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A
VA TER
ore this havJ
was low bul
her go anJ
assailed by
it her by thil
to
him?” ho
eyes glared
ones lifted to
rembllng with
ugh pale, an-
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he shook he#
" he roared.
>w erfuj
L gile woman
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the husband
itil after micU
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listened and
lonely hours.
ie village tavs
. from which
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jght home by
or for hef
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norrow all
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often take ao
be able to ea
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ianager?”
said the Head
nice man. toa
)Ut Mrs. D’Etw
out real genti*
it I call having
me." groaned
'I suppose yoil
give me m' 1
nt.
o high brow fo
Customer to Ma
le tried to sa?
and even th
; I coir
repilei
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Time.
It.
*
In the house ■-««
a pair of very
other looked at
and said:
■ hands as dirty
d the child, “but
have you unoer-*
man.”
e out a patent oil
MAGAZINE
Thoroughbreds—-East and West
NELL BRINKLEY
By MAX.
A ugust as —Being a copy of my
letter to Sally Spencer, who Is
away off In Paris, while 1 am
confined to the house by illness up here
in the northernmost woods of the most
unspellable name:
My Dear Sally; Richards tells me
that you are solicitous about me. I
wonder if you are. It is hard to believe
a woman is solicitous about a man
when she enjoys herself shopping in
Paris, while he lies sick and suffering
up in the northernmost woods of the
United States, unprotected from wild
Indians and pretty nurses.
1 am sure if you could realize what
weird mysterious sounds there are up
here in the night, and which can mean
nothing else but hobgoblins, ghosts and
Indians, you would realize my peril. For
when I call out for some one to shut out
their demoniacal shrieks arid wails and
comfort me, there comes a very pretty
nurse, warm and sweet and rosy from
the nap she is trying to snatch some
where in the dim recesses of my room,
and puts her arms around me and is
most soothing and tender
So you see. when I turn for help in'
one peril, I am confronted by a greater
one, and there is no Book of Warnings
you could send that would help me. for
this stiffly starched person wouldn’t let
me see it if you sent one.
She is a most domineering person.
Small, oh, very much smaller than you.
I am anxious to grow strong enough
to stand on my feet to see if she
reaches my heart. I mean, of course,
in stature. If she has reached it or
not, otherwise, is a matter of no con
cern to you, away off there in Paris
enjoying yourself matching ribbons and
laces, while I am so sick here.
She has beautiful eyes, and the soft
est hair, and it Is her own. for I have
seen her comb. A sick man is privi
leged to see a great deal which is oth
erwise forbidden. I suppose it is to
make up for the calomel, being the
compensation found in every sting
And when I call her, she comes
promptly, though she hasn't had time
to put on her top layer of starched
things. When I rebuke her and tell
her It is not nice to be so heedless of
my innate modesty, she says 1 am get
ting well fast. That is one sign a man
is out of danger when he begins to
notice what his nurse hasn't on.
So you see, dear, my peril. Indians
without, for I hear strange noises in the
night, and a pretty nurse within.
The doctor says I am improving, but
very, very slowly. The pretty nurse s a ys
If I continue to mend so rapidly she
will be compelled to demand a chaperon.
And there you are. One says one thing
and one afiother.
I think there is something wrong
with my spine, for when I try to move
it is to learn how very limited is my
vocabulary of swear words 1 have
grown so dependent on the help of the
prettv nurse that sometimes I can i
feed 'myself unless one arm Is around
her neck. Isn’t it distressing rr* hslp-
less a sick man is when mere is a
pretty nurse around? But then of
course you are a ,nan an< ^ *
UI \ de [hink J in my next incarnation I
would like to be a tree. A ree lives so
much more sturdily and ales so much
more srraeefully than a man. 1 sa.d
Something to this effect to the nurse, and
ah? replied that If 1 were a tree in my
next incarnation, she supposed it would
v,p of the lemon family.
August f t.- I am writing this letter on
the installment plan, not that I
writing, as i did when first injuitd. hut
the nurse won t let me write, and "ben
she came home yesterday and caught
me at it she scolded me._. wriMen
Little Bobbie’s
Pa
By WILLIAM T. KLRX.
M ISSUS SMITH is going to bring
her husband up to see us to- .
hUe. sed Ma. You ought to
meet her husband, beekaus he is varj
brllyunt.
