Newspaper Page Text
The Coiffure of Refinement
(0; (()> Four Pretty Styles and as Many Pretty Girls
<B>
Specially Posed for This Page by Members
of “The Madcap Duchess” Company
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•>M!i;AT10\ of The latest styles in eoif-
Lures is largely tinged with rejoicing
riiat tha day of the gro'esque hay-
.1 mnch 01 jute is passed, and that the
.. zv: coiffure is coining bark into
:’s own.
Beginning with left to right, a very effect
ive and simple style of hair dressing is shown
by Miss Ann Swinburne as Seraphina in the
title role of "The Madcap Duchess.” The ef
fect ie that of a Psyche knot with the added
gracefulness achieved by n braid worn over
the forehead, with the side hair brought low
over the ears.
The style adopted by Miss Margaret Au
Irews is in direct contrast, with the effect ah
nost as simple. The hair is bunched at Ihe
rown with the effect of a soft drooping pom
padour in front.
The style so well suited to the piquant face
Miss Peggy Wood is simplicity itself. The
air is parted in the middle, allowed to fall
♦~o* ♦ -♦ <>♦
-♦A3
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 low 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
D
A GOOD story Is told of a worthy Quaker who ltv*C
In a country town. The man was rich at*
benevolent, and his means were put In frequent
requisition for purposes of local charity or usefulness
The townspeople wanted to rebuild their parish ehurct.
and a committee was appointed to raise funds. It wu
agreed that the Quaker could not be asked to subscribe
toward an object so contrary to his principles, but thest
on the other hand, so true a friend to the town might
take It amiss If he was not at least consulted on a toso
ter of such general Interest. So one of thotr durates.’
went and explained to him their project—the old church
was to be removed and such and such vtep*
toward the construction of a new one
"Thee wast rjght, ' said the Quaker, '*ln erapposln* tha
my principles would not allow me to assist In bunding
a church. But didst thee not say something about writ
Ing down a church? Thee may at put my name ffcwsr
for a hundred pounds to pull 1t down.”
Ann Swinburne
Margaret Andrews.
Peggy Wood.
Glen Ellis
THE FAMILY CUPBOARD
A Dramatic Story of High Society Life in New Yorfi
I Novelized by 1
• •hi Ouvii Da\is‘ play now being pre- |
-• uteij at the Playhouse, New York, by
’iiam V Brady.—Copyright, 1913. by
tf-rnational News Service.)
,(.) DAY’S INSTALLMENT j
Caere was a pause. Emily Nelson j
•d trembling with emotion such asj
■ lad forgotten to know through long*
guarded years of life that hud made j
his moment come relentlessly lo her j
it last. Tire Instrument was held c’odu
.u her ear as she waited for Ohar’es |
Nelson's voice—while her craze never
left the room behind whose curtains j
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. Ills voice—her bus- J
band was there at the other end of the .
little wire that might be the instrument !
■of saving their boy.
"Hello! Charlisl It Is Emily! I am at
Kenneth's! He Is In dreadful trouble.'
He is Qolnq to —Oh, I can’t tell yon,
Charlie. Come to ms I Come to save
him! How long?*-Five minutes?—I'M j
try and keep h m! No mors! Nol Nol
l love you, Charlie! Come!”
She dropped the Instrument that
might yet be o salvation and fell !nto|
the eh.air sobb ng wildly—her strength
almost spent.
Kent eth cam Into the room—waiklos
as in daze—Kke a sleep-walker. He
held s< n* lette * in hia hands—with the
most i inute et> re he was tearing these
Ini* *• null pieces. As he heard his
mother sob he - Topped the paper to the
floor—a white .- iiower—and went to hot
“Don’t! Don t do that!” he said in a
tone so frozen by the honor of all he
had come to know of life that .t sound
ed remote -like a voice frost another
plane.
Emily Nelson looked up. Five min-
.iteai Could she hold her son that long?
“Wha; are you going to do, Ken
neth?**
“Just going away. I can't stay here,
you know. I am not fit. I can’t face !t!
