THE LITTLE MODEL.
It happened, in the winter of 1870, that I
was unavoidably compelled to leave college, j
and spend a few months in retirement, hop- !
ing in the meantime that my urtcle might be
able to effect a compromise with tho faculty.
The nature of my offense has no bearing on
tliis story. It was simply judged Lest for
me to Beck out a secluded place where there
would be no temptation to the detriment of
cramming. I chose Burlin, as being also
Cousin Douglas’ place of refuge. Hero was
his oddly planned houso, nil studio, whore
be went when the fever of work was upon
him.
Half settled in my queer little hotel, I !
stayed only to unpack a brush and comb be
fore hastening over to Qakwood. A bright
light shone from the inejular, < n *-stary j
edifice. The inhabitants of Burlin pro
nounced Douglas’ hou.se heathenish, but it
was only characteristic. There wait* three
rooms, a vestibule connected by a heavily
curtained archway with tho studio proper
(an enormous hall), beyond which was a tiny ,
sleeping room with toilet conveniences.
Floor and walls were of solid oak; there were
great windows, through which sun shafts
fell, giving the lion-skin on the floor a tawny,
eastern glow'. Iu a corner, quite a day’s
journey from tho studio-half of tho room
where tho easel stood, was a writing-desk; in
another, the piano.
To-night a great fire was roaring up tho
chimney’s wido throat. Douglas sat dose
beside it, stretching his thin, white hands to
tho blaze. I opened tho door, after a clang
of tho knocker, an l pushed a-dde the portiere
to find him within, bending forward, his face,
which had grown strangely thin since I saw
it last, ablaze with some eager anticipation.
It w'as not flattering to see the light die sud
denly out, leaving a friendly glow enough,
but one quite different from that sunshine of
welcome.
“You, Jack?” bad boy!” ho said, taking
both my hands and looking with quizzical
indulgence into my crimsoning face. “They
wroto me about it. Before I’d bo
‘suspended! ’ ”
“So it scorns you were, before my day,” I
retorted, plucking up courage. “I didn’t
draw’ caricatures, cousin Douglas.”
“No, lad, because you couldn’t. Talents
differ. But lot by-gones go where they de-
Borro and come to the lire.” lie piled on
great birchen logs, and I mottled myself in a
crim*o:i chair, in high glee. With Douglas 1
always became younger than my yearn war
ranted and far happier. Nay, if I had kept
with him my young mannish airs, should 1
not have been shamefaced at loving him as I
did*
“Well, so you’ve conn down hereto work,”
.going back to his own seat, and watching ab
tiOiKly the uncoiling of tho missals of bark.
“Partly; to see you, mostly. Douglas, don’t
talk 3bout ‘grind.’ Everybody has been at
mo till I’m sick. Talk of your new picture.”
He started, flashing his eyes on mo suspi
ciously.
“Who said I had one here?”
“Nobody. I know it. You haven’t been
do'vn here three months, working yourself
to skin and bones for nothing, Douglas; you
look like a disembodied spirit.”
“There aro such things, I believe,” ho said,
slowly. “Yes, I have worked hard.” Ho
clapped his hands lightly, and bent forward
again over tho fire. It was evident that ho
neither heard nor saw me in my own proper
parcou. I was merely a voice, calling out
voices from his soul, some that had been
long l>Uflj’ there among themselves. I stood
iu beiwdless awe of him, but 1 was never
.afraid. His gentlonoss of spirit boomed to
go tiirough to his heart's core.
“Show mo the picture, Douglas,” I ven
tur and.
“No. no; it isn’t finished.” Still there was
4Bomr latent yielding in his tone
“Oh, Douglas, show me the picture?” He
atUl ; .at, reasoning with bimsolf, as I could
aee. Then he rose, and put aside tho inner
drapery. “I believe I will. I couldn’t show it
to fauybody else, but you are strangely to
to )** trusted.* Presently ho returned, but
without tho picture.
