Newspaper Page Text
Ipiifioi) Mill)
BY CHARLES J. BELLAMY.
vnebted by the Author, and published
h by arrangement with him.
“This is quite uncalled for, my dear Bre
t/in. and not only that,” he added, “but de
cidedly dan
the excited proprietor shook off his
arm and stepped forward, trembling with
impotent wrath.
• I will tell you,” he cried, “I will cut your
aV down 10 i>er cent, more.” A murmur
I on the outskirts of the crowd, and
..veiled into a roar at his very feet, while the
mas.s*f ill clothed humanity swayed tumultu
ously- , ...
Philip saw that a catastrophe n r ns lmnu-
The excited workmen avoided his
anxious eyes, and ttiere was a power of wrath
in their slightly stooping attitude, like a
panther, before a spring. Their faces, too,
were lit up with a fierce glare, like some long
ca -vd beast that has burst his bars. Injustice
after all is an uncertain foundation for riches,
when it is thrilling human beings w’ho suffer.
He rushed boldly forward to save his father
from violence, apparently he was absolutely
blind to the peril in which he stood. Mr.
Hret on’s face had gr*wn suddenly purple.
“I'll teach you to brave me. I’ll starve
vour obstinacy out of you, before one of you
comes back into my mill.”
He threw up his hands in distress, reeled
backward before their astonished eyes, and
,/ell into the arms of his son, a victim of his
own passion. The poor were avenged. God
had taken judgment into his own hands.
] i 7
The poor were avenged.
His friends bore his stricken form from
within, out of the sight of the people. But
lie had tamed the mob at last, though it took
his life to do it. A hush as chill as the breath
of the death angel’s wings had fallen upon
them. They waited with the patience of
their class, they Watched doctors come and
attendants hurry to and fro, but no one told
them what had happened. Nothing but
dances of bate were cast at them, till at last
Philip Breton himself, with anew desolation
ti his face, came out alone on the piazza,
■lorne fancied he stood unsteadily as if a vital
irop had been taken away, others saw anew
dree and dignity in his thin, boyish face.
“My father did not finish his speech,” he
said, with scathing satire in his voice; “I
will finish it for him.” They would have
ionic all the reproach he might have heaped
upon them, but lie only said, “Will you go
nark to work?” His voice began to break as
lie added, “My father is dead, and I want to
take him home.”
Not a man, woman or child but worked
Dut their tasks that day. Ezekial Breton
had triumphed.
CHAPTER XV.
A HOLIDAY.
The streets of the little village are alive
with the people commonly shut up in the
great mills out of sight. I "as only one
man dead, the world in he moved
crowded along, and if he hue# come back even
so soon, he would have had to make a place
for himself, as when he started first. Another
man was born the minute he died, and the
ranks were always kept full.
There was a holiday at last, and the people
wore the nearest they could get to holiday
dress. The husbands and fathers had but
few changes to make. Their aprons, if they
wore fortunate enough to have them, were
oil’, and their overalls; their sleeves were
rolled down, too, revealing the wear of storm
and sun on the cheap stuff of which the
clothes of the poor are made. But the young
men had, most of them, sump flashy color
about their necks, and wore some threadbare
black coat, with here and there a whole
s liowy suit, bought regardless of the poverty
that stared them in the face. The higher
, ' lasses had taught them the lesson that a
♦ Poor man can expect no consideration or
resjiect anywhere, and each human creature,
whose spirit is not all broken, will save his
scant ]>ennjes to disguise in the livery of the
prosperous the poverty that the world makes
at once his misfortune and his disgrace.
Most of the girls, too, had gilt or rubber jew
rlrv in abundance, rich looking chains about
their necks, and the most elaborate and
massive earrings. They wore flashing rib
bmis of the most startling colors, and for
'bosses cheap flimsy imitations of the most
mostly stuffs.
All had gathered near the Breton mansion.