I can’t face—life,” he mumbled almost
to himself. But her heart defined what
her ears could not hear
Emliy Nelson rose and followed her
boy toward the door.
“It is my fault I was a bad mother!”
“We djd not understand—any of us,”
said Kenneth. In that quiet voice of
ydoom.
"Dear, I.ha.e suffered! I think 1
understand now,* said his mother,
gently.
swerlng of the question on which fair
balanced.
“You did not love her! Ken. it it*
not sorrow I see In your eyes—It is bit
terness’”
"Perhaps. I don’t know.” The boy
spoke lti a sort of lethargy of Indiffer
ence. lie felt that nothing that had
passed mattered now all that counted
was wh.it was corning “What differ
ence doe* it make? Are you coming
down." I can’t wait.”
He did not call her by Tie sacred
name of mother—it was scarcely to lde
mother he spoke—just to some one who
was, strangely enough, showing Interest
in him, now that it wan too late, and
trying to change his plans—too late!
He turned courteously—but impatiently
—to the door.
.\« he started Emily Nelson put her
hand on his arm very gently—she
scarcely dared to caress him—he seemed
io herd ike 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 lie
had determined.
“Just a moment, dear! When did she
go?”
BAY a Thrilling Story of Society Blackmailers
“Just now.”
“Why?”
“She was tired. S’ixo couldn’t
slick. . That’s what the old man
said—poor old beggar—she couldn’t
thick. Well ... I musjt go!”
Again he started for that door ol
strange doom Again the frantic mother
seized upon any pretext to stop him
"Did-did she go alone?**
•No.
“With whom?”
"Please! I CAN’T HIVE IT OVER
AGAIN! I CAN’T LIVE IT ALE OVER
AGAIN 1 GET ME GO!”
The mother heart knew that he could
not live It all over again—that with
that memory searing boyhood and hope
and idealism lrorn his nature he cou!d
scarcely bear to live at all for these
few extra moments that she was trying
to hold him—to save his sanity—to save
hit* life Itself! And yet she must an
swer him as If she knew nothing—sus
pected nothing of the wild storms that
were sweeping through his agonized
young-old mind. Life had offered Ken
neth Nelson a rude awakening^would J A Night of Terror.
(From the play by George Scar
borough, now Vicing presented at the
Thirty-ninth Street Theater, New York. j
Serial rights held nnd copyrighted by j
International News Service.)
TO-DAY’S INSTALLMENT
The chief and the inspector looked at
each other. Well, Flagg, invulnerable
to all state weapons that had searched
for the vulnerable spot in the armor of
bin 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, Id 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 ail that
kept him from seeing It now.
“Well, who moved It?” asked the in
spector sternly.
”1 don’t know, cor.”
“Who’s been In the room since you
saw the box?”
“Only ourselves, nor.”
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 he had ever had for the Dis
trict Attorney of the United 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 his 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.
Fighting the Moments
In the boy’s face 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
lie f 1 that I sn uld see myself and he r
- e.. really are—and—I do It isn’t
. t-reity sigflk
His eyes deepened—and then again
there came across them that film—that
faraway look.
‘‘I want to get rid of it—mother, so—
i am going.”
• >ne step farther from her—one step
nearer the door—and after that—what?
“Walt!”
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? Iler agonized
brain kept reiterating that question
ever, while she was bending every en
ergy, every power, to the successful an-
CASTOR IA
For Infant* and Children,
lha Kind You Hare Always Bought
spizCrfazeS
he indeed Interpret his knowledge In
terms of death?
“Yes, dear, of course,” said Emily,
soothingly.
lie 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 lighting h*r battle against
the odds o” u disordered brain?
.‘‘Oh, Ken!”
He stoppeo
“Yes?”
‘‘Mary Burk was ’
“Mother, dear! I am—very tired—
and and—1 hate a lot to do.”
Emily strove for an easy tone. If
only some stray gleam of love for the
g; whose unselfish devotion for the
boy the had been coldly told was “too
good for her was worlds above her”—
could brighten the gray gloom of Ken’s
outlook on life-and love—and woman!
