Newspaper Page Text
PRINCESS CH4RNIIIN.
By ALISON.
CHAPTER V.
Our delightful trip to London is over; we
are back again at Tranquilla, sound in life
and limb, to Pleasant’s grim surprise. She
has scolded me a good deal; even my father,
who came home while we were away, shook
his head and told us not to do such a thing
again without asking leave. But nothing can
shadow that golden memory, or rob me of
the pleasure of those glorious days. It was
like a glimpse of fairyland—it was a thousand
times more delightful than my wildest antici
pations had pictured it—it was one whirl of
ecstacy from the hour we left Tranquilla till
we came back again, and even then the pleas
ure did not cease. It will be something to
think of for long days and weeks to come.
“For the sunrise of yesterday morn,
Though it has no returning,
Has shone, and life cannot be shorn
Os yesterday morning.
That I had seen it all with the two people
whom I love best in the world adds to the de
light of it; and to Charmian at least my de
ilght was the sole object in view from fust to
last. She had devoted herself to me entirely,
seeming to find enjoyment enough in my un
speakable enjoyment. But Jack had devoted
himself to her. And it is only fair that he
should. She had seen all the wonders before;
it was more amusement to her to talk to Jack
than to look at pictures and statues which had
been familiar to her all her life. Not that
she seemed to find as much pleasure in talking
to him as he did in talking to her. Some
times I fancied she only tolerated him. And
throughout she never flirted with him. Ido
not think Charmian would condescend to
flirt with anybody in the world.
We are sitting again under our horse-chest
nut tree, drinking tea. The weather is as
warm as, if not warmer than .ever—so sultry
that Jack foretells a thunder storm, and com
forts us by saying that it will clear the air.
Charmian is sitting on the marble bench, in a
white gown, with a bunch of jasmine at her
throat—l like her in pure white, though she
thinks herself that it is too great a contrast to
her swarthy complexion. Jack has just come
in with a book for her—he has been to Lon
don and back again before breakfast.
“And whom do you think I saw in Reg
ent street?” he asks, as he takes a cup of tea
out of my hands. “Your friend, Lord Lor
raine.”
“Lord Lorraine is at Old Knowe,” Char
mian says, opening her dark eyes.
“He may have been at Old Knowe; but he
is not there now. Dudley Probyn was with
me —it was he who pointed him out to me.”
“I am sure Dudley Probyn must have been
mistaken.”
“Oh, no—there was no mistake. A slight
dark man—chin shaved, dark eyes, sallow
complexion. Dudley Probyn knows him as
well as he knows me.” Jack says very posi
tively.
“You know I told you I saw him at that
picture-gallery,” I remark from my lair
among the daisies.
“But where could he have vanished to?
IVe searched for him everywhere that
day,”
“I don’t know. But I saw him as plainly
as I see you this moment, and he was look
ing straight at you.”
“I did not see him,” Charmian says slowly.
“No; I looked at you, but you were listen
ing to Jack. And, when I looked round
again, he was gone.”
“It is very odd,” Charmian remarks; and
her face is slightly troubled. “If he saw me,
I can't think why he did not come up to speak
to us—unless he was too angry. He would
have been furiously angry I know.”
“Plague take him!" Jack exclaims, who
does not know all that I know. “It was a
good thing he did not join us—he would have
spoilt all our fun.”
“I wonder what brought him up from Old
Knowe?” Charmian says musingly. “Perhaps
it was to see that everything was ready for
Aunt Purefoy at Earl's Gate Place.”
“Is she coming back?” I asked quickly.
“She is expected back this week.”
“So soon! And you will be leaving Tran
quilla, Charmian?”
She smiles at my disconcerted face.
“I must leave Tranquilla, some time. But
shall often pay you a visit, Susan. ”
“But how am I to live when you are gone?”
“My dear child, you did not think that I
should spend the rest of my life herej”
I sigh, pressing my cheek against her hand.
