Newspaper Page Text
4
>
'»/
MAGAZINE
* /
7 he Coiffure of Refinement
<0)
Four Pretty Styles and as Many Pretty Girls
(ffi)
Specially Posed for This Page by Members
of " The Madcap Duchess Company
o-*-
-♦ o
A DMIRATION of the latest styles in eoif-
l \ fures is largely tinged with rejoicing
that the day of the grotesque hay
stack bunch of jute is passed, and that the
simple, graceful coiffure is coming back into
its own.
Beginning with left to right, a very effect
ive and simple style of hair-dressing is shown
bv Miss Ann Swinburne as Seraphina in the
title role of “The Madcap Duchess.” The ef
fect is that of a Psyche knot with the added
gracefulness achieved by. a braid worn over
the forehead, with the side hair brought low
over the ears.
The style adopted by Miss Margaret An
drews is in direct contrast, with the effect al
most as simple. The hair is hunched at the
crown with the effect of a soft drooping pom
padour in front.
The style so well suited to the piquant face
of Miss Peggy Wood is simplicity itself. The
hair is parted in the middle, allowed to fall
• O >-
-♦ &-+•
loosely over the ears, and is gathered in a low
knot at the back.
Miss Glen Ellis has the perfectly rounded
head that permits of the hair being drawn
into a lew bunch*at, the back, with a fluffy ef
fect in front redeeming it from the trying
severity this style would otherwise become.
Meeting the Difficulty
I
0 ♦
Ann Swinburne.
Margaret Andrews.
Peggy Wood.
Glen Ellis-
A OOD story is told of a worthy Quaker who lived
In a country town. The man was rich and
benevolent, and his means were put in frequent
requisition for purposes of local charity or usefulness
The townspeople wanted to rebuild their parish church
and a committee was appointed to raise funds. It was
agreed that the Quaker could not be asked to subscribe
toward an object so contrary to hts principles, but then,
on the other hand, so true a friend to the town might
take 1t amisR if he was not at least consulted on a mat
ter or such general Interest. So one of their number
went and explained to him their project- the old church
was to bn removed and such and such steps taken
toward the construction of a netv one
“Thee want right." said the Quaker, "In supposing that,
my principles would not allow me to assist in building
a church. But didst thee not say something about pull
ing down a church? Thee mayst put my name down
for a hundred pounds to pull it down.' 1
-♦ Q ♦-
-♦ Cb«-
-O ♦-
THE FAMILY CUPBOARD
A Dramatic Story of High Society Life in Hew York
BAY a Thrilling Story of Society Blackmailers
[Novelized byl
/
(From Owen Davis’ play now being pre
sented at the Playhouse, New York, by
WiHiam A. Brady.—Copyright, 1913, by
International News Service.)
TO-DAY’S INSTALLMENT
There was a pause. Emily Nelson
stood trembling with emotion such as
she had forgotten to know through long
guarded years of life that had made
this moment come relentlessly tq her
at last. The instrument was held close
to her ear—as she waited for Charles
Nelson's voice—while her gaze never
left the room behind whose curtains
her son and his was making prepara
tion for—his—long journey. Could she
save him—now at last? Could anything
now be saved from the wreck of love
and—honor—and zest to live?
At last a voice. His voice—her bus-
band was there at the other end of the
little wire that might be the instrument
of saving their boy.
“Hello! Charlie! It is Emily! I am at
Kenneth's! He Is In dreadful trouble!
He Is going to—Oh, I can’t tell you,
Charlie. Come to me! Come to save
him! How long?—Five minutes?—I’ll
try and keep him! No more! No! No!
I love you, Charlie! Come!”
She dropped the instrument that
might yet be of salvation and fell into 1
the chair gobbing wildly—her strength
almost spent.
Kenneth came into the room—walking
as in a daze—like a sleep-walker. He
held some letters in his hands—with the
most minute care he was tearing these
into small pieces. As he heard his
mother sob he dropped the paper to the
door—a white shower—and went to her
side.
•‘Don’t! Don’t do that!” he said in a
tone so frozen by the horror of all he
had come to know of life that it sound
ed remote—like a voice from another
plane.
