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OFFICK —With Hon. W. H. Davis. Will
practice in all the Courts of this and adiom-
nsr counties. mayl2,’W-by
C. D.Perkins,D.D.S.
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OP AM IDEA.
BY BARRY PAIN.
I am a literary idea. Unborn as yet,
I have not the incarnations of paper
and printing’ ink which will be mine
hereafter. I am conscious. I nave
knowledge without the usual apparatus
for its acquisition and storage. I see
without eves, and hear without ears. I
move as I will, and material things can
not hinder my movements. They are
swifter than light, and just as swift
as thought. You know, of course, that
if an idea is going to come to yon,
neither locked doors nor iron walls
will prevent it; it arrives inevitably
and insuperably; you are to be its pa
rent and make it eomc into the world.
You may be ranked as a genius because
you are its parent, and (this amuses
me) you will think that you are its
parent because you are a genius.
To the large eyes of the imagination
I might be pictured, in my unborn
state, as a Puck-like phantom; only
the imagination can see me until I se
lect my parent. Ideas have that priv
ilege. Human beings—on very slight
est evidence—believe that they do not
select their parents, but, on the other
hand, they believe—on no evidence at
all—that they do select their ideas. I
am not prescient, but I faucy that tho
man whom 1 select for my parent
should he a very happy man. I am a
perfectly brilliant idea. I am new, and
I am a master; the World will say it. I
shall bring fortune and fame to my
parent. Even now—when I am unborn
and cannot tell the precise form that 1
shall take—I exult in my own utter
goodness. This is, of course, vain. Hut
then humility is only one of the im
positions of the weak majority upon
the strong minority, to enable the
weak majority to keep up a self-respect
to which facts do not entitle it.
I decided to come here. Before me
lies a vast mass of building materials,
sorted out into houses and the like, and
known on the eighteen-penny folding
map as ‘’London and its Environs.” It
swarms. It is too large. Let me see
what is immediately before me.
Before me is No. 23, Harriet Terrace,
Fulham. It is a new terrace of thirty-
pound houses, and there is no external
difference, except the number, be
tween 23 and the rest. It is the
residence of Albert Weeks, literary
hack. Shall I enter, and bid Albert
Weeks be my parent? I should bring
him money and reputation. He would
be able to live in a better house than
this; people would come to him and
[COPYRIGHT. 1804.1
society, or the Inner Circle
606 Broad Street,
Augusta Hotel.
GEORGIA
nov9,88—
ould dis
pense with his valuable services. 1 ne
words that the editor—who was rather
less fashionable than Ins penny pant-
ing paper—actually used were: "More
savvy, or outside only, my dear boy,
and don’t you forget it.”
What are you to do when you are too
good to know the butler and not good
enough for the butler's master to know
you? This is what, I perceive, Albert
Weeks is doing, writing laboriously:
“The season is dying fast,, and I am sure that
most of my readers will agree with me that it
has been an unusually brilliant one. So every
body was saying to me at Lady Balllngham's
last'night. By the way. Lady Baliingham must
have the secret of eternal youth: last night
she looked more beautiful than ever. As for
her house in Park lane, I have always consid
ered it to be quite tho most charming town
house that I have seen in the whole course of
my experience. Well, the long round of de
lightful and luxurious—”
Here he is interrupted, because his
worn-out, striving, vulgar, respectably,
loving, sharpish wife has come into the
room with a blue paper in her hand.
“Supper, Albert; come on now. Oh,
you ain’t touched your tea, and I was
particular to bring it. Are you cornin'?
Tannery 'as broke the soapdish in the
nursery; that's what the cryin’ was
about. This here is Bilderspin's bill
for what he did to the kitchen range.
It's high—one, seventeen, six.”
That is the last straw. His editor
has bothered him. His work has
bothered him. He is very tired. A
paragraph—which was really coming
out very nicely—has been interrupted.