“I think I’ll tell you about it, first. You
nriat know my full idea, und then judge my
work. It is ‘Starvation’—no, I’ll bring the
thing out and let you intepret.” At which
I could but tremble, for fear my stupidity
and slowness of understanding should vex.
him. Wifch that ho pulled the canvas forth
and adjusted tho light, falling back into the
shadow to watch me. But in a few minutes
I could not but note how his eyes turned to
feed upon the picture, loving it and forget
ting me. On the canvas lay a level stretch
of land shut in by a mountain wall, and
covered by a low dun sky. A lichened rock,
here and thoro gave some little variety
of form, to bo counteracted by the added
monotony of color. A slight figure occupied
th# foreground, every streamer of its gar
ments Ijorno back by what you taw t> be a
keen north wind. I could not forbear a
shudder. I seemed to feel the chili of those
bare blue limbs.
The boy’s arms were folded, and he con
fronted the distance erect and patient. The
beauty of the child’s face was beyond de
scription. The skin was colorless, but of the
translucent purity of moonstone, the black
locks fell in heavy splaches, and the eyes
held all tho mournfulness and vast ness of a
midnight without a -tar. Despite the no
bility of the face, ] lucidly regnant, os it
fioemed, over physical pain, there was the
■ pinched look given by extreme hunger; blue
circles under tho eyes, and cruel dents of
the destroyer on the nostrils. Douglas was
watching me again.
‘•There is more there than you see—l meant
more than tho death of the body. Look into
the distance.” Far beyond the ace no of the
picture—you felt it to be beyond the boy’s
range of vision—the sky had rolled up, ex
posing a rosy vista into a region* beyond.
There were faintly to be distinguished the
outlines of faces—cherubic faces in joyful
song.
“I have known many souls to be hungry,”
said Douglas. “There are more souls so than
bodies. Some are starved. Take this child;
what is in its face?”
I straggled to express myself, and ended
by blundering out, “E rery thing. ”
Douglas smiled.
“Yes, you see it; p etry, music, love of art 1
and the ideal. But the mountains hem him
in from hint* even of the beautif uL Ho will
never reach it. He (lees that and submits to
liis slow death like n god.
He stood with fo.'ded arms worshiping hi? 1
work. I marveled at the power of love lying
in artists for canvass and clay.
Is it all out of your own head, Douglas?
Zeus! wliat a head!”
“I had a model,” he answered, hastily, car
rying the picture back into the next room.
“Now go, Jack. Come to-morrow night.
And mind,” he called after me, “mind you
don’t tell a living soul about this.”
I promised and went not in the least of- i
fended at my summary dismissal.
I took it for granted that a geniu3 might
have moods that another man could not
share. But what had come over Douglas?
Bright as a star, sometimes an uncanny
demon in mood, he had never before be
trayed diseased melancholy. Borne hard
blow must have shaken him out of himself.
My thoughts were interrupted when I reached
home by finding a stranger in tho hotel par
lor. I was sure I knew him; he was Detect*
! fvo Smirke. I had not livod in a college
| ;own for nothing. 1 knew a few of
the local celebrities, and prided myself a*"
! :ordingly. He was dressed in a suit of cler
ical cut And hue, and his face was smooth,
| both as to fact and metaphor. Perhaps tho
resemblance might not have suggested itself
had I not seen Smirke in a dross almost iden
tical. I made an excuse for looking at tho
visitors’ book, and found ho hail registered
1 himself as Rev. Augustus Miller. Being
> bung and on the lookout for adventure and
! mystery, I applauded myself for my intui-
I tion, declared I was right and that Smirke
had come down here to ferret out something.
I But as ho soon asked for his lamp aud with
drew, 1 followed suit, anil gave myself up to
| very confused dreams in which (Smirke in a
i headsman’s cap was executing my cousin
■ Douglas for murder, while the boy of tho
1 picture flew away into a rosy heaven.
The next m- ruing 1 was not at my books,
as an uncomfortable conscience would have
suggested. By no means. Occupied merely
in holding a largo volume, 1 was sitting on
I one side of the fireplace, while Rev. Augustus
Miller, also with a book, had stationed him
i self in tho other. Mine was heavier and
moromqodng, being a Greek lexicon; his
seemed to l>o a volume of sermons. At
j length, when we had sat thus for ar hour,
and I was beginning t > tire of my self-imposed
espionage, ho lifted his spectacled eyes,
saying mildly:
“Young man, as the wood-box is with you,
and there are no servants at hand, will you
I replenish the fire ?”