Emily Nelson looked up. Five min
utes! Could she hold her son that long?
“What are you going to do, Ken
neth?”
“.Just going away. 1 can’t stay here,
you know. I am not fit. I can’t face it!
1 can’t face—life,” he mumbled almost
to himself. But h£r heart defined what
her ears could not hear.
Emily Nelson rose and followed her
boy toward the door.
”Jt is my fault. I was a bad mother!”
"We did not understand—any of us,”
said Kenneth, in that quiet voice of
doom.
"Dear, I have suffered! I think 1
understand now.” said his mother,
gently.
, Fighting the Moments.
In the boy’s fa<-e was that grim sor
row that seemed to be bearing his soul
away from life and light and any hu
man consciousness.
“That’s what father meant -that suf
fering would open my eyes. It has.
He said that I should see myself and her
as we really are—and—I do. It isn’t
^ pretty sight.”
His eyes deepened—and then again
7 there came across them that film that
faraway look.
“I want to get rid of it-mother, so—
I am going.”
One step farther from her—one step
nearer the door—and after that what.
“Wait!”
The mother came hastily between her
son and the door—that door she must
not let him pass. Could she hold him.
Could she hold him? Her agonized
.brain kept reiterating that question
/even while she was bending every en
ergy, every power, to the successful an-
CASTOR IA
For Infants and Children.
The Kind You Have Always Bough!
Bears the
Signature of C*
swering of the question on which fate
was balanced.
“You did not love her! Ken, it is
not sorrow I see in your eyes—it Is bit
terness!”
“Perhaps. T don’t know.” The boy
spoke in a sort of lethargy of indiffer
ence. He felt that nothing that had
passed mattered now—all that counted
was what was coming. "What differ
ence does it make? Are you coming
down? I can’t wait.”
He did not call her by the sacred
name of mother—it was scarcely to his
mother he spok'e—just to some one who
was, strangely enough, showing interest
in him, now that It was too late, and
trying to change his plans—too late!
He turned courteously—but impatiently
—to the door.
As he started Emily Nelson put her
hand on his arm very gently—she
scarcely dared to caress him—he seemed
to her like one in some strange trance—
she dared not waken him too abruptly—
lest reason totter—lest he push her
roughly aside and go on with what he
had determined.
“Just a moment, dear! When did she
go?”
“Just now.”
“Why?”
"She was tired. . . She couldn't
stick. . . . That's what the old man
said—poor old beggar -she couldn't
stick. Well ... I must go’.”
Again he started for that door of
strange doom. Again the frantic mother
seized upon any pretext to stop him.
“Did—did she g<» alone?”
“No.”
“With whom?”
“Please! I CAN’T LIVE IT OVER
AGAIN! I QAN’T LIVE IT ALL OVER
AGAIN! LET ME GO!”
The mother heart knew that he oould
not live it all over again—that with
that memory searing boyhood and hope
and idealism from his nature he could
scarcely bear to live at all for these
few extra moments that she was trying
to hold him to save his sanity —to save
his life itself! And yet she must an
swer him as if she knew nothing—sus
pected nothing of the w'ild storms that
were sweeping through his agonized
young-old mind. Life had offered Ken
neth Nelson a rude awakening—would
he Indeed interpret his knowledge in
terms of death?
“Yes, dear, of course,” said Emily,
soothingly.
He passed her—on, on toward that
door. There seemed nothing to say-
nothing to do—all had been tried in
vain. Would the mother give up hope,
and cease fighting her battle against
the odds of a disordered brain?
“Oh, Ken!’’
He stopped.
“Yes?” )
“Mary Burk was -—”
“Mother, dear! T am—very tired—
and—and—1 have a lot to do.” #
Emily strove for an easy tone. If
only some stray gleam of love for the
girl whose unselfish devotion for the
boy she bad been coldly told was “too
good for her—was worlds above her”—
coukl brighten the gray gloom of Ken’s
outlook on life—and love-and woman!
Mary was, as Emily Nelson had come
wet! to know, the one rose in the tan
gled and weedy Nelson garden. If only
she might yet be the “Rose of the
World” for Ken! And Emily Nelsons
growth in womanhood was measured by
her simple judgment that her penniless
social secretary's love was the one
gleam of hope In the life and for the
life of the wayward boy whom both
women loved.