That is nice, sed 1-a. I always like
to meet brllyunt peeple. It maiks
me feel at hoam to And a other brll
yunt man with wich to talk with.
What Is he, a actor?
No, sed Ma, he Is a lawyer, but he
Is the gratest con-ver-sashunallai
that I ever ltssend to. The art of
plesant conversashun is rapidly bee
euming a thing of the past, sed Ma,
the salm as the art of polite letter
riteing.
That is vary true, sed Pa, In the
old days a young man wud rite a bu
tlful letter to a yung lady, telling how
he was drawn toward her by sum
mystlek spell ft nowadays. Pa sed.
It a yung man rites to a vung ladv
at all, he rites like this: Say, klddo
youse have sure got me winging. I’m
so strong for you I feel like Sandou
yours to a crisp. Jack. That is Un
kind of polite letters that gurls gt;
nowadays, Pa sed.
I know you will like Mister Smith.
Ma sed. He has traveled far and
wide. He knows grate men In every
land, ft he tells It all so Interesting
You think you are in a trance all the
time he is telling about his adven
tures.
I bet he hasent had anv moar ad
ventures than 1 have sed Pa.
Oh, yen he has, sed Ma. his is reel
adventures. You maik up a lot of
yure adventures. Walt till you lieei
| his conversashun.
Jest then Missus Smith & her hus
band calm. He was a tall, thin man
ft he looked like a skool teecher. He
talked like one. too. I never herd so
| many big words.
lam vary pleesed to meet you. seel
T HE horsewoman of the West (you meet her on a bend of a high
mountain road—you ask your way of her on the prairie trail in
New Mexico and Arizona, across sage and pine, over mild farm
land of the Middle West, over the placid rivers and the mild, gentle
hills of the far East—over all that lies between them)—the horsewoman
of. the West looks into the eyes of the horsewoman of the East. And
they smile! For they are the pick o! their kind a-d thoroughbreds,
and can afford to be gracious, as beauty can afford to be sweet to
beauty. In the East and the West alike the nondescript rider fills the
bridle paths, rigged out more or less alike, though perhaps you will
not believe that. You caa scarcely tell one from the other save in
their degrees of bad riding. But the thoroughbreds, horse and rider.
East and West, the crack players of the riding game, stand as wide
apart in looks and manner as the poles. Only in these things are they
“blood"—their perfect “form'’ of so different a kind, their oneness—
the girl and the animal between her knees, the fear they never know
and the hearts that beat beneath shirts and chestnut hides!
East has her short-backed pony with his three-quarter bobbed tall;
her slippery little eggshell of a saddle, her short stirrup almost as
- rlicate and clean-cut as an engagement ring, her thorough mouthful
of bits, reins held taut but with fine feeling, and give to her hand and
the cruel curb a trifle more lax than the kinder snaffle. Over her
shoulder she carries her mallet, pointing to the misty blue heaven of
the East. She wears outing shirt, gloves, Jockey-like cap with Its
•bird beak, white breeches, a short sleeveless coat, dull finished boots.
She is a perfect picture, shorn of useless ornament, a clean silhouette
fitted to the bald, green lawns and white balustrades of the Eastern
country, whose coloring is quiet, rich and cultured. Her hair is close
and sleek like the lawns and as the mane and foretop of her brainy
pony are shaven.
West has her long-headed, slim-legged pinto with his hint of the
Arab-Spanish horse who turned wild, bred i the Far West when It was
new. Foretop and mane are long as banners and wind-whipped. The
girl's hair whips in the wind to match. Her bridle Is as simple a thing
as the Indians, with a trace of the silver and jingle about it that the red
man loved. She has one bit—a curb—that, under a hand fine in feel
ing. is a double one—tender snaffle and subduing curb. Sometimes
you will find her with bridle hung to saddle horn, the pony’s mouth
free, traveling in halter and single rein. Her saddle is the “chair
saddle” of knighthood. There is much leather and comfort about it
and she hugs it like a cavalryman. She wears soft hat with wide britn
and three dimples In the crown; soft skirt, gloves, broad belt of leather,
skirt short and divided, and the tan of the desert, sturdy boots, heavy
of sole and broad of toe. Her stirrup is a broad, safe thing that half
swallows her little foe... Her rope swings like a coiled Hnake against
her Knee and she doesn’t like It new! Beside her the tall blossom of
the Spanish bayonet points to the vivid b.u< of the Western sky. Her
tans and golds, flowing mane and tail of hair match the brilliant
yet thinly lovely coloring of the West—the sage, the singing hills, the
ethereal distances.