“I cannot help wondering what became of
Lord Lorraine, if you really did see him in
that gallery,” she goes on, drawing her dark
eyebrows together thoughtfully.
“There was such a crowd we might easily
have lost him.”
‘.’Perhaps he did not recognize me. You
know I had on that thick gauze veil.”
“But yoiu- mouth and chin were not cov
ered. And he would know your dress.”
“He never saw that dress,” Charmian says,
smiling.
it was a pretty dress of seal-brown plusq
and silk, anil Charmian had looked like a
queen in it, though she had worn it because it
was one of the quietest she had. The brown
gauze veil had been tied on, that no casual
acquaintance might recognize her, as she said
laughingly, when Jack objected to it on the
score of not knowing whether she was laugh
ing at him or not with that mask over her
. face. But Lord Lorraine had recognized
her—l felt sure of it even in the momentary
glimpse I caught of his cold, calculating,
clean-shaven profile. And he was angry,
though 1 had not told her so—furiously
angry. I saw it in the way in which he com
pressed his thin lips and in the sudden rush of
dusky color which dyed his sallow complexion
from his collar to the very brim of his hat.
“Your jasmine is drooping, Charmian,”
I remark, to change a subject which seems to
trouble her. “An tat the best you don t care
about wearing white flowers. I will make
you a fresh bouquet—a flower letter such as I
have read of people sending to each other in
the East.”
Full of the fanciful conceit, I rise from my
lair under the great triple fronds of the horse
chestnut-ti-oe, and leave these two together
who' have not been alone together
since that first day when, standing
among the goose-berry bushes, I in
troduced them to each other. Not by any
conscious arrangement of mine or anybody
else’s that I know of; for Charmian has never
seemed to wish me to leave her, either in the
house or in the garden, and I was only too
willing to sit at her feet and look at her, even
if Jack monopolized her attention and her
conversation both.
It is a delight for me to do anything for
her, even ♦ > the making of the two daily
bouquets—one on her plate at breakfast and
one on her dressing-table before dinner—for
which I rifle even my most precious plants.
And it is. a delight to me to arrange this little
flower-letter now, though my knowledge of
such lore is very rudimentary, and the flower
I most want seem not to be in bloom or only
THE SAVANNAH DAILY TIMES, MONDAY, FEBRUARY 9, 1885.
to grow wild in the woods.
But I must have a red rose for love, and a
purple velvet pansy for “I dream of you,”
and forget-me-not and a bit of heliotrope for
devotion, and a little sprig of rosemary for
remembrance. I put them all together, with
a glossy spray of myrtle for background, and
bind them round the stalks with a little length
of straw which I have picked up on the walk.
It is rather an aid-looking bouquet when it is
finished; but it has a quaint variegated
beauty of its own, and I hope Charmian wall
be able to read it, as I wander back toward
the place where I left her, carrying it in my
hand.
To my surprise, I meet my princess coming
up the path alone.
“I am going indoors for a little while,” she
says. “I find the heat oppressive—l think
the storm is coming at last.”
She looks pale and a little sorrowful, I fan
cy—l am sure she is not happy about Lord
Lorraine.”
“Then I think I shall go in too, Where is
Jack?”
“He went away just now—into his own
garden. No, I don’t think he is coming
back.”
I turn with her, and we walk between the
roses and the beds of carnations and mignon
ette and flowering verbena, up to the house.
“I made this for you,” I say, giving her the
little childish nosegay. “It means things,
you know.” .
“Yes, I know,” she answers, smiling a
little, “and you have tied it with a broken
straw.”
“I had nothing else-.”
“And a broken straw means ‘Our engage
ment is broken off.’ ”
“But we are not engaged,” I laugh; “so it
doesn’t matter. But I didn’t know it of
course; and even if I had, I knew you weren’t
engaged to anybody.”
“But I am,” she says, looking at the flow
el’s in her hand. “I am engaged to Lord
Lorraine.”
“To Lord Lorraine!”