Perhaps Mary’s name would be the
talisman to save Ken!
“I am very tired—and I have a lot
to do.” said Ken.
“Naturally—go dear—how silly for me
to keep you. Poor Mary's troubles are
nothing to you.”
There was deep subtlety In that!
“Mary’s troubles”
The boy came back to his mother's
side.
■•Vos. But it doesn't matter. She
v , \ y yin* is going to leave me. Since
I up the lun^e there is really
. Mining for lo r do and she knows
, i ,,rr..rd to keep lid Kill it will
. ' Z •f11f* Mai > to lumt
To Be Continued To morrow.
[Novelized fcy>
(From the play by George Scar
borough. now being presented at the
Thirty-ninth Street Theater, New York.
Serial rights held and copyrighted by
International News Service.)
TO-DAY’S INSTALLMENT.
The chief and the inspector looked at
each other. Well, Flagg, invulnerable
to all state weapons that bad searched
for the vulnerable spot in the armor of
his evil deeds, had been reached by a
higher law. And the dealer of justice
must be meted human justice now and
pay the penalty to human law—the pen
alty for spilling the blood of this base
brother.
"Inspector, I’d swear on a stack of
Bibles that I saw a tin box settln’ right
a-top of that there cabinet,” said Don
nell, rubbing his eyes to make sure that
some strange magic was not all that
kept him from seeing it now’.
“Well, who moved it?” asked the in
spector sternly.
“I don’t know, soil”
“Who’s been in the room since you
saw the box?”
“Only ourselves, sor.”
There was a moment’s pause. Then
the flinty smile played about the firm
mouth of Chief Dempster. There was
a trail plain for his eyes to see. Only
he could not see just, where it would
lead, and well for him. and for the
friendship lie had ever had for the Dis
trict Attorney of the Fnited States that
he could not see. that the trail led to
the white-faced girl who was the daugh
ter of his friend.
“Only ourselves,” repeated the In
spector. *.
chief Dempster put a grin period
to the sentence. “And Holbrook,” said
he quietly.
But Holbrook was speeding through
the night—speeding on to bis cham
bers--speeding to the final revelation of
that tell-tale plateholder he had filched
from the camera Donnell held in hands
. that should never have been trusted
' with such valuable evidence.
A Night of Terror.
The victims of the scourge Insom
nia call a night of sleeplessness a “white
night”—they dread even through the
golden day the coming of the long
stretch of hours when all life sleeps
and they alone wake. A “white night.”
measures horrors of twitching nerves
and unresting mind—of weariness and
despair too great for normal man,
wrapped in sweet slumbers, to meas
ure. But the terrors of such a. night
arc multiplied a thousand fold—are
raised to the power of desperate agony
when they come to a girl whose past is
a degradation, whose present is a liv
ing horror of death itself -and whose
future is only a pitiless toil extorted
from her own mistakes.
Like a mad thing Aline had gone
through the streets after that scene
of strangling and choking and strug-
ling—and striking—In the den of the
spider. In fear she had left her own
home to enter the web she had allowed
to be woven about her six years be
fore by the summer sea. But fear was
an unmeasured thing—fear was a weak
word to picture the tortured agony she
must endure as she fled back to what
could no more be a refuge for her—to
what was called Home—Home whose
sacred precincts she had defiled.
Aline rushed from the spider’s do
main- she ran from that w’rithing thing
that had lately been called a man—
she fled from insult and degrading in
nuendo—from that leering face arid silky
voice that dared ask of her. nay. de
mand of. her “a hundred days strung
throughout the year.” \
Now running like a hunted thing
like the hunted thing she must soon
become: now hiding in shadow at th#
terror of a crackling twig now’ dbub-
Img on her tracks that the Inevitable
pursuer might he thrown off the trail
she niched her own doorway at last
Bui thcr** waa otic, enemy she could
not shake uff one dang'-r *h** • ould no|
fl< r Tli;i( wom hors'df ami her own
black knowledge of Alina Graham.
At last she reached her own room.
