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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.