“By all means, Mr. hem! Smirke,”
j I said, gladly throwing down my lexicon,
and having tho grace to choke a little over
my young presumption. I stole a look at
; him, ns 1 threw on tho log.
The eyes were regarding me very seareh
ingly, but tho face hail not changed.
“This is a calm retreat for a young man,”
I lie began, as I stood by the fire, watching the
renewed sparkle. “1 came down hero to re
vise my commentary, in quiet, but”— Hi*
stopped suggestively. Tho tone invited con
fidence, but 1 did not respond. And being
very coolly impudent upon occasion, l re
turned, “1 have the proof sheets of my treat
ise on Sophocles to correct. I fancy I heav
old Sophocles calling me now. Good-bye.”
When I returned after a tough ride on u
cart-horse, the only animal to be procured, I
was told that Mr. Miller had gone tor a walk.
He appeared at the supper-table, conversing
with men .awl maid-servants with unctuous
affability. However, I had no time t< \ateh
him. 1 was off to see Douglas, having known
too well by old experience that no once might
interrupt him by daylight, when he had a
picture in process of birth. Douglas was ex
pecting me, and, not taken by surprise, in a
more companionable mood. I noticed at
once a change in the mom’s furnishing.
Piano, easel, writing-desk, were in corners,
turned with the buck toward the center of
the room. But I asked no questions. With
men of ray temperament, tho eccentricity of
genius accounts for anything. Lot a man
paint a picture or write a poem, and he may
stand on his head in the market-place there
after, without comment of surprise from us.
“1 am going to entertain you, to-night,
Jack,” said my cousin, stretching himself out
on a settle, liis face flushed an l eyes bright
with a very apparent nervousness. “1 mean
to tell you a story, all true, too, my lad. 1
want to put it on your stalwart conscience to
get it partly off mine. Aro you ready?” I
was, and open-mouthed with anticipation.
“A year ago,” began Douglas, with the
musing tone of one who talks to himself
rather than his auditor, “I had the plan of
my picture in my mind, all but the boy’s
face; that eluded me. 1 looked far and near
for a model. I went among the poor and
peered into street faces, all in vain. Last
fall I came here in despair and gave myself
up to waiting and smoking. Often when I
have abandoned hope she seeks me out, as
she did now. Perhaps I had been hero a
month, when one night my door opened and
u, child came in breathless—this very boy in
the picture. As soon as my eyes struck his
taco 1 know lie was my model. He
was painfully but sweetly confused, and
though apparently an Italian, broke into,
very perfect English—that is, perfect in con
struction, though an accent betrayed lii>
nativity. (Ho bad heard I wanted a model.
He might well have heard it, by the way,
for 1 hud told old Father Du Bois, hoping he
might have some available French face in
his flock.) And ho had come to offer him
self. You can guess how gladly I accepted
him.
“But there were conditions. I must prom
iso to tell no one, ask him no questions even
as to home or name, never follow or trace
him out, and show no one tho picture during
his sittings. 1 was anxious enough to make
sure of him to promise anything. Tho sit
tings began the next morning. Ho came long
before light and was waiting in the shadow
of the porch when I rose. He came after the
face was technically finished, for there was a
wealth of expression I was slow in catching,
and which was too precious to lose. He in
variably brought his dinner with him, a tin;*
piece of bread, and remained until afte
dark. Then he would melt into the dus
like one of its own shadows. Jack, I rather
think I’ve grown a good deal in sentiment.
1 fell in love with that loy. I went so far
as to think of adopting him to* keep him
with me always. But i aturally I de
layed mentioning it to him till the picture
should bo finished and I released from some
of my promises. One night, when the pict
j ure was completed as you .see it now, 1 broke
j the charm. lie had an overpowering curi
| osity about that little sandal-wood picture*
: shrine on tho desk yonder. You see it is in
| fragments. I told him it held a picture, sc.
precious that I kept it under lock end key,
and after that ho besieged me with ques
tions. Who was it? Curiosity gave him the
only spice of earth incss he needed, and I tan
i talized him to keep it growing. On this
night I told him it was the portrait of a
l>eautiful and wonderful lady. It was—the
Mona Lisa. His great black eyes flamed red,
I but just then a fellow came to the door to sell
! ebromos. ] had to fie ht him off. He nearly
forced his way in in .-pile of me. When 1
! came back, out of temper, I surprised my
model breaking open the shrine. The mar
! veious carving was shivering in splinters or.