She tore from her the polluted gar
ments that the master of pollution had
touched—the poisoned things she had
worn in the rooms of Evil. She flung
them in a heap on the floor; they could
not be touched now: her maid would
hang tjtem away. And in flinging aside
the habiliments of that dark night
Aline forged another link in the chain
that must soon bind her fast. At last
her soft white “robe de nult” encased
her cold form and she tumbled into the
sanctuary of her white bed. Like a
child that shuts out darkness, she
pulled the covers over her eyes: warmth
and comfort must lie there. But warmth
and comfort lay nowhere The girl lay
shivering in fear and horror of all she
had learned this night—and all she did
not guess. For the full terror of her
visit to her enemy Aline did not know,
she did not realize that Judson Flagg-
had died!
Suddenly she heard the jangle of the
door bell -loud talking—she must know
what it portended—she must have real
ity Inslead of this numbing terror of
what might be. She leaped from her
bed and crept to the top of the stairs.
Aline Graham had become an eaves
dropper in her father’s house! She
came on dowm the stairs and stood
trembling *at the library door.
She liatened—and new terror tore at
her face like a monster with evil claws.
Like a fugitive thing she crept back to
her room at last—and stealthily, lest
any might hear her, she began dressing
In street clothes. Then In the sinister
black of the midnight hour Aline Gra
ham again left the protection of her
father's house—and crept out Into the
streets.
A man's room will often tell what he
is. In one of the side streets of Wash
ington—in one of the luxurious apart
ment buildings of Washington—w r here
| secretaries of legation ami young for
eign diplomats, where dilettanti at liv
ing. where Washington's eligible bach
elors prove how homelike may be a
home even without woman's magic
touch, Lawrence Holbrook had his quar
ters.
To-night a white-clad, black-haircd,
Oriental-eyed Filipino boy stood with
Eastern stoicism and patience and
gazed out of a high studio window Into
the blackness of the midnight streets.
Master would come soon- and in the
meantime the “boy” would stand and
gase Into the same blackness that held
his Island jungles.
Back of him and bis window lay a
huge living room wainscoted high in
panels of soft brown Circassian walnut.
Above the wood was a wall covering
of forest green burlap. Against this
background were hung half a dozen
time-mellowed anrl rare hunting prints.
Above the fireplace was a fine inoos»»
head, and on the breast of the mantel |
were shining barreled guns. Over door- |
ways and hung above the monster buf-
fet and wide book shelves were swords, i
knives, a Manila krlss, some foils, a j
travel-worn knapsack and wavy daggers j
of a rare Spanish make. Sconces lit
the dark wainscoting and shone on Die
heads of elk and caribou and on hunt
ing horns from far German forests. A
“world-man” indeed was the dweller in
this great room.
Suddenly tne keen-eared Filipino boy
turned—arranged glasses and decanter
on the great table in the center of the
room—drew the deep Russian chair
closer to the gleaming fire and stood at
attention at the open door with a quiet
dispatch that seemed to disprove all
theories about Oriental slowness.
In His Home.
With the easy grave that was his
Irish heritage -with the smiling at-
homeness with the world that had al
ways been his—up to the time of dan
ger—Captain Holbrook swung Into* his
own domain. The servitor he had
trained to wear livery instead of Fil
ipino skins ami fiber took his hat and
coa* with a mints*. precision.
“Wait a minute. Rarne.v Hold on I*
>e don't mind, I've got something up
me sleeve."
He topk Hint long hin- k box of .lap
an tied metal from I i- d<-, v«- r.Mij-e-
ki
The captain produced a queer little
wooden thing from his pocket and put it
on the table. Off came his dinner coat
and draped Its well-cut blackness over
a chair: then the captain's hands slipped
through the unaccustomed opening in
his shirt sleeves, leaving the cuffs
standing away from his arms just below
the elbows. He picked up the curious
thing that was a plate-holder and van
ished into an Inner room. Barney looked
after h!s master speculatively, touched
the black box wlth«a long, curious finger
—shook his head, and picking up the
topcoat and fedora marched into anoth
er room.
Had Larry Holbrook forgotten Die
emerald brooch that lay in telltale care
lessness in the pocket of that coat that
he had so idly hung over the hack of
the chair?
