesitated for her to ask him some ques
tions, and perhaps it was already as plain to
her as to him. At any rute, she only looked
off to the west where the glow of sunset was
fast fading, and then back into his face re
gretfully.
“I suppose we ought to go down,” she said.
“Why, yes, I had forgotten whether it was
night or day.”
He took her hand gently as if he touched a
holy thing, and his face softened like a
child’s. He would not have let her fall for
the world. She had taught him, how he did
not stop to think, that there was a rare and
exquisite strain of joy in life. She had
spiritualized womanhood to him; he sud
denly saw in it an essence so pure and flue it
might redeem the world. An hour ago, he
had been so wretched, and now a vague,
sweet hope he cared not to define was born
in him. As he stood upon the road bed and
reached up his hands to help Bertha down,
their eyes met for a moment, and then she
trusted herself to him in sueh gentle sur
render that a mist floated before his sight.
She almost fell, and he must needs gather her
perfect form in his arms to save her.
Philip had been idly snapping his Whip
and looking up the road. He thought he
saw in the distance a number of men with
guns hurrying in his direction and before
them—yes, it must be a dog; an odd hour of
the day for hunting. He might as well have
his horses turned about; he could see Curran
and Bertha clambering down from the rocks.
So it hapjiened that at the moment Bertha
came so near falling—in fact, did fall, into
Curran's arms—Philip was sitting with his
back toward them, faced toward home.
But by this time tho hunters with guns
were nearer; the blacksmith hail rushed out
of his shop to look at the dog who bounded
along with his mouth to the ground drop
ping foam as he ran.
The dog w'as mad. Bertha saw the great
white creature, and grew pale as death, and
pressed back against the rocky wall in de
spair. Curran saw' him too, and had not
even to make up his mind to die to save this
woman. It was a matter of course. He
stepped out directly in front of her without
one word, and bending forward, waited. The
mad dog might pass by. But no, in an in
stant more the beast was upon him, and like
lightning Curran had reached out his hands
of iron and caught his shaggy throat as in a
vise.
The creature rose upon its hind logs and
snapped ravenously at his captor, great drops
of foam, specked with blood, dropping from
his jaws. ith one rapid glance Curran saw
the men with guns, running at full speed,
and almost at hand. If he could hold him
but one moment more lie might yet be caved,
if those glistening teeth, distilling poison and
madness, would spare his flesh one moment
more. His arms and wrists were corded like
a giant’s; his head thrown back to escape the
venomous fangs, while he listened with fast
sickening heart to tho sound of approaching
feet. He heard, too, the quick breathing of
the woman behind him; thank God, he could
save her from such a fate, and she might
think kindly of him sometimes, even if he
must die like a dog, since it was for her.
But now' his arms trembled Avith the terri
ble strain upon them and the dog struggled
more fiercely, so that the man felt his hot.
fetid breath on his cheek, and in an instant
more the deadly jaws seemed closing over his
arm. Suddenly there came a loud report and
a cloud of smoke, and the mangled creature
fell upon the ground in his death agony.
The madness had gone out of his big, browm
eyes which looked up pitifully at tho man he
would have slain.
“They were just in time with their guns,”
exclaimed Philip, rushing up anil wringing
his hand.
But the man made no response, nor even
looked around for one sign of gratitude from
the woman he had risked his life for. He
had no answers or smiles for the admir
ing eroAvd that had seemed to gather so
quickly w hen the danger w'as over, but his
face grew quite pale as he walked up the
road. At the blacksmith’s shop a thought
seemed to strike him. He hesitated a mo
ment and then went in.
When the crowd une up and followed
him in, they found him before the glowing
forge. His sleeve was rolled up, revealing
an arm almost like the smith’s, but how
closely he was studying it. Jus* below the
elbow were the marks of a dog’s fangs, out of
which slowly oozed two great drops of blood.