' the floor. I was a brute. I took him by
! the collar and shook him. I forgot that he
i was nearer angel than boy. He dropped
j the shrine and picture, and slipped out of my
grasp, stopping at tho door to say, in a
j choked little voice: “You shall never see me
again. I will kill myself.” Then he ran out
into the night, and I have not seen bin:
! since.
“But he probably hasn’t killed himself,” 3
suggested. “No doubt he thought better of
i that.”
“He has done it,” said Douglas, shaking
his head with a sad smile, “I am sure of it*
I should not feel in this way about him if he
; were not dead.”
“Douglas, that was only temper. People
i don’t carry out such threats once in a dozer
[ times. ”
“Think of his hot sort hern blood. Its flame
would consume more lives than one. Dc
you see the change in my room?” I heard
the creaking of the outside door, and then, J
fancied, a stealthy step in the vestibule; buf
I waited, loth to interrupt Douglas.
“I have grown, since that night, into o
spiritual fear. Memory draws thß child intc
the room so constantly that you might say
lie haunt* it. I see that face everywhere. J
an afraid of finding tho spin ft ft* wv elbow,
uruing reproachful eyes eu me, crying out,
You murdered mo!’ ”
“But what should that have to do with
four furniture!” I asked* fearing either
hat lie had gone daft or that I was not
•qual to the finer fancies of genius. Douglas
.railed, with shame in hi* face.
“So that I may work without turning my
nack on anything. I shudder to think of him
behind mo.”
1 heard a rustle. “Douglas, some ono wants
to come in,” 1 said, rising.
Before 1 reached tho portiere tho outside
loor was closed as softly as it might be with
haste. I ran out wlthoui stopping for my
hat. A figure was striking out rapidly for
the grove at the left of tho house. Now, I
was not famous at the university for my
brains, but for my muscle I was. I broke
into a run and made a circuit to cut. the man
off from the group. If he could bo kept to
tho high road I should run him down in no
time. Ho noted how directly lio was headed
for my arms and took to the highway, I ia
pursuit. He worked bravely, but in four
minutes 1 had 6vertaken him. When I was
within throe feet ho turned suddenly and
faceil me. It was Rev. Augustus Miller.
“Young man, sjmre me!” came the unct
uous voice in piteous appeal, the clerical
hands raised. “I have no money. If you
aro a robber take my pocket Bible and lot
me go.
“Robber yourself!” I retorted. “Wliat do
you mean by sneaking into people’s houses,
anil then sneaking out?”
“I was going to ask tho young man about
his soul, but when you rose so mi Uienly I
remembered what ungodly tricks young men
are guilty o’, and was afraid.”
“Now, is there anything more truly femi
nine than a minister?” 1 said, pausing to
apostrophize him. Ho hail expected to be
frightened; he should not bo disappointed.'
As 1 looked at him a fleecy cloud slipped
from the moon. His resemblance to Smirke
was startling. “Assure as I’m—hom!—not
in college,” I cried, “you aro Smirke, the
detective.” *
“Young man, dc not mock the servant of
God.”
“But you arc!” I insisted, now merely tc
frighten him. “You are, and to-night J
shall hand you over into custody for aseuny
ing a name and disguise.” 1 waited fo
further prayers, but they did not co*rA. Ti e
man looked o.t ini steadily lor two or time
then he took off his glasses aud
lifted his wig with a flourish. It was lviy
turn lie confounded. I had no more sus
picion tnan an idiot that my flash of guess
work had truth at bottom.
“I seo you know a thing or two,” said tho
detective, in tones like chips. “Can you hold
your tongue?”
“Like a cracked bell! Take mo on the
force?”
“I can’t; I’m off myself. That’s what
you’re to keep still about. One of the offi
cers said I got information by foul means,
and 1 knocked him down. They meant to
arrest me, but I came down bore in disguise.
Now, can you keep that?”
“Seo if I can’t,” I returned, big with im
portance. “What could they do to you?”