Far apart they look—both thoroughbreds, crack players, harmoni
ous, in perfect form with the lands they are the flowers of. On the polo
field, wild mane and tail, loose hair and soft gray hat and much siddle
leather, would violate your eyes. In the vasty mountain and prairie
land, wrappe pony legs, shaven foretop and tail, rip stirrup and polo
coat would smash the picture into bits. Each in the others domain
would seem flapping with useless trappings. In their own they are
fit and trim.
Only in these things are they of one blood—their perfect “form”
of so different a kind, their oneness—the girl and the animal between
her knees .and the hearts that bet beneath shirts and chestnut hides.
EELL BR/NKEEY
This second installment is wr
... . i yt.iticlla havp gone 10
whilt* she and Maiiftte have
hunt wild blackberries, and Richards
will mail it to you before she return. •
She says she is jealous of my un |
known correspondent.’
HouseholdSuggestions
The Tide
A Thrilling Shjrt S ory, Complete
1°suppose'’?’should have reminded her j V you happen to break a glass or
that she had no right to be jealous^of valuable glass* ornament, it can ef
anvbodv but 1 am afraid if I offended fectually and easily be mended in
her she’ wouldn’t come t0 the following way: Melt a little isin-
apprehension when I imagine I pi aas in spirits of wine; add a small
Li nrBnnnine around the door . .u..
wild Indians whooping around the quantity of water; warm the mix-
at night. She sa J s _ rn nie- that it : Lure gently over a moderate fire. When
’but" a t’rifgM^wh erf everyone *jif \ h e mixed, by thoroughly melting. It will
E. I S asleep but the nurse and my- ! form a perfectly transparent glue.
aelMt is quite natural and manlike 'hat which will unite glass so nicely and
I should grow more afraid firmly that the joint will scarcely be
I hope, Sally dear, that I have writ- pp rce ptible to the most citical eye.
ten nothing that will excite your appro-
hension or cause you to cut short jour
childish enjoyment of matching nuuons j Iron mold stains spread in any
and laces In* Paris. It is just as wen f ahr j c they come in contact with in
that the ocean rolls between us, to waB h.‘ To remove them stretch
you were here the pretty nu « i stained part over a basin nearly
not let you see who full of boiling water, so that the
conies over 1 from^the hem- I steam may penetrate the fabric, and
ouets of yellow flowers and soothing | , lpl ,i v with a feather a teaspoonful
literature on “That Monster Man” get j o( ]emon juice. When the marks dis-
inside the gate.
"Are you jealous of her. 1 askefi
one day, and she said no, she wasn t,
that when a man was sick, the last
woman who could ever interest him was
a suffragette. Sometimes, when 1 de
clare the noises of the. night .are P ar '
ticularly weird, she says it is the suffra
gette haranguing outside.
I repeat. Sally Pear, that I hope I
have written nothing that will disquiet
you. Some days I think 1 am going t
die. and then I know you will be sor
ry you didn’t come to save me and tn •
Thought always makes me feel better.
Like all the men. Sally, I find comfort
in the picture of a string of women
weeping over my grave.
But the pretty nurse says I—Here i
go again talking about the nurse wren
T intended to write nothing more than
good-bye. ..
Your—How shall 1 sign myself? Po
you insist on "friend,” Little ”oman
appear dip the material well into the
hot water; afterward rinse very thor
oughly in cold water.
Make a paste the thickness of
cream with whitening and water, and
rub back over the top. sides, shelves,
door and back of the oven when
cleaning. Leave the door open for
a few m'nutes to dry. If this is done
once a week it will prevent burning.
Before scraping new potatoes, let
them soak for a little while in water
to which a piece of common washing
soda lias been added. This will make
them scrape easily, and they will not
stain the fingers.