Iho dour was hung with black crape in vol
uminous folds. A melancholy hearse, with
plumes waving the insignia of woe, was at
gate. But the faces of the multitude
Wer e happy, even gay, and the niurnmr of
J hcir voices had no caden *e of sadness. Yet
br one moment they v ere quiet. It was
"lion eight bareheaded l ien, with awe in
! heir faces, the awe of mortals in the pres
cuoo of the grand mystery of death, came
slowly out of the crape living door bearing
* ; woon them the deposed lord of the house.
wn appeared at the dooi the face of the
e!r i young Philip, pale and grief stricken,
*ul an involuntary hum of greeting met him
lom the people who lined the roadside and
ms led the carriages in waiting. He was
“heir hope, their trusted deliverer, their
•lend who had seen how hard their lives
" 'To, and had once promised id help them.
• ( lls words that night of the fire had sunk
iuto their hearts and been re-
Pfcated from mouth to mouth, wdth many
, u< blit ion of an eager imagination. To
** sure, he had done but littio to fulfill his
P r< mise. But there, were the fire escapes to
J m witness to his honesty, and hivs father,
m one they were expected to mourn for, was
laid man to move. Had the young man
' “Unfitted in their meeting he was too
mm i J them? Now he was untram
' the unquestioned owner of the Breton
Mills; his wish was the solo authority hence*
forth, and he wished kindly to them. His
word the only law throughout the great
factory, and he had given his word to help
them. Not a soul but believed in the dawn
of a vague day of general happinerFew
had clear ideas of the elements of their long
wretchedness. They thought everything was
wrong in the system under which the poor
were so unhappy, and the remedy that oc
curred to their minds was, of course, to
change everything. No more long hours, no
more scant pay, no more favoritism; all
should have alike. No more strikes jor con
flicts or complaints or bitterness were
dreamed of, for there would be no hardships
left.
Philip thought of Bertha. At first it
seemed a year since he had lost her, and he
wondered with a dull ache in his heart where
she could be after so long a time.
Then it seemed but an hour, so fresh was
ttye wound in his heart. It was her place,
that empty seat by his side, In this supreme
moment of his desolation. She could com
fort him in his loneliness, the most terrible
crushing loneliness, that in the midst of a
multitude. Pernaps he Mas weak, too weak
for the stern requisitions of his destiny. Per
haps there was not enough of the sturdy ele
ment in his character. He would rather
have leaned on some other brave heart than
stand out alone before the world, better
formed for the gentle graces of a friend than
to wield undismayed the ponderous weajxins
of wealth and power. He would have been
better to nurse the sick and comfort the
fallen, than to be ordered to the f’’ont of the
battle, where to be still is infamy, and to
fight death to some pitied foe. And there
was not' one human being near or dear
•enough to him to instil one spark of new
courage iilto his heart, or brighten by one
smile of love the darkening desolation that
seemed to have settled over his life. If
Bertha had only waited another day she
could not have gone. She would have staid
and learned again for very pity to love him.
If she had only waited another day! But no
doubt the very M eakness in him that cried
out for her made him incapable of holding
her love. It is hard to confess to oneself, his
soul is too poor and small for the woman of
his choice to love. But that , was the depth
of humiliation Philip Breton had reached as
he lay, back oil his carriage Cushions. At
least he was generous to make an excuse,
even at the moment of his greatest need, for
the woman who had deserted him.
He heard voices from without. He had no
interest in what any one in the world might
say, he thought, but these words were the
first M'ords that fell upon his ear.
“Sick is it? Weil, cheer up, girl, the young
boss will make it all right. Yer all tired out
and ye niver was fit for much anyhow.”
“Will he give us doctors, too?”
“Why not? he has’em when lie’s sick. It’s
just as right Me should, as works our best for
him when we're well.”
Philip was fairly startled into momentary
forgetfulness of his sorrow. But the carriage
moved along a lew feet and stopped again.
Were the people mad ? Was it his duty to
keep a free hospital and teach the sick to
come whining to him for charity, vvhcn*ill?