“Oli, not much, only they shan’t have the
fun of an arrest, that’s all! My disguise was
rather thin; still, nobody but a man keen
enough to be on the force himself would
have seen through if.” I was every minute
growing in circumference, liko tho frog in
the fable, and too much engrossed to mind
the absence of my hat. We walked home to
gether in the most chatty humor. He seemed
vastly interested in Douglas, from tho queer
house, ho said, and from my cousin’s evi
dently being a remarkable young man.
We laughod together over Mr. Miller’s
errand at Oak wood, and ho confessed
that ho had slipped in solely because
ho saw us through the window and
thought we seemed like good follows.
But forgetting hi* disguise until be
was well into tho vestibule and then remem
bering how I had penetrated it tho night be
fore, he dared not face mo again. Would I
tako him to call on Douglas? I said my
cousin was not easily dealt with by
strangers, anil I must first ask his per
mission. That was only putting him off;
Dougins lias not my affinity for nettles anil
their relatives. Much as he seemed inter
ested in Douglas, 1 lmd heard enough to keep
my cousin’s secret to the letter fl wonder at
that, however, for between the confidences
1 had received that night my thoughts stood
promiscuously on their heads. I budo my
detective good-night, in a fraternal mariner,
which seemed vastly to the amusement of
M o maid servant, who had grinned at my
ridicule of him in the morning. For he had
again assumed the wig and was Rev. Augus
tus Miller.
Tho next day I had cause to applaud my
own wisdom in the selection of a retreat.
Tongues buzzed louder and faster here than
in tho world of men. There was now an ex
citement worthy their agility. A pupil had
been decoyed from the Convent of Our Lady,
distant about three miles; she had, undoubt
edly been murdered. There were ghastly
details of her death to be had without the
asking. One said that tho villains—they
were evidently medieval freebooters—had cut
off her hair and her head after it. Another
stated that tho head was left at the convert
gate, swinging by its hair. But I managed
to ascertain, by dint of much questioning,
that the gild had disappeared, and a reward
would be offered for the apprehension of those
concerned in tho abduction. It seemed to me
a good case for Smirk©, but as bo was not at
table, neither was to bo found in liis room,
1 postponed suggesting it to him. That night,
of course, I went to Douglas, meaning to
give him a sip of the current horror. But
he pushed me indifferently aside and passed
on to his own affairs.
“I mean to shut up this place and leave,
Jack,” ]<x>king at the fire and introspectively
at himself. “Tho boy will never come back.
I am tired of bein f haunted. Perhaps a
change of scene will help lay his ghost.” 3
heard tho outside dof r open, and was about
to confound tho impudence of Smirke, when
the hangings were thrust aside, a dark set
ting for the very face, of the picture. Pre
pared for a ghost, how could I restrain a cry.
Douglas turned marble, pointed a stiff fore
finger. “Bee!” came his whisper. But the
curtain was thrown back, tho Jittlo figure
crossed the room at a run and sank at hi*
feet.
“Master, take mo back!” came in sobs. 3
might look and listen as much as I pleased.
Nobody heard or saw me. Douglas caught
the child to his breast, and rocked back and '
forth with him, cooing some inarticulate en- |
dear merit. Presently the two drew apart j
and looked at each other with eyes of shining
content.
“Did I spoil tho picture?” asked the child,
dropping his head in shame. Douglas
laughed.
“I don’t know. Never mind, you are all the
picture I want. Tell me, how could you grieve
me so? Where did you go?”
“.Shall I tell it all? ’ lie had a quick, bird
like motion of the head, a quick staccato of
liquid utterance. His English was mature,
but charmingly accented by the persistent
clinging of a foreign tongue.
“Yes, all,” said Douglas.
“Then let m-3 go.” He resisted Douglas’
detaining hand, got gravely down from his
knee, and perched on a stool. Then folding
his hands over his long gray cloak, tho child,
n ith another bird-like glance, indicated me.
“May he know, too?”
“Yes, if you are willing.”