For a moment there was stillness in
the deserted room. Then the captain's
voice called, “Barney! Barney!” No
answer. Back came Holbrook carrying
t red lamp unlighted and a pan for a
photographic plate.
The Missing' Hypo.
“Barney!”
“Yes, sir," and the servitor with nar
row, twitching black eyes came at the
call.
"There was a bottle of hypo in my
cupboard. W here is it?” Holbrook was
now quite intent on lighting the lamp.
“What, sir?”
“The stuff you've seen me pour in this
pan."
“Bah-tle?” queried Barney, with
groat precision.
“Yes.”
“Don’ know. Captain.”
“You must find it, Barney.”
“Don’ know!”
lie started across the room, shaking
his head gravely and repeating his for
mula. “Don’ know."
“It s not there!” cried the captain in
exasperation lie must have the means
of developing this plate—he must know
—the worst—the very, very worst.
He spotfe with slow patience.
“Big bottle—says H-Y-r-0 on the
label big Poland water bottle.”
Barney bobbed his head vigorously;
he went over and knelt at the buffet.
“Oh, yis. sir—yis. sir.”
The captain dropped the work of his
hands and straightened up to the oc
casion.
“My word in the buffet!”
“These, Captain?’’
“That’s it . . . Barney, did you give
anyone a drink of it?”
“Not y!t, sir,” answered Barney re
spectfully.
“Well, wait till I tell you before you
do!”
“Yis. sir.’’
The captain started back to his own
private sanctum to immerse the plate
Dial would tell ah In its hypo bath
“Anti, Barney—don’t drink any of it
i ourself.”
“Yis, sir.”
The captain lingered at the door and
pok< With the grave emphasis he used
in training this ignorant “boy” and
yet there was In eye and voice the
twinkle that had won him the friend
ship of women and savages
A New Plan.
“That'll send you back to Manila,
Barnadino—In a pine box. . . . Now
get Dr. Elliott on the phone and tell
him I’m sick—to come as fast as ever
he can ”
A new' plan was hatching in the pro
lific brain of this soldier of fortune.
“Docker Ell-yut," repeated Barna
dino gravely.
“Yes. His number’s,In the little book.
E-two L’s-J-O and two teas!”
Barney’s nose was buried in the lit
tle hook while yet he knew that precious
formula.
“Yis. sir.”
“ \nd after that get me a pot of
tea.”
Barney dropped the book and gaz*d
si Jill* master in something akin to
horror.
“TEA!”
We have moved to our new store,
07 Peachtre* Street.
ATLANTA FLORAL CO.
“TEA!” Repeated Captain Holbrook
late of the U. B. A. and late and soon
of the world. There was something in
this brief dialogue to suggest that tea
was not a beverage for the preparation
of which Barnadino had a vast num
ber of calls.
“Yis, sir,” said Barney In a chastened
tone.
The Captain took the plate and went
into the dark room that would soon
give him light that should he as sinister
and dark as the ruby-lit gloom in which
the mysteries of the camera, come 1o
life. Barnadino went hack to his book
and tire formula, “E-two L’s-I-O and
| two teas”'
"3-8-V Main.”
The Captain came back to the door
way for a brief second.
"Tell him I'm near dead.”
The door slammed after him with a
tone of finality—and Barney was left
alone with the room and its precious
contents.
“Yis, sir." said Barnadino. in the
pause of waiting for the mysterious pro
ceedings that made that little black
thing at his ear talk to him.
To Be Continued To-morrow.
The Only Seat.
A famous pianist used to be greatly
bothered by requests for free seats at
his concerts.
On one occasion his appearance had
been advertised for weeks, and on the
day of the concert every seat was
booked. Juet before he was about
to go on to the platform an excited
lady made her w'ay to the artists’
room and begged for a ticket, saying ,
that all her efforts to buy one had
proved futile.
“Madam,” answered the musician,
“there la but one seat left In the
w r hole building. If, however, you
care to take it you are welcome to
do
“How can I thank you!” answered
she “It makes no difference to me
where the seat Ie ”
“Then, madam,” aald he, “come this
way!”