No one dared to speak; all looked on him as a
man devoted, and half expected to see al
ready the signs of madness on his calm, pale
face. The men with the guns had come in
with the rest, and stood under the rows of
horse shots that lined the blackened walls,
Jl&A)
Thank God, he could save her from such
a fate.
with horrified eyes riveted on the print of
tiae poisoned fangs. The blacksmith stood
by his anvil, hammer in hand, as if frozen,
and even Philip Breton was stunned and
baffled at the sudden revelation of the fate
stamped on this man who had given his life
fort’ Bertha’s. Philip had been devising how
rare a gift of undying friendship he could
give him in token of his gratitude, and notv a
terrible death must be his onlyr reward.
TO BE CONTINUED.
The Howard Bank,
CARTERSVILLE, GEORGIA.
Does a General Banking Business.
Deposits Received, Subject to Check.
Exchange Bought and Sold.
Collections Made in all parts U. S.
Discounts Desirable paper.
ALL ACCOMMODATIONS CONSISTENT WITH SAFETY
EXTENDED TO ITS CUSTOMERS.
Pedigree of VAN DORN.
Sired by Van Dorn, son of Sir Elliott. Ist darn by Wagner, 2nd dam by imported
Dragon, 3rd dam by Arastus, son of Sir Director by Arastus, 4th dam by Potomac
of Mark Anthony, 6th dam by Zenith, etc.
Sir ELLIOTT by imported Sovereign. Ist dam Betty Body by imported Levia
thnn, 2nd darn Hibernia by Sir Archie, 3rd dam by Paeolet, 4th dam Black Sophia
by Top Gallant, etc. Lassie, raised by the late W. H. Stiles, of Bartow county, was
out of Polly by Paragon Black Hawk.
Van Dorn is a fine blood bay with 44 inches pf black mane. Will make the present
season at Crawford <fc Field’s Stable. For further information apply to
JOHN R. BANTON, Cartersville, Ga.
A SPRING MEDICINE!
To go through the hot summer months without sickness one should go to work in
early spring to get his system in thorough order. Nothing brings about better results
than
Curry’s Liver Compound,
PURELY VEGETABLE COMPOUND.-
Endorsed and used by the best people in Northwest Georgia and Northeast Ala
bama. It is
AF E f URB AN3D REL.IABL.
Cures INDIGESTION,
LIVER COMPLAINT,
CONSTIPATION,
All diseases brought about by Disordered Liver.
Get Your System in Order
BY EARLY USE.
Sold by Druggists and Dealers in general, and Merchants throughout this whole section.
Oc. and 1.00 BOTTLES and 50c.
Manufactured by owner,
DAVID W. CURRY,
Broad St. Cor. Howard, ROME, GA.
JOHN T. NORRIS,
Real Estate and Fire Insurance,
First Door South, of Howard’s Bank.
teblO-ly
SHOW CASES las; CASES
£J? T . ,STIC TORF. FIXTURES. 04 HIS ft work,
St * te Wants. Ask for Pamphlet. Address
TERRY SHOW CASE CO., Nashville, Tsnn.
FREEHALLr
VmlrfAy Y Our Illustrated Catalogue
of 100 P igi-s, containing a
ffiglSwiw complete assortment of the
Vll^yGN*iP^| best P |a nts, Roots. Bulbs,
Shrubs and Seeds in
Satisfaction
Tv Xv NAN* & NErSiEM,
M Louisville, Ky.
'VVve vetxsow
is warranted, is because it is the best
Blood Preparation known. It will posi
tively cure all Blood Diseases, purif os the
whole system, and thoroughly builds up the
constitution. Remember, we guarantee it.
For sale by J. R. Wikle A Cos., I) ruggist
Notice Tliat
John Taylor is Himself Again!
He has enlarged his shop at ihe St. James Hotel
He has a fall team now, William Johnson anti
Westley Allen. He has a retired shop where the
“rugays” will not annoy his customers. He does
not solicit the patronage of roughs and vaga
bonds. he promises to observe good behavior,
have clean towels and sharp razors, in the
year of his career. He flatters himself that he
•knows all in the barber business from curling and
braiding down. He has been considered to be
the best hair cutter from New Orleans to New
York for 35 years. I only want you to call and
be convinced, and all customers desiring to be
shaved twice a week will be furnished onp and
brush free. My shop will be open from (> a. in. to
8 p. m.
John Taylor. William Johnson A Cos.