Wouldn’t it spoil them, to say nothing from
the business point of view? began to
sympathize more than ever nitli his father’s
perplexities; and to feel that perhaps, after
nil, his solution of them was the only prac
ticable one. But lie heard the rustle of a
woman’s di'ess beside his carriage where it
waited.
“Isn’t it splendid to have a whole holiday?”
said a fresh, girlish voice.
“This isn’t the last, Molly,” replied a man
Mho stood right against the carriage door.
“They say we’re not to work but four days a
week now.”
Philip frowned unpromisingly, but
the girl said:
“And how can we git along on much less
wages ?”
“Why, the wages will be more instead of
less. 1 guess you don’t understand.”
Nor did Philip, but the carriage rolled
along before the young man could explain,
and stopped by another group.
“Only eight hours a day and every hand
will get just the same. No more favoritism.
Who told me? Why that’s been the plan all
along, only the old man wouldn’t agree.
Now it’s goin’ through, though.”
The <> her man laughed. “Well, I don’t
see 1 k: young boss is goin’ to make the
mill pay that fashion, but that’s his lookout.”
“Pay!” repeated the sanguine prophet.
“Why those looms just turn off sheets of
gold.”
The horses started once more and Philip
Breton sank back again on his seat. The
people had cost him his bride and his father.
They had wrecked his life, and cast him on a
shore of barren wastes, with never one foun
tain of hope for his famished soul.
And now, M-ith stupid and y*et pathetic
trust, they looked to him to devote his for
tune and himself to them, never questioning
but a word of his, a stroke of his pen, would
let perpetual sunlight into their lives.
That evening he sat alone in the little study
in the house that had been his father’s. The
house was full of solemn faced guests, but he
would see none of them. He had boM'ed his
head on his folded arms and tried to com
mune with the dead; his dead. There M'ere
tM r o. One his kind, tender father, Mhose
broad, florid face ahvays brightened with a
smile at the coming of his son. The other of
his dead was a woman. He sum' her as if
she yet lived. What there M-as in this woman
of all others that should have called forth
such tedder raptures of love he had never
paused to wonder. She Mas not brilliant as
some women. Her lips, that he believed
could have spoken so wonderfully if they had
cared, M ere oftenest closed in society. Her
eyes expressed to him the rarest of noble
thoughts, and it ,M'as as if she deemed the
common world unworthy, but that by and
by she would speak. He had thought her heart
spotless M hite, and the texture of her nature
finer and sweeter than that of all other
women. Every eye that san* her must ad
mire the threads of fine spun gold she called
her hair, her soft skin as delicate to the touch
as a baby’s lips, and the queen like perfection
of her form, a system of bold curves and fines
of beauty melting into each other at the i >e
ginning and their end. But could tlforo be
any one to whom she M as so much beside her
beauty, for whom each phase of her thought
or tone of "her voice was just what seemed
most fitting? And she too was gone, dead;
where no prayers or cries of. his could reach
or her; dead, and yet foreverjalive for
him.
“Will you see a lady, sir?” It Mas Mary,
M hose manner M-as subdued suitably to the
melancholy occasion. All those trappings
and pretenses provoked Philip strangely, as
did the lom* voices of his guests and their
draMn down faces. .He knew well enough
they didn’t care so much as all that. “She is
very particular, Mr. Phi ; I mean Mr.
Breton.”
Then he forgot his impatience in a strange,
thrilling thought. He rose to his feet and
walked to the window Mithout answering the
girl. Could it be Bertha had felt his hunger
for her such as no other creature could have
for her presence? Was it too unlikely that
such pain as ached in his heart might have
touched her? A throb of electricity goes
around the world; might not such longing as
his have reached her a few short miles away I
The maid began again.
‘fiWill you see a”— —
“Yes, yes; show her In.” How wHd he
ifras to-night. Why Bertha was married to
the man she had chosen, long ago; if she
came back, what comfort for him? If she
were not happy with this man after all!