Money is very scarce. And supper is
mere mutton, and his wife looks rather
ill, and Bilderspin’s bill is one, seven
teen, six. The combination over
powers him. The little man throws
down his pen, stamps his foot and
swears like a mad blackguard—swears
profusely.
Now, then, shall I make this man my
parent? If I crept through that sandy
hair into the wliitey-gray brain, what
a change there would be- He would
be conscious that he had got a new,
tremendous, imperial idea. He would
put down his knife and fork, finish the
beer in his glass at one gulp, explain
hurriedly to his wife that he was real
ly inspired this time, and rush wildly
at the handsome inkstand and his
work. By the following midday I
should be in manuscript. In six w ;eks
Albert would be famous. In six
months he would have real money and
no debts, and there would be more
money to come. There would be a
new soapdish. new furniture, new
dresses for his wife. ’Ennery would
have toys and a go-cart; Albert would,
on little occasions, have Hiklseek.
They would be of? to the se,aside for a
fortnight, and do the thing well, and
the personal paragraphs would say
that Ali-. Weeks and his family were
spending the winter in Brighton,
"where it is to be hoped that this new"
and brilliant author will not allow his
pen to be idle.”
"No. I definitely decide that I will
not make Albert Weeks my parent. I
am not a philanthropist; I am only an
idea. I do not want to benefit Albert
Weeks, and I do want to satisfy my
own whim. My own whim definitely
refuses Albert Weeks.
At the same time I am in a great
hurry to be born. I have knowledge,
but it is limited. For instance, I be
lieve that I am an idea for a short
story, but I am not sure. I know I am
a miraculously good idea, but 1 do not
know- in what way I am miraculously
good. I yearn to see myself in my
final form. I must positively get born.
Well, let me examine elsewhere.
Here, I observe, the traffic is being
partially disturbed by a long funeral
coming briskly back from the ceme
tery. In tho first coach is a young
man alone. Ho is in deep mourning,
n a kind of a spree; i He has drawn the window blinds down,
was a kind of a spree; j His hat is placed on the front seat. He
himself is kneeling on tho floor of tiie
coach; his arms spread over the back
seat; his eyes are glaring, hot with
unshed tears; he bends his head and
bites fiercely the wrist of one hand.
I know his name at once and some
thing about him. He is lion. Eardlev
Travers Wylmot. Away in the ceme
tery lies the still body of Maud Farra-
dvee whom Wylmot was to have mar
ried two months hence if she had
lived. The agony of his grief would
not be doubted by anyone who saw
him now; but it is bad to look at a man
when ho is like that.
Yet Wylmot is a man who has al-
ways doubted himself, lie is haunted
with the thought that he is a sham.
Perhaps he did once or twice over-em-
phaslze in conversation his passionate
admiration for his favorite authors;
but lie paid dearly for the pose; he sub
sequently threw the hooks aside and
said that he was sick of all talk about
art; in the fierce reactionary fit he be
came addicted to a hearty steak-and-
onions in low company, heard some
distinctly coarse stories, and had him
self put up for a sporting club which
neither interested him nor desired his
membership. The reactionary fit was
bitter, but it was short. As with his
books so with his writing. In proud
moments he believes that he is going
to bo a leader; he pays for his pride
with days of depression when he doubts
whether he is even capable of being a
decent follower. As with his writ
ings so with his love. A few weeks
ago ho asked himself seriously if he
was not merely trying to be romantic,
if he really loved this Maud Farra-
dyce who was to be his wife. That
doubt went before the pretty yellow
headed girl died. And now he does not
doubt his sorrow.
Yes, Hon. Eardley Travers Wylmot
shall be my parent. He shall bring itTe
into the world. Now, as he sprawls in
that mourning coach, his wild, aching
brain shall become possessed of me. It
is a delightful whim.
In I go.
BIRTH.
Hon. Eardley Travers Wylmot has,
later in the same day, in the solitude of
his comfortable chambers overlooking
Piccadilly, just recovered from rather
an unpleasant fit of hysteria. Albert
Weeks would have thanked God for ine,
but Wylmot positively does not want
to be my parent, lie would cheerfully
sacrifice a year’s income if by so doing
he could definitely get me out of Ills
head. But he cannot. I am going to
be born, and this is the first part of the
process.