“I was in the convent being educated,” he
A A
l began, quietTyv “Every dh j i asud to see
j ) T ou go past Sometimes: with flowers in
j your hand. Your hair was liko Our Lady’s
j glory. ” He looked at Douglas devoutly, and
I Douglas laughed. “One day I heard a Sister
say you wanted to paint .t boy dying, starv
ing. That night I ran away. Ail old Scotch
woman lives a cress tho river, and goes every
ilay to the convent to do kitchen work.
1 wont to her and bogged her to keep me.
She hanlly dared* but sh. 4 knew I was not
happy in the convent and she pitied me. She
left mo alone in her little house every day.
and I used to throw away my dinner. I
would not eat, but it wa- long before I could
starve myself into looking starved, ami I was
so impatient I”
Douglas was bending .oward him, a great
j horror gathering on his i j.ee.
“You starved yourself - why?”
“Because I wanted to help you paint your
picture. I made the little clothes 1 wore, all
! myself. Tho Sisters always said I was good
| with my needle. Then u Sister was ill and
! Mrs. Mac Neil hail to bo there early in the
| morning and lato at night. That helped me,
and I could come to you.”
“But—who are you?”
“Teresa.” A soft, rose flush crept into her
cheeks, and tho lashes fed. Douglas blushed,
too.
“Reckless, hot-hearted child!” ho muttered.
Teresa had risen and drawn her little cloak
about her.
“1 suppose I am to go beck to tho convent,”
she said, defiantly. “I have been hiding at
Mrs. Mac Neil’s ever since that night. But
she overboard yesterday that the Sisters
thought I had been kille 1. A man had come
here to find out who did it. Ho was at the
convent early and told the superior it was
you. Ho I came to tell you.
“I?” repeated Douglas in amaze. At the
instant the curtain was put aside and Smirke
stepped in. “Everybody makes mistakes,”
ho said with gruffness. “I made mine. 1
listened at your door last night, when you
said you were haunted. I’ve told this boy
here a dozen lies and I’ve watched in tho
woods all day to see that you didn’t escape.
1 mean to havo more evidence before I arrest
you. It is well the Bisters lot it leak out
about the child,jas it happens,though I could
have strangled thorn at tho time. They’ll
kept it pretty close, for fear it would hurt
the convent’s reputation, till sho was wanted
and had to be forthcoming. Then they con
i, and 1 was sent down hero.”
“Why tusho wanted?” asked J, who alone
retained some ix, dues*.
“Long story. You.** ago a rich American
fell in love with Terosus mother, Italian
countess, widow, poor. She weuldn’t marry
him then, but he offered to educate the
child, and sho stipulated it should up among
Catholics. He brought her hero, walk'd as
long a-s ho could, went back, begged again,
anil sho married him. They’re in New York
and Teresa's sent for.”
“My mother!” breathed the child, tho tipi
of her fingers together.
“Your mother, and lots of money!” an
swered Smirke, jocosely. Teresa turned tx
Douglas. “Then you will go to soe me there
my master, instead of my coming to you!”
And ho did, until there was no lorigo:
need. .
PILES, PILES.
FISTULA, FISSURE AND RECTAL ULCERS
DR. TABER
No. 82 Decatur Street,
ATLANTA , - - - GEO GIA
Makes a Specialty of these Diseases,
and has cured cases of forty years standing
Cure guaranteed. If 1 fall to cure you of Pile
1 will return your money. Address, enclos
ing stamp, F. F. TABER,
Box 202, Atlanta, Ga.
Griffin, Ga., Nov. 2f>, 188:).
Dr. F. F. Taber, Atlanta, Ga.: Dear Kir: Fc
ten years I suffered from piles. 1 tried tt
doctor and the doctors tried me. I tried a
most every remedy i could hear of from ol
men and women in the country. I tried a
the salves, ointments, greases and patent met
lollies 1 could hear of. In fact,, 1 tried almoi
everything except the ligature and surgeor
knife, which I dreaded, but looked to as a lai
resort. Nothing did me any good. I gre
worse day after day, month after moot h, yet
after year. When I came to you my sutferii
had become absolutely unbearable. At thin
my pain was so intense that 1 could not si
stand still, or lay down, but walk, walk, wall
walk, and suffer the agony of torture. At th
time I had piles, fissure and rectal ulcer. Y<
offered to cure me, and gave the guaranty <
cure—“No cure, no pay.” Under your trail
ment I improved rapidly, and am now well i
that tearful diseasi —cured! without the ligi
lureaiid without the knife, and, best of al
without pain!