Oh. God save her from such a fate, since he
had paid such a price that she might be
happy. God forbid that all his torment be
for nothing. Philip was rapidly walking
the room. But supposing—and his heart
almost stopped beating at the thought—she
were not married and had come back to
him after all—what other woman would
call on him now—what then, could he for
give her?
The door opened and a heavily veiled
woman came in. She was too slight of form
and not tall enough for Bertha. The idea
had been absurd, but human beings cannot
believe miracles in their behalf quite im
possible. So Philip was not required to
decide the terrible question h% had asked
himself. Much as he had longed for that
other woman Mho had not one throb of pity
in her heart for him, his first feeling was of
intense relief when his visitor laid back her
veil and revealed the face of Jane Graves.
She looked a little agitated and hastened
to speak. “I know you are surprised to see
me, but I felt I must”-
SilwfL
“/fcnota you are surprised to see me.”
“Do not distress yourself,” he said grdvelv,
recovering his self possession. Was this his
first visit of condolence, and so soon?
“It was about Miss Bertha.” Then she
caught her breath and went on as if she were
afraid he. would interrupt her, he started so
violently. “I know M'hat a lover you are —if
mine had only been like you;” she dropped
her eyes and went on without looking at him,
“but the girl you liked so much that you
were blind to how mean she M r as, she never
loved you; she never cared anything for
you.” r
Philip had moved uneasily in his chair as
she began, but now he sat still as death, with
his eyes fixed, as if in some fatal charm, on
the girl’s face. She grew pale as she talked,
all but one bright spot in either cheek.
“I could tell it when your name was spoken
before her; women notice things like that—
and when she expected you—and when she
expected the other.” *
Hus eyes fell in shame. He wished a moun
tain might fall on him to shield his hurt face
from even this poor girl’s scrutiny. But she
hurried on as if she took pleasure in his winc
ing nerves. “If you could have seen hoM' her
face warn i-•! at his coming, and her voice, so
cold to you, shook and stumbled when she
welcomed him. And how her hands would
nestle lijve a kitten in Jiis —at a look. You
never saw her like that, did you? And there
was no pillow so soft, you would think, as his
shoulder, and"
“1 cannot stand this,” he cried, starting to
his feet. “Do you think I am made of
stone?”
“Wasn’t it a pretty sight? I used to love
to hang out of my M’indow to see it, or follow
her out on Sunday walks. Her kind of
women make the biggest fools of themselves;
so cold and lofty like you would think them
angels; when all of a sudden they lose their
heads, and there’s nothing too M ild for thegi
to <lo for some man, till they get over it.”
Her eyes Mere all ablaze uith hate, but
Philip hung on the scornful lips as if it were
not poison he drank from them.
“But she did not get over it,” he faltered
when she stopped. He raised his hands to
cool his beating temples; his fingers were cold
as ice. *
“That is it; it lasted longer than I counted
on. I thought she’d come to her senses be
fore she could do anything rash.* And then
I supposed lie uouldn’t leave the village and
what he Mas doing here, just yet.”
“But why didn’t you tell me?”
“What could you have done? She cared
lothing for you. But I was doing the best i
kneM', if they hadn’t been too quick for me. 1
was waiting till I thought she Mas just mad
over the man. I never supposed they M'oukl be
so quick;” her bosom rose and fell as if it Mere
hard for her to catch her breath. “I kneM
one thing was sure, and when it Mould hurt
her the most I M-as goiug to have tried it. If
I had only hurried.” She rose, sobbing
violently, but she shed no tears. Philip had
no consideration for her emotion.
“What was it? oh, why didn’t you do it?”
His form trembled as if he stood in a Minter’s
blast, v; hiie tfiops of perspiration gathered
on his forehead.
“I—l—hated so to—to break his heart. I—l
knew he Mould — M ould never get over it. He
ain’t the kind that”
“Curse him!” cried Philip, “what is he to
me?”
“I Mas going to tell him that she Mas en
gaged to you. I knew he M ould never for
give her for deceiving him.”
“And he didn’t knoM- it?”