The trouble is that I am inappropri
ate—Horribly ana grotesquely inappro
priate; for I have discovered more
about myself, and I find that I am a
humorous idea. I am the newest, the
most delicious, the most inevitably hu
morous idea that ever has been or ever
say: “Albert Weeks, where did you
get that perfectly splendid idea?” lie
would taste popularity, smile com
placently, and subscribe to a press-
cutting agency. Shall I select him or
not?
Albert Weeks is married, of couise,
and has three children. His wife is well-
meaning, but, I fear, a trifle under-edu
cated. He met her in the old days
when he was
his love-makiu
there was a touch of sheer spree even
in his marriage. It was all irresponsi
ble—enthusiastic—desperate; and the
spree is well out of their lives for ever
and ever—unless I interfere. They are
still heart-fond of each other, though
she has ceased to remark on his clever
ness and sometimes is almost snappish,
and he has no time to pet her because
he is so busy for so little remuneration.
The front room in which lie is sitting
is rather sordid. They call it the draw
ing-room, sometimes substitute it for
the nursery, and habitually use it as
his study. There is a quaint gather
ing of antagonistic furniture. He
bought as little furniture as possible
at first—because he was no fool and
knew that they would have to be
ecomical—and he has added to It since
on occasions when he could not possi
bly afford it. There are, for instance,
two chairs from a drawing-room suite
—two only. They would have been
cheaper if he had taken the entire
suite; but you could not expect him to
buy the suite when he could not possi
bly afford these two chairs out of it.
These are covered with pale green vel
vet, and the velvet is covered with
dust. On the chair nenrest to the table
at which he is writing stands a chipped
cup of cold tea, surmounting the dust
and the velvet. The cold tea seems to
he looking upward with a gray, patient
eye at the guady paper lamp-shade, the
photogravure of “The Prodigal Son,’’
and the smoked ceiling. It is a room
that must always have had crumbs in
it. House-flies go long distances for
the pleasure of ultimately dying in
this room. They have died conspicu
ously and frequently in it. In one cor
ner broken and by-gone bamboo has now
definitely despaired of ever signifying
anything more cultured than a clear
ance sale in the Tottenham Court Road;
and in the one piano-sconce which Is
not broken lingers the stump of a can
dle that has wept its composite heart
out over the stained keyboard—wept
for the death of the flics, or the despair
of the bad bamboo, or the general
deadliness of everything.
There is on the table a handsome,
black-spotted wedding present of an
inkstand. In front of it sits Albert
Weeks at work. He is rather a small
man with sandy hair, and the frock-
coat which he has given up wearing
out-of-doors, or when, as his wife says,
“there are people.” There are not any
now, for he is alone in the room. The
expression of his face is careful. He
has to be careful, because the editor of
the Inner Circle was by no means sat
isfied with his last batch of paragraphs,
and he cannot afford to be deprived of
the guinea a week which he receives
from that very fashionable journal.
The editor had said—though more
rudely, technically and briefly—that
either Mr. Albert Weeks would have to
convey a more convincing impression
of his Intimate acquaintance with kiaii
THE IDEA APPROACHES MR. WEEKS.
win •'oe. "iiitj ’Dare tnoutfirt 6i me
brings a deep satisfaction right away
down in the very pit of one’s apprecia
tions. At first I am too great for laugh
ter, but the laughter comes. It comes
in chuckles; it swells and grows to
shaking paroxysms. Here, in this
room, but half an hour ago Wylmot at
least reached the full appreciation of
me. It had been growing upon him
ever sinee the moment in the mourn
ing coach when I first came to him.
There had been at intervals sudden
smiles over his face, succeeded by an
expression of agonized shame and con
trition. But at the full appreciation
of me gave up the struggle and began
to laugh. He threw back his head; he
stamped one foot; he held his sides
with both hands; ho roared; he howled
helplessly.