I tak pleasure in giving tlds testimony <
your fidelity and skill, and will ever hold yo
in grateful remembrance.
E. W. HAMMOND.
Wakuknton, Ga., Dec. 22, 188.1.
Dr. V. F. Taber, M. 1)., No. 28 Decatur K
Atlanta, Ga., Ccar Sir: 1 am willing to siju
any certificate that you want, going to sho
that you have been the means of restoring n
to health from a \ • ry serious com lit ion of ily
eatery and rectal ulcer. Send me the form
cei l ideat e you wish, and J will.sign and rctui
to you at once by mail A. P. HEATH.
Vkiihkna, Ala., Apr. 6th, 1884.
Dear Dr. Taber: I leek upon you as the se
ond savior of my husband, lie bids me si
lie lee Is no inconvenience anil no return off]
tumors us yet. I wish 1 could tell to tl
world al| you have done for us. We miss yoi
e()ining, but glad !o think there is no oecask
for it. Success to your noble Institute. Mu
| the blessing of God rest upon its founder.
Your Friend,
ADDLE J. DnBARDELABEN.
Flowery Branch, Hull Go., (la., Oct. 31, *>
! Dr. F. F. Taber, Atlanta, Gu., Dear Sir: F
years that dire disease—piles—grew upon xn
I suffered—knew no remedy. Almost an
thing that promised relief was used, but wit
out real benefit. By accident, as it were,
heard Of you ns treating this disease. I
once began correspondence, and soon theret
ter put myself under your treatment. After
j few months treatment from which I lost n
a day from my business, I feel myself to
cured and almost like anew man for work.
IIF V. 11. L. COMPBELL,
Principal Flowery Branch High School
im£ _ _
Bargains in -Milner.
Milne u, Oa. ? Sept. Ist, 1884
For tho next two weeks I will sell regard!
of cost odd lots of Shoes, Ladies Gloves, R
lions, Laces, Buffing, Edgings, Insertions a
Trimmings generally. Also a large lot of Bi
tons and Notions, In fact all summer goo
must he displaced to make room for my f
stock.
I am offering a lot of Linens for Ladies a
flouts wear at greatly reduced prices, and t
biggest bargains of the seasons in Lad
Merino Vests, which will soon be in demai
Prints. From 3 to 5 Cents
and other Dress Goods at correspondingly If
prices.
I am also carrying a large line of Crocke
and Glassware, which I propose to sell at o
price or another I have Just, received one
tin* largest, lines of Shoes ever brought to M
ner, and now offer them at a small advan
on cost, They are all of standard make ai
warranted, partly Georgia and partly nort
ern manufacture. Am also offering indue
mets in Sugars and Coffees for “spot cash.”
Very Respectfully,
W. I>. WILLIS, Agent
Q Burnham’
fta Standard Turbin
Is the best constructed ai
-gsSgSJ finished, gives better percei
k J! ge, ll,ore power, and is s<
P-i Sf f \ for less money, per horse po
or, than any other Turbine
W the world. Efe- Now pafl
plilet sent free by
BURNIIAM BRO .York, Pa
Clothing! Clothing!
Wlien you visit, Atlanta don’t fall to call at the (BATE CITY CLOTHING STORE, where
you will find a splendid'line of
Men’s, Aoy’s and CMldren’s Clothing.
OVERCOATS from the cheapest to tho finest* A full line-of UNDERWEAR, und tho
best fitting
WHITE SHIRT
in Georgia. All at tho*vary LOWEST PRICES.
A. & S. ROSENFELD,
novlfl 24 Whitehall Street, corner Alabama* Atlanta, (4a.
Yi
JohnC.Fox
General Merchandises.
I have and will keep on hand n
in :i
GENERA!
Also headquarters for FRUITS a
keep nothing but
First^Cla;
and will make prices as low as any
friends and the public for the very 1
hope hv fair dealing and strict attei
share in the future.
Mr. Chas. M. Atwater
are with me, and by polite attentioi
the patronage of all their friends.
seplß-3m
David HI
The only wholesale and retail Di
stinctly for
SPOT