Leading her to the steps up to the
platform- he pointed to the^seat at
the piano. When he turned round
she had fled.
His Turn.
Two motorists, having almost ruined
' their tempers—and their tires—In a
! vain attempt to find a hotel with a
i vacant bed. were at last forced to
make the best of a small Inn.
Even then they had to share a bed.
which weis-—and on this the landlord
! laid great, stress- -a feather bed.
They turned in. and one of the pair
' was soon fast asleep; the other was
not. He eould not manage to dodge
the bumps sod heard hour after hour ,
strike on the church clock until 3
1 a m, when he also struck.
He did this by violently shaking his
snoring friend.
“What's the matter”” growled the
1 other. “It can’t be time to'get up
yet!“
“No, it isn’t,” retorted his friend,
continuing to snake him, “but it's my
turn to sleep on the feather!'
THE MANICURE LADY
By WILLIAM
F. KIRK.
ii]
r HOPE
to goodness we
don’t j
!
1 never
have a
real war
with j
t h#*m
Mexican
f eilowa.”
said {
the
Manlcur
o Lady.
“That Is
about|
all
the talk
I have
heard up
to the
house for the last week, and I am
getting kind of scared and nervous
about lL My father’s father fought
In the Civil Rebellion, George, and
got one of liis legs shot clean off at f
the battle of Missionary Ridge. T
used to see him hobbling around the j
housd when I was a little kid. and 1
T couldn't help thinking when I seen j
his wooden leg that war was every - j
thing Mister Sherman said it w'as. I t
suppose the scars of war is honorable j
scars, George, but you got to admit
that there ain’t much class to one of
them old fashioned w’ooden legs, big
in th* calf and little in the ankul
and no instep on them.
“Every time the old gent gets a
little lit up he tells that he Is of
fighting stock, and you would think
to hear him go on that his ancestors
had all went to West Point and
served Uncle Sam all over the world.
His old man was the only one that
ever smelled gunpowder, and he didn’t
come out of It with no flying colors
except the wooden leg. as I was say
ing. I think ho got that leg shot
off in the only battle he was ever in.
But the old geiu is full of the war
fever now. and he has even got
brother Wilfred talking war and
strategy. Wilfred wouldn't make
much of a boy In blue, with that |
gentle, shrinking poet nature of his, '
but he thinks that if war broke out 1
with Mexico he would he right down 1
there with bells on. I don’t believe
they w’ould take him for a soldier at |
Internal Evidence.
At a certain college custom ordains
that at examination time each of the
candidates shall write the following
pledge at the bottom of his papers:
“I hereby declare, on my honor, that
1 have neitTTer given nor received as
sistance during the examination.”
Now, recently, it so happened that a
young fellow, after handing in one of
the papers, suddenly remembered that
in his haste he had omitted to write the
oath. On the following day, therefore,
be sought out one of the examiners and
told him that he had forgotten to put
the required pledge on his paper
The old man looked at. him over the
top of his glasses and dryly remarked
"Quite unnecessary. Your paper in it
self is sufficient evidence. I’ve just
been correcting It."
CHICHESTER S PILLS
TUP, lHAMOM* BRAND.
£* "Itb E' « F.hho«..\Jr
pi VyJ) Ttk* n«» other Rur of r
1 > A k for C ll l UTES-TFB’S
7 TMAM<»NT> RRANft for g*
yemknownts R«t,S*f«*t.Always Reliable i
SOLD BV DRUGGISTS EVERYWHFR5 j
all. on account of h!» lamp* bain*
weak and his small also being against
him. but between him and the old
Kent all we hear now Is war, war,
war.
"It kind of {crates on mother and
fa Kiris, because we ain’t of a fight-
ing nature, and the only fun me and
-Mayme gets Is kidding- the life out of
Wilfred when he tells how he would
charge the ramparts of the enemy and
save the country’s flag. t\- e told him
last night that the only thing he
could charge was his board bill, and
XTayme fr nd a war poem that he had
wrote and was going to send to the
Washington Heights Flour and Feed
Courier. This Is how It goes, George."
'Don't read It If It Is long," said
the Head Barber, “Me and the Missus
had a few Words before I left home
this morning, and I don’t feel nene
like listening to poetry."