His laughter stopped quite suddenly,
ns great fits of laughter often do, as if
it had been cut short with a clean stroke
of a knife. He took out his watch,
glanced at it, and—just as he had real
ized the full humor of me—realized the
full horror of the situation. Three
short hours before he had stood beside
an open grave, wherein he did then
most truly believe that all his interest
and all the brightness of his life lay.
That was three hours ago.
Aud yet he had just finished a fit of
the wildest, most uncontrolable laugh
ter. He had been allowing himself to
be amused, It was just here that Wyl
mot had that unpleasant attack of hy
steria.
He lias recovered from it, and has
composed himself. His face is very
white now, and he looks rather like a
man under a curse. He gets out his
writing materials. “Maud,” he says,
softly, “you are not minding, are you?
This blamed thing has got into my
head. I didn't want to think of any
thing humorous, but this came to me.
Maud, it would make the dead laugh—
it is too funny—and I don't want to
think of it any more. That is why I
am going to write it all out. Then
perhaps I may be able to put it aside.
Oh, Maud, don't think that I'm irrever
ent and unfeeling. My heart is dead
and with you. I hato myself for hav
ing laughed, but had to. I will get rid
of this idea that's haunting me, and
then I don’t think 1 shall ever laugh
again.”
He sits down, and at the top of the
page writes in a large hand, “E lien.’
It is the title of the story which is to
embody me. He writes fast for half an
hour, and then a servant brings in the
lighted la.mps. .
The moment the servant has gone
the pen dashes down on the paper
again, as though it had gained an ad
ditional Impetus by being kept back
for a minute. He does not dine out-;
he does not go to the club. He writes
at lightning speed, only pausing to
laugh from time to time more wildly
than ever. He laughs and writes,
writes and laughs, on and on, until he
finds that the lamps are going out, and
glances at his watch. It Is five o’clock
in the morning, and the stack of paper
in front of him is the finished story—me
myself—me, the magnificently humor
ous idea.
He draws back the curtain and lets
the wan London daylight into the
room. He realizes that he feels very
exhausted and shaky, goes to the side
board ir. an adjoining room, and gets
himself some brandy. He drinks two
glasses of it In rapid succession; then
lie goes of? to bed. He is too tired for
any further emotion. Laughter and
tears alike will be a closed book to him
until he has slept, lie falls to sleep art
once, and sleeps long—heavily, dream-
lesslv.
And I lie on the table in the study
aew-born, in a snow-white manuscript
incarnation. Will my reluctant parent
burn me in the morning?
AFTER BIRTH.
No, I am safe—safe in a foolscap en
velope, directed, sufficiently stamped,
whirled about by postal arrangement.
It happened in this way. Wylmot
came into the study rather late next
morning. He looked beaten, humili
ated, tired and half starved. He cast
one vindictive glance, at me and passed
into the next room, where breakfast
was ready for him. He was rather a
long time over breakfast. When tho
emotional heart is completely broken
up, the ordinary blood-pumping heart
will still go on with its work. So with
the other organs. Sorrow postpones
appetite rather than destroys it. Wyl-‘
mot had no dinner on the day of Maud’s
funeral; he had quite a nice breakfast
on the following morning.
He came back to me at last, and I
knew that he meant to destroy me.
His face was intentionally rigid, tho
lips set firm, the eye merciless. Yet
somewhere at the back of that merci
less eye lurked a quite different, milder
expression. The fried sole and eggs
had done their carnal work, and incon
gruous geniality was struggling up
ward in him; he was going through the
disgusting experience of feeling tho
better for his food. However, he poked
the fire fiercely; then he lit a pipe,with
the air that he did not care about it,
but. did not think it worth while to
omit it. And tlien he picked me up, to
hurl me in-the fire. As he held me in
his hand his eye rested for one second
on the front page.