Mary was. as Emily Nelson had come
well to know, the one rose in the tan-
glevl and weedy Nelson garden. If only
she might yet be the “Rose of the
World” for Ken! And Emily Nelson's
growtli in womanhood was measured by
her simple Judgment that her penniless
social secretary’s love was the one
g earn 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’e
aide
“Yee But it doeun x matter. She
says she la going lo leave me. Siu<e
1 gave up the house there is really
noi lug lor her to do—and she knows
l can't afford to keep her. But It will
bo hard for Mary to hum ”
Tafie
Continued Te-mswv*
The victims of the scourge tnsom-
nia call a night of sleeplessness a "white
night”—they dread even through the 1
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
are multiplied a thousand fold—are
raised to the power of desperate agony
when they come to a girl whose past is
a degradation, whose iwesent is a liv
ing horror of death itself- and whose
future !h only a pitiless toll extorted
from her own mistakes.
Like a mad thing Allric had gone
through the streets after that scene
of strangling and choking and atrug-
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 he 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 writhing thing
that had lately been called a man—
she fled from insult and degrading in
nuendo—from that leering face and 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 the
terror of h crackling twig, now doub
ling on her tracks that the inevitable
pursuer might be thrown off the trail—
she reached her own doorway at last.
But there was one enemy she could
not shake off—one danger she could not
flee. That was herself—and her own
black knowledge of Aline 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 them away. And In flinging aside
the habiliments of that dark night
Aline I'orged another link in the chain
that must soon bind her fast. At last
her soft white "robe de nuit” 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 heneyen; 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 a ! i 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 heart! the jangle of the
door bell—loud talking—she must know
what it portended—she must have real
ity Instead 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 down the stairs and stood
trembling at the library door.
She listened—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 mlqht 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—where
secretaries of legation and 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-haired.
Orlentai-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
gaze Into the same blackness that held
his Island jungles.
Back of him and his 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 and rare hunting prints.
Above the fireplace was a fine moose
head, and on the breast of the mantel
were shining barreled guns. Over door-
i ways and hung abovd the monster buf-
i fet and wide book shelves were swords,
knives, a Manila kriss* some foils, a
, travel-worn knapsack and wavy daggers
| of a rare Spanish make. Sconces lit
he dark wainscoting arid shone on the
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 greet 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 grace 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-
1 ger—Captain Holbrook swung Into his
J own domain. The servitor he had
j trained to wear livery instead of Fil
ipino skins and fiber took his hat and
coat with a military precision.
“Wait a minute, Barney. Hold on. 1*
ye don’t mind, I’ve got something up
me sleeve.”
He took that long black box of Jap
anned metal from his sleeve. Barney
looked curiously at. the other sleeve*
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 9leeves, 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 his master speculatively, touched
the black box with a long, curious finger
—shook his head, and picking up the
topcoat and fedora marched into anoth
er room.
Had Larry Holbrook forgotten the
emerald brooch that lay in telltale care
lessness in the pocket of that coat that
he had so Idly hung over the back 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
a 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. Where 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
great precision.
“Yes.”
“Don’ know. Captain
“You must find, it, Barney. ’
‘‘Don’ know!”
He started across the room, shaking
his head gravely and repeating his for
mula, “Don’ know.”
“It’s not there!” cried the captain in
exasperation—he must have the means
of developing this plate—he must know*
—the worst—the very, very worst.
He spoke with slow patience.
“Big bottle—says H-Y'-P-O on the
label—big Poland water bottle.”
Barney bobbed hi* head vigorously;
he went over and knelt at the buffet.
“Oh, yls. 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 yit, sir,” answered Barney re
spectfully.
“Well, wait till I tell you before you
do!”
“Yls, air."
The captain started back to his own
private sanctum to immerse the plate
that would tell all In Its hypo bath.
“And, Barney—don't drink any of it
yourself.”
“Yis, sir.”
The captain lingered at the door and
spoke 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,
Barnadlno—in a pine box. . . . Now
get Dr. Elliott on the phone and tell
him I’m sick—to come as fa9t as ever
he can ”
A new plan was hatching *ln 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-I-O and two teas!”