Always put a piece of muslin round
Perhaps that would he better, for some th( , t)a f, d underneath the ribbon or
one might see It—the nurse, I mean, w hen trimming a hat. This saves
not^Tack.^ ^ ^ MAX j the hatpins from breaking the straw.
The Best Food-Orink Lunch at Fountains
ORIGINAL
GENUINE
Insist Upon
HORLICK’S
T’
r
4 void Imitations—Take No Substitute
O- l -II i J • rvw.lcr form More healthful than tea or coffee.
SCS2SEE**'* A l "“ h “
HE little woman with the thin,
reddish gray hair threw a peb
ble into the water and said,
“Ah, me!” because she knew that n
half an hour the tide would turn and
she must go back to the convalescent
home on the cliff.
‘‘The matron gave me till then,'
she said to the man at her side, ‘‘and
she’s been so good to me while I’ve
been there that I wouldn’t upset her
for the world. If I told her that I’d
bet you—after all these years! If
1 told her of what’s happened ”
‘‘She wouldn’t believe it,” said the
man sighing. "I can hardly believe
it myself. But I knew it was you
when I looked down from the prom
enade."
"I'm changed, Joe?” she suggested,
wistfully.
‘Thirty years would change any
body.”
‘‘Fifty-one next birthday—if it
comes. Sometimes—only sometimes,
Joe- I hope that it won’t come.”
Different Thoughts.
"I’m fifty-six,’’ he said, encourag
ingly, ‘‘but I never hope like that. ’
"They say that you’re very—very
rich ?”
"Plenty of money,” he said, quietly,
"but not rich. It's when I look at
you that I feel poor, and miserable,
and helpless.”
She laughed feebly.
‘‘Thirty years!" she said again.
“And in all that time I’ve not heard
from you once.”
‘‘Why did you go away? In tho
beginning. 1 mean."
“When vou came back from India?"
"Yes. Thirty years ago."
"I left a letter for you.”
"T have it iow. You didn’t want to
see me again. Said there was some
body else. Said you were going
abroad."
She was silent for a moment
Then:
"You didn’t guess that it was a
lie? You heard about fatheT?"
An Honest Man.
"That would have made no differ
ence to me."
"But he was a clergyman. That
| made his sin the greater in the eyes
! of the world. He never meant to
anything that was wrone. I’m cer-
| tain of that. There was no fraud n
j his heart; he believed there was
i money at the bank to meet the
check."
He died?”
"Heart failure—just before the in
spector came to the house.”
“And you?”
"Ah! You’d have married me in
spite of it all. But was it fair to
you? Always they would have re-
' minded you of it. and someone—I
forget who it was—said to me, ‘He
may be the greatest engineer the
world has ever known, lie may como
back with a fortune, but Society’—
what did she mean by Society? -‘has
a long memory, and It’ll pity him
and you.’ You married soon after
ward. didn’t you, Joe?"
‘Three months. I was mad with
disappointment. I went out of the
house, after reading your letter, and
swore that I’d marry the first woman
who would accept me.”
“Steady, Joe! She w’as a good wife
to you."
‘‘Nobler than 1. But she knew, I
think. Many a time I found her in
tears.”
“I've never cried.” said the little
woman, “never cried for 30 years. 1
was past crying."
The man said in a low. faraway
voice:
"I cried when she went; I cried
when the two boys were cut up in
South Africa; when the girl slipped
from me. I believe—I believe that 1
cursed* ”
"Joe!”
"And when the last one I had was
lost here—here In this very bay—1
gave up entirely. The hand was
against me! That’s how I felt.”
"I read of it In the newspaper. He
was trying to save two children.”
‘‘He got them on to the end of the
groyne before he was carried away
by the current."
"And they never found him?”
‘‘That’s why I’m here—looking for
him. I’m always here—watching and
waiting. The tide’s cruel. Margot."
"Just like life, Joe," she whispered.
Again a long silence. The sun wan
going down behind the Heads; a trail
of gold and amber and mauve lay
across the water, like a glorious path
way to the distant horizon. On the
promenade behind tr»e little woman
with the reddish-gray hair and the
man who was rich, yet poor, the
crowds of holidaymakers paced to
and fro; the band on the pier away
to the right played melody after mel
ody. as though it knew the hearts of
two old children were beating in har
mony. A boy of four ran down the
beach in defiance of a hysterical nurse
who called to him from the prome
nade. He was throwing pebbles In
the water, when a wave came surging
in. The. little woman with the red
dish-gray hair ran toward the child
and caught him by the arm. She
spoke to him very tenderly, and he
turned obediently, and went back
with her to his nurse. The watching
man saw her kiss the child. When
she came back to his side her eyes
were glistening.