In that one second my young life
hung in the balance. It was a moment
of terrible excitement for me. The eye
glanced through a few lines, nnd I felt
a shade safer. The eye twinkled. Then
I knew that it was all over and that
my future was assured; Wylmot would
not burn me. His habit of doubting
himself had triumphed once more.
Of course, after that he had nothing
to do but to sit down before the fire
and argue it out with himself. The
story should be published in the Cos
mopolitan. Why not? It was unhappy,
incongruous, wretched, that a humor
ous idea should have come to him yes
terday of all days. But he had not
sought for it. He had even struggled
to the utmost to put the thing out of
his head. After all, if there was any
harm done—if there had been any sign
of want of feeling on his part—that lay
far more in the writing than in the
publication of the story. He would
never put his name to it, of course." No
one should be able to say that Maud’s
lover took the loss of her lightly. And
he would take no remuneration for it,
He would forward the amount of the
cheque that he received from
moporrean to some dnanty. nesiaes,
what right had he to keep that story
from the public? It might not be—
probably was not—so splendidly and
amazingly good as he had imagined,
but still he knew something of his
business, and he knew that it would be
likely to be popular. It might cheer
many who were ill and depressed, and
add something to the sum of human
happiness. And he did not think that
the critics, with their Athenian long
ing to see and to hear some new thing,
would miss noticing the novelty and
spirit of it. Indeed he had mingled
feelings of philanthropy and self-abne
gation as he sat down to write (on deep-
edged paper) a little note to the editor
of the Cosmopolitan.
To a certain extent he deceived him
seif. If Albert Weeks had voluntarily
surrendered, on sentimental grounds,
his honorarium for a short story, there
would have been something in the sac
rifice. But Wylmot had a private in
come, more than sufficient for all his
needs, and to him the surrender of the
check meant nothing. His surrender
of the reputation which he believed
would attach to the author of “Ellen”
did amount to something, for he had
the weakness cui etianr saepe boni in
dulgent: but it did not amount to very
much, because it is an exceedingly rare
thing for a single short story to at
tract any attention at all, and although
Wylmot believed in the chance of
“Ellen,” he knew that it was not more
than a thousand-to-one chance. Nor
was there very much in his doubt
whether he had the right, for the sake
of his personal sorrow, todeny the pub
lic an enjoyment.
The real reason that swayed him was
paternal love. He had made me and
seen that I was very good. He could
not commit infanticide. lie liked to ex
plain himself, but his curious mixture
of intense humility nnd some subtle
vanities always made a desperate busi
ness of it whenever- the real explana
tion was some simple tiling.
Ills note to the editor of the Cos
mopolitan ran as follows:
"My Dear Roger: If you will read tho in
closed story, you will understand how gladly I
could have sent It toyou a few weeks ago. As
I did not do so then,' 1 do so now—but. as you
will Imagine, with the greatest possible reluc
tance. I send It. because I do really think that
tt is the kind of thing that I have often hoard
you say you wanted. The only condition I
make is that my name shall not be put to it,
or disclosed tn connection with It. I send it to
you to-day. instead of waiting, because I am
leaving England, and I am trying to put my
house In order before I go. and to clear up
such business as I have on hand. But I am
sure you will appreciate how eager I am to get
some place—any place—where solitude and si
lence are possible. I fear that this will be my
last contribution to the Cosmopolitan. If it
were not so melodramatic to say so. I would
tell you that from henceforth i am practically
dead. Yours ever, E. T. Wylmot.”
Now I think it must be acknowledged
that, fora man who was not, as a rule,
a liar, this letter Is from a liar's point
of view distinctly creditable.