"It ain't much, George, Listen:
"Oh, Mexico, thou land of heat
And cactus thorns and creeping
things,
You most assuredly will be beat
If Uncle Sam on you his soldiers
flings.
I shall volunteer for the Stars and
Stripes
And fight like a hero our flag to
save.
And If your navy with oura does clash
You will surely go to a watery
grave.
And U 1 die on the battlefield
Tho world will say that I done my
beet,
And my greatness It will he revealed
When my hands are folded on my
breast."
•He ain't giving himself any the
worst of It In that poem." said the
Head Barber. "It sounds kind of fool
ish to me."
Tea
Lovers
will appreciate the in
viting fragrance r
exquisite flavor of .
MaxW*H Hout
Blend Tea
It meet* every require
ment of Quality and
purity.
£,7^ A.* ***'
Cheek-Masi CsBw
Csatpaaf * «
jechMa- 111 -
A Friend of Quaker for Twenty-Two Years
Mr G K. Howder, 6?. years of
who lives at lit) < 'enter street, this
city, has been a frlerul of Quaker Ex
tract for twenty-two years When he
first, •became acquainted with iis won
derful virtues he had been ailing for
yeara from stomach trouble?, and had
used quite a few of the many remedies
on the market at that time, but found
nothin/? to f?ive real permanent relief
until he at last fount} the first pack
age of Quaker Herbs, put up n* that
time in a dry form. He was cured by
a few weeks’ use of them, and since
then each >ear usunll at tho spring
time, he aive* himself and all the fare
11 a course of the areat medicine, and
if more healthy-looking and vigorous
feeling »
can
st
the ag** of
’ «3 rf
in
fmind ir
i A:
iani
la it will
trik*-
more
than Hie
non
ms l
s' *s ••> fin
d him.
Mr
1 fowder
has
r« i
sed t w f) c
hildrci
ii r>n
’ 'Jusker
a.
nd
the* have
nev pi
• had
th* puny
, i*a
l*
sallow i nrr
iplcxirt
ns or
!!><■ average
chil
d. nor hav
o lhf*\
Silf
fered fn
■ m 1
1
many ill*
that
boyct
Die growing child, more especially the
hundreds of worms uml other intesti
nal parasites that, infest the human
system of those who d*> not properly
cleanse the digestive trad each year.
When Mr. iiowder first began to use
the Quaker medicine himself ho weigh
ed Just exactly 130 pounds. Now he
tips the beam at IDS. and it s all good,
healthy mtfscle and sinew and steady
nerves, not a lot. of bloat. This gen
tleman called at Gourse.v & Munn’.s
drug store and. nft*r talking to the
Quakers a while took three more bot
tles of Quaker Extract, which he In
tended giving to a friend who is be~
glnntnc to manifest some of th® s\ mp-
toms of pellagra He know that the
^amc remedy hod :ilready cured a case
m Marietta and is doing >coman ser-
vi« r» in six or seyon other « jscs right
iii Atlanta Now. those of >nu who
ore inclined t«• doubt tin the Quaker
Remedies -ire permanent in Ihe-.r cure
live vlrtoe op who think that when
once the remedies have mode .1, friend
they are easily shaken off. Just take
a walk over to Mr. Howder’a residence
on (’enter street and ask him person
ally what he knows of the Quaker's
medicines. He’ll be only too glad to
explain why he has used them for so
many years, when there are over 200
other remedies that are sold on the
druggists’ shelves to-day. And re
member. too, that if you suffer from
any possible branch of stomach, liver,
kidney or blood troubles, or you and
little ones have worms of any'
kind, here i 1 * a cure, one that has cra-
nted over 300 permanent cures right
here in your own city, right on your
very threshold, so to speak, where
: have the privilege to Investigate
them at your will,
Th*»s* wonderful remedies-—Qualcar
Extract. 6 fr> r $=>00, 3 for 12.60 or ll.fi?
a bottle, on of Balm, 26c. or 6 for
'' ?'i >■• obtained at Coufiiy &
M inn Drug Store. 29 Marietta street
. ' • M»rrss ■ harge? on all or
der* of on or over.