“Ah, if he had, he Mas that honest—3'ou
don’t know him. But I Mas too slom% and
now, my God, in}' God!” Then she rose to
her feet and tied her veil tightly about • her
face and moved toM-ard the door. But Philip
Breton M as there before and held it.
“Toll me first what you came here foj to
night?” The answer came sharp as a knife.
“Because I wanted to make you hate that
woman too. It made me mad that you
should think her so pure and good.”
“But why should 3 011 hate her? I never
could —never.” His hand loosened on the
door knob and he leaned back. Jane Graves
could have gone if she would.
“And don’t \'ou hate her now?” she almost
screamed at him, “when I have told 3 r ou how
she kissed and fondled him.”
“Hush!”
“Well. I hate her. because she stole away
m3' lover. May his love touch her yet to dis
gust; may his kisses turn bitter on her lips.”
The door closed after his visitor, and Philip
glanced at the clock, M'hieh pointed to 12.
Only half the night gone then! He sat down
ami dropped his head on his folded arms
again.
CHAPTER XVI.
M'HAT MILL THEY BRING?
Days passed till they made weeks, and
weeks till they made months, and no change
came for the mills or for the lives of the
creatures Mho worked within their grim
walls, except the changf from poor to more
poor.
His acquaintances saw new expressions on
his face—the open, boyish look had gone, and
his voice had uew tones of decision; his step
had grown firmer and his eyes met a glance
with anew steadiness.
One morning the three men who had been
once on the fire escape committee met in the
doorway of No. “ mill, restored after the fire.
They had left their work for a breath of
fresh air.
“He is closer than his father; he scrimps
and saves like a poor cuss trying to support a
fa mil 3' on $5 the week. What show is there
for us?”
“Ye’ll mind it’s all jist as I told ye. Bill
Rogers,” suggested Graves, the comfort of ’I
told you so’ being left to him out of the
general M'reck. “Jist as I told ye that night
more’ll a six month ago in front of old
Breton’s. As soon as the lad feels his oats
that’s the last of his kind heart.”
“The boy’s had hard luck since then,” said
Rogers, handling his pipe out of old force of
habit. “P’rVqis he’s punishin’ us for it. It
seems so strange somehow his changin’ all so
sudden.”
“ ’Taint that,” said Graves, as he turned to
go back to M ork, and then lingering a mo
ment longer; “It is the natur’of a man and
crops out as sure as he gets his swing.* There
ain’t a one of us but Mould make a meaner
rich man than him. It comes easy to lie a
labor reformer and radical as long as a fellow
is poor, and it’s just as easy for a man to talk
liCautiful if he ain’t looked to to do nothing.
But it makes a man drunk Mhen he feels the
reins in his hands, and him nothin’ but a man
of the same stuff as the rest on us. Look at
Curran now; how much better’n the rest is
he? He deserted us at the most critical mo
ment. Somethin’ made him throw us up as
if we had all of a sudden sickened on his
stomach. We’re poor stuff, all on us, lioy's.
I never seen a finer feller than that Curran,
but he’s forgot all about the wrongs and
rights he used to holler so purty about.
There’s no chance for us in any man’s mercy;
we must depend on ourselves.”
At this very moment Philip Breton Mas
pressing the little brass bell on his counting
room table. For an answer his paymaster
came in Mith his pen, M'et from the ink, in
his hand.
“Do we pay our help enough?”
A thousand eager voices would have shout
ed a no to him that would have shaken the
foundations of stone, but Mr.- Jennings, the
paymaster, put his pen behind his ear, took
it down, looked keenly at it, then in surprise
at the young mill owner.
“We can get 1,000 as good for the same, if
that is*M'hat you mean.” Ah, what chance
have the poor mills people, when the young
master choo es s ich advisers as this?
“No,” said Philip, slowly'. “It isn’t ex
actly''what I mean; can M'e raise the wages?”