It is all over. My embodiments have
been multiplied since the Cosmopoli
tan has sold out seven editions of the
number which contains me, to a .mar
velous extent. I have been a phenomi-
nal, and unprecedented success. In the
library of the country house, in the
rectory, in Mayfair drawing rooms, in
Bloomsbury parlors, in workingmen’s
clubs, in private house bars, in England,
in America, in the colonies—every
where where English, or an approxima
tion to it, is spoken—I am the subject
of discussion. There Is a touch of the
universal about me, and already the
translators are busy. Enthusiastic
critics have been more screamingly en
thusiastic than ever before about me;
the severest critics have unbent. I
have the additional attraction of a mys
tery. Only two people really know
who wrote me—Wylmot, my author,
and Roger Birman, his editor—and
neither of them will tell. On the au
thorship of “Ellen” only two people
have dared to question Birman; his as
sistant editor and his proprietor. Bir
man has told neither, and quarreled
with both; it is the day of his glory,
and he can afford to quarrel with al
most anybody. Canards on the subject
of my authorship have flown over the
country in dense flocks. Albert Weeks
has, as usual, drawn his long-bow at a
venture; nnd, as usual, missed the
joints of the harness. This is his little
paragraph on the subject:
"Tho secret of the authorship of ’Ellen - has
been wonderfully well kept. There are prob
ably not more than twenty people In London
who really know it. When the secret Is told,
and —unless unforseen circumstances occur—R
will be told very soon, there will be howling
und gnashing of teeth among various unin
formed paragraphista who have been spread
ing their rumors on the subject. As an
instance of the Importance which the author
attaches to the secret. I may sav that one of
the twenty ’in the know’ is a butler who be
came possessed of the information by accident,
and that he is to bo rewarded for his silence
with an annuity of two hundred pounds. More
than this I am, unfortunately, not permitted
to sav at present.”
[TO PE CONTINUED.]
What is
A RETIRED BUSINESS WOMAN.
A Page From Her History.
Tiio important experiences of others are
interesting. Tho following Is no exception:
“I had been troubled with heart disease 25
years, much of that time very seriously. For
live years I was treated by one physician con
tinuously. I was in business, but obliged to
retire on account of my health. A phy
sician told my friends that I could not live a
month. My feet and limbs were badly swol
len, and I was indeed in a serious condition
when a gentleman directed my attention to
I)r. Miles’ New Heart Cure, and said that bis
sister, who bad been afflicted with heart dis
ease, bad been cured by tho remedy, and was
again a strong, healthy woman. 1 purchased
a bottle of the Heart Cure, aud in less than
an hour after taking the first dose I could
feel a decided improvement in the circulation
of my blood. When I had taken three doses l
could move my ankles, something I had not
done for months,and my limbs had been swol
len so long that they seemed almost putritied.
Before I had taken one bottle of tho New
Heart Cure the swelling had all gone down,
and I was so much better that I did my own
work, On my recommendation six others are
taking this valuable remedy.”—Mrs. Morgan.
5B9 W. Harrison St., Chicago, 111.
Dr. Miles’ New Heart Cure, a discovery of an
eminent ' ” * * ’ ’ “ ’ *"
all dr
by the
receipt of price, SI per bottle, six bottles for
S5, express prepaid. It is positively free from
all opiates or dangerous (truss. *
For sale in Waynesboro by WHITEHEAD
& Co., and in Miilen by II. y,. BELL,
mar ’£H—
Castoria is Dr. Samuel Pitcher’s prescription for
and Children. It contains neither Opium, Morphine - ...
other Narcotic substance. It is a harmless substitiDo
for Paregoric, Drops, Soothing Syrups, and Castor Oil.
It is Pleasant. Its guarantee is thirty years’ use k
Millions of Mothers. Castoria destroys Worms and alia vs
feverishness. Castoria prevents vomiting Sour Curd
cures Diarrhoea and Wind Colic. Castoria relieves
teething troubles, cures constipation and flatulency.
Castoria assimilates the food, regulates the stomach
and bowels, giving healthy and natural sleep, fas-
toria is the Children’s Panacea—the Mother’s Friend,
Castoria.
“ Castoria is an excellent medicine for chil
dren. Mothers have repeatedly told me of its
good effect upon ibeir children.”
Dn. G. C. Osgood,
Lowell, Mass.