“Yes. I have told'Mr. Prentiss, so I may
as well tell you. We have been engaged to
each other for the last three months."
I do not ask her why she told Jack—l
know. I have not dreamed of it before, or,
if I have, I have persistenly put the thought
out of my head; but I know it now. Jack is
in love with her, and he has been mad enough
to tell her so, and she has sent him ; wav.
She puts her arm round m - very tenderly
as we walk together; but she does not say
another word about Jack. I move beside her
like a person in a dream; like a person in a
dream I hear her talking to me, with a vague,
faint, far-away sound. The garden swims
around me, the sunlight dazzles mo; I feel as
if Susan Coventry were away and some one
else were here walking in her place.
“It was in Egypt last spring,” Charmian
goes on, in that dreamy, far-away voice.
“We had gone to Cairo, he and I and his sis
ter, early in the winter, but we had spent
most of our time on the Nile. January in
Egypt is as warm as May in England—you
have no idea how hot the sun strikes the des
ert. In April we go back to Cairo again;
and it was there that he—that we—found we
cared for each other more than for any one
else in the world.”
“Yes,” that stupid person who is not Susan
Coventry answers mildly.
“It was on the great balcony at Shep
heard’s Hotel,” Charmian goes on softly and
slowly, partly, I think, to change the current
of my thoughts, partly because it is a bliss to
her to talk about it. “It grows chilly in the
East after sunset, and I had wrapped Lady
Louisa’s great fur-lined cloak about me. and
was looking down at the oddest, quaintest,
most picturesque scene, perhaps, in the whole
world. I should like to take you to Egypt,
Susan, and show you Cairo from Shpheard’s
Hotel.”
: Somebody nods vaguely, but Ido not think
it can be Susan Coventry.
“We had been a great deal together, of
> course. Lady Louisa was not up to much be
i yond lying under an awning on the deck of
3 our dahabeah. But I delighted in riding the
donkey, and in the little black-eyed Arab
I boys. We used to land and explore the banks
i of the river and the ruins with our Arab
• guides. And I think it was in those glorious
days that he first grew’ to care for me, though
I—l believe I had loved him ever since I was
a child.”
She pauses with a wonderful light on her
face—something of that, glorious Eastern sun
light, I suppose, which seems to linger still in
t the golden brown depth of her eyes.
“Lady Louisa did not like it—l do not think
she would have taken me with her to Egypt,
I if she had known that he was coming too.
But she never imagined he cared for me,
though I dare say she knew I liked him. She
thought we were so utterly unsuited to each
1 other. lam sure she told him so hundreds of
- times; but Lord Lorraine is just as obstinate
as I am —one might as well try to move the
' Great Pyramid. And we were so happy in
spite of her. I shall always love Egypt and
1 Cairo and the balcony of that hotel.
“Do you love him very much, Charmian?”
’ somebody asks, in a small faint voice.
“Love him!” she echoes passionately. “I
' love him so much that I would die for him
gladly, gladly—so much that to be with him
is Paradise to me, that, if I lost l.im, if he
grew tired of me, I should not car.■ to live.’
“I think I shall go to my own room, Char
-1 mian—my head aches a little.”
Sfie kisses me forth.? first timi. and the
sorrowful look comes back to her face.
' “Go, then—for half an hour. But, remem
■ her, in half an hour I shall come for you: we
must not forget the peaches we promised
I Pleasant Owens to gather for dessert. ”
* * * * 4= * *
I have been lying face downward on my
. white bed for an hour, for two hours, and yet
Charmian has not come. I am beginning to
wonder why she has not come. For the first
hour I wept like a child for Jack, passion
ately, rebelliously—wept till my eyes were
swollen, till my pillow was saturated with
tears. I could not livo without him—he was
my lover—nobody had any right to take him
away from me. But, after the first inconsol
able burst of grief, I began to think of Jack’s
disloyalty, of how little he could ever have
cared for me. And Charmian never encour
aged him by word or look—with a sudden
passion of love and gratitude 1 remember
that. She knew he loved her long before I
did, and she tried to discourage him—she even
begged me to give him a hint "to stay away
from Tranquilla while she was here. I won
der now how I could have been so blind as
not to know how matters were between them
weeks ago—yes, since the very day after
Charmian came! But I was so silly as to
think that, because Jack was my lover, he
must love me only, who am nothing but an
ugly little girl I And Charmian is so beauti
ful. Who could see her without falling in
love with her?