“Can 3 r ou; why yes, I suppose you can step
right into the mills and give a SIOO bill to
eveiy hand. But 3*oll couldn’t afford to do
that thing long, and I don’t think it would do
anybody any good. I wouldn’t assume to
advise you, sir, but why not just as well go
up street and insist on paying a fancy price
for your flour ?”
“Butcdon’t the3' find it hard to live on what
M r e give them? And M'hat a life it is at that,”
suggested Philip, sadly. Apparently he had
not quite forgotten them.
“No doubt, no doubt!” repeated the pay
master with the querulousness of* his class,
“but is there any sense in putting in your or
my fiat? You can’t make a ninety cent
laborer worth a dollar and a quarter by' giv
ing it to him. You insult him and damage
business by making it all uncertain with the
gratuitous element.”
“I see you don’t believe in benevolence, my
dear Jennings,” and Philip smiled curiously.
“Yes, I do, for sick people and paupers,- but
if 3'ou don’t want to make paupers of every
body you mustn’t”
“But I am not a pauper, and I never earned
a pehny in my life till a few months ago.”
Philip’s e3'es flashed at a sudden revelation.
“But, ah—but that is different. Drop that
then. To make our cloth there are a number
of expenses; there is the mill and the ma
chinery, the money locked up in fabrics and
material. These are fixed; you don’t think it
your duty to pay extra prices for raw ma
terial, nor make a gratuity M ith evei*3’ dollar
3'ou spend on machinery, no matter how poor
the man that sells to you. Now comes an
other element, labor. That should be as fixed
as the rest and all calculations based on its
narket price. When you go to market Mith
your cloth you don’t ask any gratuity, nor
does the buy'er claim any; price is fixed
better than the caprice of a moment could fix
it. The element of labor enters into the cost.
The difference between the cost and price is
your profit. If labor stands 3*oll in its mar
ket price your profit will reward your efforts,
and it will pa3 r >*ou to keep up your mill. If
you [>aid higher M ages your profits Mould be
small; you would give up your enterprise
and all Mould suffer.”
“I didn’t knoM* you could be so eager. But
supposing they tell mp my' profit is too large,
that my labor pay's me so M*ell I ought to
qpike it up to them.” The young proprietor
was looking musingly out <sf the window
M'here the autumn M'ind M'as chasing the
russet leaves in glee. Mr. Jennings,
the paymaster, had reached the door, but
waited a moment to clinch his argument.
“Then if you lost money your help ought
to contribute. But it might not be at all
their fault that you lost, an}* more than it is
to their credit you succeed. Their labor in
quantity and quality M ould be just the same.
What reason in changing its valuation? No,
I am sure there is but one May, to measure #
the value of your labor as 3'ou do everything
else, by M'hat it will bring.”
“Not quite everything,” said Phiiip; but he
said it so lom- the argumentative Jennings did
not hear it. All he heard Mas just as he was
closing his door:
“Please send in the overseer of No. 1 weave
room.”
It was but a feM' moments, during which
Philip did not move from his seat, before the
overseer came in, stroking his apron defer
entially'.
“Mr. Bright, the men and girls complain;
they say they Ought to be paid by the day
instead of by the piece.”
“Which ones complain? The lazy* ones, I
guess. Why surely, Mr. Breton, it Avouldn't
be right to pay the best weaver and the pool -
est the same.”
“Why not?” asked Philip, M*itli unchanged
features watching the look of astonishment
that shone on the man’s round fat face.
“Why not, if M-e paid them all the highest
price?”
“Well sir, it M'ouldn’t be a month before
bad and good would all be worth about tb*
same, and that as little as the poorest o!
them. It would be a poor *way to encourage
them to be smart.”
“Does Graves M*ork in y*our room?”
“Yes, but he is just going out for this
mornin’ —his”
“Send him in if you can find him.” Philip
rose to his feet now, and was walking the
room impatiently M hen John Graves slouched
in. He turned on him as if he Mas going to
do violence to his visitor, but it was only' a
question he hurled at him.
“What do you think ought to be changed
in the mill? Speak up now, and let me know
your mind.”