"Thirty years!” she murmured. "I
can hardly believe it. * • 9 I‘m glad
that T haven't changed so much after
all."
"You'll never change,” he paid. He
touched her hand, She looked down.
He was holding a letter.
“Yours," he said, in a whisper. "Pve
kept it all these years."
"And If you hadn’t met me you’d
have gone on keeping It?"
"Right to the very end.”
She took the letter from him, and
read It again and again.
A Hard Task.
Pa wen he was interduced to Mister
Smith. My wife was telling me thai
you have traveled far
T have been contiguous to sum varv
reernoat parts of the earth, sed Mister
Smith. I think I may say without
feer of successful con-tradlckshun
that I have been adjacent to or di-
rectlv In many of the moavt unpene
trated parts of the wrtild. The fact
, that I am a Nomad is in-dub-Ital, h<^
sed to Pa.
So it wuld seem, sed Pa. I used to
nomad a lot, too. until I got sick of
roaming Sr settled down.
But your travel has been infinites-
mal compared to the roaming I have
dbl. sed Mister Smith. Why.’ beefoar
I was twentv T had been thru all of
Uraguav & Paraguay, wich I supooay
j you mite be sed to be in Juxta-
poeishun.
Sr to deeskrlbe mv peregrinashuns
j thru Africa wuld talk a w'eek of
at eddy conversashun sed Mister
Smith. Africa is a somber continent.
& to attempt to deeskribe its brood-
! ing misterj were futil. he sed. It
! wud be too copious for vure limited
i comprehenshun. Even if I were t >
I reelate these things succinctly, sed
i Matter Smith. A even if vou & I
agreed that I shud talk that length of
time, I feer that you wud wish to
! abrogate that agreement beefoar my
! be-vildering flow of words was half
| finished.
Then doant peregrinate, sed Pa.
T*et us talk about baseball. T was
hoaplng Huggins wud win the Nash-
unal Leeg pennant for St. I^oum Pa
.*»ed. but I see he got kind of left at
the post.
Baseball does not interest me. sed
Mister Smith. I wud fain converse
of other things, things ]e«g of the
soli and moar etbeeHal. So he con
versed of other things Sr at la?* all
of us except h’m wud fain go to bed.
I am glad Pa lsent brilyunt, he talks
enuff now.
"Alfred, have you got everything?”
tenderly inquired Baron Southmont’a
wife, as he started off on a Journey.
The billionaire burst into tears.
‘There you go!” he exclaimed. "Al
ways saving things to give me pain.
You know very well, In apite of all
my efforts. I haven’t yet succeeded in
getting everything.”
SNAP SHOTS
By LILLIAN LAUFERTY.
"It was the hardest thing T ever
did,” she said, and there was a break
In her voice "It took hpurs and
hours to write that letter, but some
thing told me It was the right thing
to do."
“You should have waited—you
should have had more confidence In
me.”
"Ah, me!" she sighed. "Most
tragedies grow out of little mistakes,
misunderstandings."
He nodded listlessly.
"That sewing machine,” he said, f
abruptly. "What did you mean by
that?"
"There was nothing else that I 1
could do. I don’t think I could live 1
without the noise of the machine, i
The sea’s like it sometimes—when it |
comes over the stones. Makes you
j feel lonely, doesn’t It? And yet It I
i .soothes."
‘‘The tide’s turning," he said, and j
! he drew her closer to him.
"Turning," he whispered, and he
1 r\ l,.t t ... ft*/. . v. k
Retired Haberdasher (late of Lon
don)—Now, then, ’Enery, I’m goin’ to
have a large party ’ere next week,
and I shall expect an unlimited quan
tity of milk, cream and butter. After
that the cows can ’ave a rest till me
an’ Mrs. P. return from the Tonte-
nong.
Strangers Yet.
A negro woman in Savarna h was
preparing to get married. For four
weeks before the ceremonv she saved
up her wages, and immediately after
the wedding she hunted up her mis
tress and asked her to take charge
of the fund.