Barney’s nose was burled in the lit
tle book while yet he knew that precious
formula.
“Yls, sir.”
“And after that get me a pot of
tea.”
Barney dropped the book—and gazed
at his master in something akin to
horror.
“TEA!”
J “TEA!” Repeated Captain Holbrook
! late of the U. S. 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 Barnadlno had a vast num
ber of calls.
“Yls, 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 be as sinister
and dark as the ruby-lit gloom In which
the mysteries of the camera come to
life. Barnadlno went back to his book
and the formula, “E-two L’a-I-O and
two teas!”
“3-8-1 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 Barnadlno, 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-morrov,.
The Only Seat.
A famous pianist used to be greatly
bothered by requests for free seats at
' his concerts.
i On one occasion We appearance had
been advertised for weeks, and on the
day of the concert every seat was
booked. Just before ha was about
■ to go on to the platform an excited
lady made her way to the artists*
-oom and begged for a ticket, saying
that all her efforts to buy one had
! proved futile.
“Madam,” answered the musician,
“there Is but one seat left In the
whole building. If, however, you
care to take It you are welcome to
do so.”
"How oan I thank you!” answered
•he. “It makes no difference te me
where the seat Is.”
“Then, madam,” said he, "oom* this
way!”
Leading her to the steps up to the
platform, he pointed to the seat at
J the piano. When he turned round
vhe had fled.
His Turn.
Two motorists, having almost ruined
their tempers—and their tires—in a
rain attempt to find ft hotel with a
j vacant bed. were at last forced to
make the best of a small Inn.
Even then they had to share a oed,
which was—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 wu
not He oould not manage to dodge
the bumps and heard hour after hour
strike on the church clock until 3
e. m., when he aleo struck.
He did this by violently shaking his
snoring friend.
•'What’s the matter?*’ growled the
other. “It can’t be time to get up
yeti”
‘No. it isn’t," retorted hie friend,
continuing to shake him, “but it’s my
turn to sleep on the featherl”
By WILLIAM F. KIRK.
HOPE to goodness we don't
1 never have a real war with |
them Mexican fellows.” said
the Manicure 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 it My father’s father fought
in the Civil Rebellion, George, and
got one of his legs shot clean off at
the battle of Missionary Ridge. I
used to see him hobbling around the
house when I was a little kid, and
I couldn’t help thinking when I seen
hie wooden leg that war was every
thing Mister Sherman said It was. I
suppose the scars of war Is honorable
•cars, George, but you got to admit
that there ain’t much class to one of
them old fashioned wooden legs, big
In the 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 enly one that
ever smelled gunpowder, and he didn’t
come out of it with no flying colors
except the wooden leg, a« I was eay- ;
ing. I think he got that leg shot
off In tho only battle he was ever in.
But the old gent is full of the war
fever now, and he ba* oven got
brother Wilfred talking war and
strategy. Wilfred wouldn’t make
much of a boy in blue, wtth that
gentle, shrinking poet nature of his,
but he thinks that If war broke out
with Mexico he would be right down
there with bells on. I don’t believe
they would take him for a soldier at
all, on account of his lamps be,,
weak and his small slse being again
him, but between him and the o
gent all we hear now is war, wa
war.
“It kind of grates on mother a:
us girls, because we ain’t of a flgh
ing nature, and the only fun me ai
Mayme gets is kidding the life out
Wilfred when he tells how he wou
charge the ramparts of the enemy ai
save the country’s flag. We told hi
last night that the only thing
could charge was his board bill, ar
Mayme fc .nd a war poem that he h«
wrote and was going to send to t!
Washington Heights Flour and Fe«
Courier. This Is how it goes, George
'Don’t read It if it is long," sa
the Head Barber. “Me and the Miss<
had a few words before I left ben
this morning, and I don’t feel noi
like listening to poetry.”