Castoria is the best remedy for children of
whicli I am acquainted. I hope the day is not
far distant when mothers will consider the real
interest of their children, and use Castoria in
stead of tiie variousquack nostrums which are
destroying their loved ones, by forcing opium,
morphine, soothing syrup and other hurtful
agents down their throats, thereby sending
them to premature graves.”
Da. J. F. Kincheloe,
Conway, Ark.
Castoria.
“ Castoria is so well adapted to chiMren that
I recommend it as superior to any prescription
known to me.”
H. A. Anem::;. u. p
111 So. Oxford St., Brooklyn, X. ’v
“ Our physicians in the children's depart
ment have spoken highly of their ex-peri-
ence in their outside practice with Castoria
and although we only have among our
medical supplies what is known as reguh-
products, yet we are free to confess that the
merits of Castoria has won us to look with
favor upon it.”
United Hospital and Dispensary
Boston, Mass.
Allen C. Smith, Pres.,
The Centaur Company, TI Murray Street, New York City.
$18,000
8 ■
$18,000
Eighteen Thousand Dollars Worth of- :
Dry Goods, Clothing, Shoes, Ilats. Cloaks and l nderwear,
Consigned to D. C. FLYNN'S AUCTI N HOUSE, to ! sold
to he sold at 75c. on the dollar.
We have
5c. Calico for 34c.
5c. Ginghams for ■
Children’s Suits for 05c. ii]».
Young Men's Suits 62.50 up.
Gentlemen’s Suits 82.50 up.
Men’s SI5 Suits for 89.75
Men’s 817.50 Suits for 812.50.
Men’s 820 Suits for 811.75
7c. Bleaching for 5c.
10 yards Fine Shirting 81.00.
Good Check Homespun 34c.
Men's, Boy’s and Children’s Hats, Trunks and Valises at
any price you want. Children’s Solid Shoes, 25c. Womens
Shoes Otc. Men’s Shoes 75c.
We have a very tine assortment of
S S HIS’ WOOL M
at prices you have never heard of before. All-Wool Bed Flannel’
at 70c. on the 81.00.
We have everything you can find in a first-class Dry Goods,
Shoe or Clothing Store, and we can save you at last 25c. on.
every dollar 3011 trade.
FLYNN'S AUCTION HOUSE,
Augusta, Georgia.
mayo.’94—,sm
—Use Imperial Baking Fowders
It is healthy.
The AERMOTOR
is the WINDMILL that turns when all others
stands still and is the only wheel and
TOWER mads of STEEL and
GALVANIZED AFTER
its COMPLETION.
WE v MAKE TOWERS
from 20 to 100 feet in height, and Tilting Tow
ers up to 70 feet in height for eight and
ten-loot wheels, that lets the
wheel down foroilii-g, and
obviating the neces
sity of climbing
Our 10-foot geared wheel will saw wood, cut
feed, grind corn and pump water, or do any
oilier work that two horses can do.
Our Goods Received Highest Awards
at the COLUMBIAN EXPOSITION,
but the award which we value most is the ap
proval of our fellow men which gives to us the
WORLD’S business in WIND WHEELS.
H. JEFF. DAVIS, Waynesboro, Ga.,
GENERAL agent.
Don’t Forget
-THAT FOR-
Shoes and Hats
The Most Reliable and
Cheapest Place in
Augusta is at
O
WM. MIMESIS SIS & Cl
913 Broad St., Sign Large Red Boot,
712 Broad St., in Montgomery Building,
-£^TTa-‘CTST_ I A.. G-BOBG-a^
janl3,’94—
The Augusta Furniture Factory,
Kohock Street, (Pendleton Foundry Building,) Augusta, uo.
Manufacturers of
Wardrobes, : Safes, : Tables, : Book Ca& e °r
China Closets, Step Ladders, CoIId -•
7 L -itu -i'F pat r0fl *
agefYhe S merc?Inint^ol*tbis sectioDeparticularly*of Burke 6 Co«nty* Will gua-iaM
WORK AND l r RICI>
june9,’9F-“*
Work made to order. A trial order will convince you.