“I think Me work too hard for our pay,
then, drawled the laborer, but his mind was
in an unusually' excited condition.
“That is because the public want such
goods as ours so cheap.”
“There’s other things to cut on besides labor
forever and ever. Oh, no, y r e can’t bgy poor
cotton, it would show- in the cloth; ye can’t
thing, that he permitted himself to entertain
for a moment terrible fears. \Y4mt vengeance
would l>e stern and relentless enough for him
who bad wrecked the noblest womanhood in
the will, who had sullied a purity like an
angel’s, and insulted a sacred dignity like
Bertha’s? Oh, it could not be; no man on
earth could have so bold, so impious.
How wild his imagination had become.
“Oh, I didn’t know but it was young
Breton and that Bertha Ellingsworth that
was going to be married.” Two graceless
women had come in and seated themselves
in a neighboring jiew. Philip had been
thinking so intensely until now that an
earthquake would hardly have disturbed
him.
to’be CONTINUED.
A beautiful Hue of zephyrs, toil du
nords, novelty cords, chambray, ging
hams, etc., etc., jtist in at
Montgomery's.
Magic Compound.
The greatest known remedy for Burns,
Tetter, Ring-worms, Ulcers, Itch and dis
eases of stock. Removes grease from
cloth or wood. Removes dandruff. 25
cents a box. Eyery box guaranteed.
Only at Word’s mayll-tf
Don’t forget to smoke Sullivan's fine
hand-made cigar. “The Virginia Seal,”
“Hibernia,” “Starlight,” “Sullivan's No.
1.” Ask your dealer for them. 6-8 lm
T. I. N. C. is not a cure-fdf, but a quar
ter of a century of constant use lias de
monstrated beyond question that Tan
ner’s Infallible Neuralgia Cure is the
only known infallible cure for all kiuds of
neuralgia and for neryous headache. 50
cents per box. Manufactured by Ran gum
Root Medicine Cos., Nashville, Tenn.
Sold by all druggists. m 20-lm
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 accommodatidnVccTnsistent 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
tlmn, 2nd dam Hibernia by Sir Archie, 3rd dam by Pacolet, 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 flue blood bay with 44 inches of black mane. Will the present
season at Crawford & 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,
—■h PURELY VEGETABLE COIVIPOUND.=^=
Endorsed and used by the best people in Northwest Georgia and Northeast Ala
bama. It is
SAFE, SURE RELIABLE, ‘
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
S*g~soc. and 1.00 BOTTLES and oOc.
Manufactured by owner,
DAVID W. CUERY,
Broad St. Cor. Howard, Rome, Ga.
JOHN T. NORRIS,
Real Estate and Fire Insurance,
(UPSTAIBS.)
First Door South, of Howard’s Bank.
febl(My
SHOW CASES CASES
ARTISTIC stoke FIXTURES, rt It I NIT horn,
CKIURcmcsT. State Wants. Ask for Pamphlet. Atldress
TERRY SHOW CASE CO., Nashville, Tenn,
FREEMLL
co, ''*P icrc assortment of the
dcs; Plants. R Buits.
rsvwv 0f tlie g oo * l of tlliß
jjf e are sorrowfully let
alone on account of Dyspepsia. Acker’s
Dyspepsia Tablets will cure Dyspepsia,
Indigestion and Constipation; sold on a
positive guarantee at 25 and 50 cents, by
For sale by J. U. Wikle & Cos., Druggis t
* The Be-t Thing
for your liver is Lemon and Orange Elixir
Every bottle is guaranteed or money re
funded. Also have in stock Simmon’s
Regulator, Cunry’s Liver Compound and
Lemon Elixir, all reliable medicines.
Word’s Drug Store. mayll-tf
To the Consumers of Oils.
We handle all kinds of lubricating and
machinery oils, and are manufacturers’
agents and can offer special inducements
in this line, either by the gallon or barrel
Very respectfully,
J. R. Wikle & Cos.