“It ain’t much, George. Ltotea
“Oh, Mexico, thou land of heat
And cactus thorns sad creeps
things,
You most assuredly will be beat
If Uncle Bam on you bis eoldy
flings.
I shall volunteer for lbe thmtrs * T
Stripes
And fight like a Bero our fb|
save.
And if your navy with oujw doe# c *e*
You will surely go to a
grave.
And if I die on the battlofloM
The world will say that I dwe* m
best,
And my greatness it wm be nreoAW
When my hands are folded on m
breast.”
"He ain't giving bhmpeSf any tl
worst of It In that poem,” eaid th
Head Barber. “It sounds kind of foo
Ysh to me.”
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
I have neither given nor received as
sistance during the examination.”
Now, recently, it so happened that a
young fellow, after handing iri one of
the papers, suddenly remembered that
in his haste he had omitted to write the
oath. On the following day, therefore,
he 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.”
Tea
Lovers
CHICHESTER S PILLS
r’f, *i*' itruL'flil fr>»
Chl rbetter's DiamondBriley
» *IU 1" K^d *nd t,„|j
ga-SiT,*:
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SOLD 8V DRUGGISTS EVERYWMFRT
win appreciate the hr
viting fragrance and
exquisite flavor of
Maxwell Hotue
Blend Tea
It meet* every reqnim
ment of quality and
purity.
sr
CVtek-H** 1 Co 8 **’
Coapaar.
A Friend of Quaker for Twenty-Two Years
We have moved to our new store,
97 Peachtree Street.
ATLANTA FLORAL CO.
Mr G. R. Howder, 68 years of age,
who lives at 110 Center street, this
1 city, has been a friend of Quaker ex
tract for twenty-two year?. When he
first became acquainted with Its won
derful virtues he had been ailing for
years from stomach troubles, and had
used quite a few of the many remedies
' on the market at that time, but found
^ nothing to give real permanent relief
until he at last found the first pack
age of Quaker Herbs put up at that
‘ time in a dry form. He was cured by
\ a few weeks' use of them, and since
then each year, usually at the spring
■ time, he gives himself and all the fam
ily a couree of the great medicine, and
>, if more healthy-looking and vigorous-
feeling man at the age of 63 can be
found in Atlanta it will take more
> than the normal eyes to find him. Mr.
: Howder lias raised two children on
"Quaker,” and they nave never had
the puny, pale, sallow complexions of
the average child, nor have they suf-
\ fersd from the many ills that beset
the growing child, thore esoeeially the
hundreds of worms and other intesti
nal parasites that infest the human
sj stem of those who do not properly
cleanse the digestive tract each year
When Mr. Howder first began to use
the Quaker medicine himself he welch
ed just exactly 130 pounds Now he
tips the beam at 198, and it's all stood
healthy muscle and sinew and steady
nerves, not a lot of bloat. This gen
tleman called at Coursev & Munn's
drug store and. after 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-
g1r*nln ff to manifest some of the svmp-
toms of pellagra. He knew that the
same remedy had already cured a case
m Marietta, and is doing yeoman ser-
>>ce in six or »■ ten other' ■ uses right,
in Atlanta Now, those of you who
are inclined to doubt that the Quaker
Remedies are pern ..nent in inetr • uri-
once thertmedi.^halemad^^ friend ders* - : ^' XpreB “ char * eB 0D **
they are easily shaken off, .tust talcs
a walk over to Mr. Howder’s resldencs
on Center street and ask him person
ally what he knows of the Quaker's
medicines. He’ll be only too glad ♦©
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, Ihwn
kidney or blood troubles, or yon and
your little ones have ■worms of
kind, here is a cure, one that has cre
ated over 800 permanent cures
h^r- in your own city, right on your
very threshold, so to speak, where
you have the privilege to investigate
them at your will.
These wonderful
Extract, 0 for :■
a bottle; Oil ,
/■ ' ' - obtained* at Course?' *
Munn’ia Drug Btore, 29 Marietta
win.
dor fill remedies—Quaker
#5.00, 3 tor 42.60 or $1.00
of Balm. 26c, or 6 for
of $3.00 or over
" ■