"I’ll take Jt. of course,” said the
puzzled lady; "but, Mandy, won’t you
be needing your money to spend on
your honeymoon?"
"Miss May," paid the bride, "does
you think I’se goln’ to trust myself
wid a strange nigger and all chkr
money on me?”
"That's a fine-looking old gentle
man! Bleater» father, isn’t he?”
asked a collegian of a friend.
"Yes.” was the answer, "but he Ik
a. champion at breaking his word!"
"You don’t May so?"
"Yes—he stutters!”
Nurse (taking his temperature) —
Sir, you are in danger; your tempera
ture 1h 104.
Businesa Man—When it reaches 105
aell.
"Yes. it took me three months to
learn all about this motorcycle."
"And what have you got for your
pains?”
"Liniment.”
D EAR love, a little column here
To you I am erecting .
A shrine, at least, from custom
old.
I fear you are expecting.
Be grateful, please, O! Love, for I
Find raising columns rather hard.
For shrines, or temples there’s no
hope.
I’m not an architect—but bard.
To-day folk* worship other gods.
The love of Love Is now called gam.
mon,
Be thankful for your column. Ivove—
Temples to-day belong to Mam
mon.
MAIDEN MUSINGS — WHEN L^VE
IS DONE
When a man get tired of her. the
wise woman says. "Amen."
To lose friendship is sorrow, to lose
love is bitterness—but true trngedy
never dawns till both are gone.
The fragrance of a rose’s fallen
petalM, the sweetness of a kiss of
yesterday may linger in memory--but
an unwithered geranium has more-
perfume.
In order to be part of life, we must
exhale love—for when the sun’s heat
and light fail, we will not know
there is a sun.
Love stumbles often when the path
is smooth, and leaps gayly, on
winged feet, over great obstacles.
Friendship may grow to love—but
life does not offer a perfect circle—
Leve can not forget its flowers and
veil and be nun-like friendship.
I took the 30-year-dld letter from h*»r,
tore It. and threw the pieces on the 1
receding waters.
Tlie wind that waa taking the tide ‘
out caught fragments of the music as I
it drifted from the pier, and carried ,
them out and away.
The reddish-gray hair was half hid - I
den by the man’s right arm. The
oell ceased to ring. The little woman
said: "God, Joe!" as though all the
happiness taken from 30 years had
been brought back to her in that mo
ment
I did not keep the rose he brought
After its day;
Although it lived a longer time
Than other roses may
"I hope you pray for all your
brothers and sisters, Dorothy?”
"Oh, no, auntie. I only pray for
baby; the others can pray for them-
selvea"
FRECKLE-FACE
Sue and Wind Bring Out Laly Spots.
' ‘ “ sally.
L
How to Ramove Eaal
Here's a chance. Miss Freckle-Face,
to try a remedy for freckles with the
guarantee of a reliable dealer that it
will not cost you a penny unless It
removes the freckles, while If it does
give you a clear complexion the ex
pense is trifling
Simply get an ounce of othine—
double strength -from Jacobs’ Phar
macy and a few applications should
show you how easy it Is to rid your,
self of the homely freckles and get
a beautiful complexion Rarely Is
more than one ounce needed for the
worst case.
Be sure to ask the druggist for the
double strength othine, as this Is the
prescription sold under guarantee of
money back if It falls to remove
freckles.
Certain Relief
I let it go the way of all
For this one fear,
Because it might persuade my heart
That he was growing dear.
But now my heart is well assured.
And still I fring.
And no one here could ever know.
That I miss anything.
—Josephine Preston Peabody.
from headaches, dull feelings, and
! fatigue of biliousness, comes quickly
! —and permanent improvement in
bodily condition follows—after vour
stomach, liver and bowels nave
been toned and regulated by
Accommodating.
"Waiter, this knife is dull, ano
steak is like leather.”
"Yes, sir. You can sharpen
knife on the steals sir ”
BEECHAM’S
PIUS
1*14 n**rrwlit»*-
10«.,
Good teeth
Good health
with
COLGATE’S
RIBBON
DENTAL CREftM
Delicious /v /
Efficient
COMES OUT
A RIBBON LIES
FLAT ON THE BRUSH