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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 ♦ ♦ <>♦ •>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,*: irj'”'«smw. Ai„,r*"tob5 j 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 " ■