“I am pale as crocus grows
Close behind a rose-tree’s root;
Whosoe’er would reach the rosp
Treads the crocus under foot
I, like May, bloom on thorn-tree,
Thou like sunny summer bee—
Fit that I be plucked for thee I”
I cannot be angry with Charmian. Even if
I did not love her as I do, I could not be angry
' with her; for I feel in my heart that she is
not to blame. And, after a while, I cease even
to blame Jack.
"Had he seen her when he swore
He would love but me alone?
When he saw her, who is best,
Past compare and loveliest,
He but judged her as the rest."
I sit up on my bed and push the damp hair
from my face. My eyes are blinded with
crying, my forehead burns; I wish Charmian
would come and lay her soft cool hand upon
it. Pleasant would come if I rang for her;
but then Pleasant's hands are so hard, and
she would want me to swallow sal-volatile or
some other horrible mixture, or perhaps in
sist upon my going to bed. It must be six
o’clock. It will be dinner time in an hour,
and Charmian will not have her peaches. I
slip off the bed and cross the pretty dirnity
furnished room to look at myself in the glass.
What a figure I have made of myself! I
shrink away from the white-cheeked red-eyed
vision with a fresh wonder how I could ever
have imagined that Jack admired me, and
bathe my face in a basin of water, which re
lieves my headache if it does not improve my
appearance. And then I change my tumbled
print-dress for a fresh muslin one, making
a chaos of the wardrobe in search of it,
and finally finding it, as Pleasant tells me
afterward that she had left it, close to my
hand. And then Igo down-stairs in search
of Charmian.
The sunlight comes into the lobby in a long
beautiful slant through the western win ow,
lying along the old Persian carpet and creep
ing up to the silver pipes of the organ against
the opposite wall. But Charmian is not in
her favorite corner in the great old lounge,
though Hafiz is curled up on the velvet
cus ion. Igo down the broad shallow stair
case slowly, thinking I shall find her in the
drawing room. But . here is no one in the
drawing room—nothing but coolness and
green shadows and the perfume of flowers—
though I fancy it has a look as if some one
had been in it. Pleasant would never have
left that dust on the carpet since yesterday.
“Pleasant,” I say—she is crossing the hall
from the dining-room with some fruit dishes
in her hand—“can you tell me where Miss
Dacre is? I’ve been looking for her all over
the house.”
“I don’t know where she is,” Pleasant an
swers brusquely. “But Lord Lorraine was
here a while ago—she and him was in the
’ drawing-room together for a long time. He
only asked for her.”
“Lord Lorraine!” I exclaim, with a sudden
i sharp misgiving. “Has Lord Lorraine been
i here?"
> “He has been here surely. And I think a
certain young lady have found out it’s not
i always well to have too man}’ strings to one’s
bow,” Pleasant adds grimly, as the baize door
which shuts < >ut the kitchen regions slams
; softly behind her.
l What does Pleasant mean? My head is in
i a whirl us I run upstairs again and tap at
the door of Charmian’s room. There is no
; answer; and my heart abnost leaps into my
1 mouth in a sudden horrible dread of I know
> not what. I tap on the panel again, more
peremptorily this time, and then Charmian
i says—
“ Come in.”
“Oh, Charmian, how you have frightened
I me!” I exclaim, dashing into the room. “I
: have been looking for you everywhere! W by,
i Charmian, what is the matter ?”
i She has turned round from the window,
where she was standing when I opened the
door. Her face is almost as colorless as her
white gown—there is a strange dazed look
i upon it—a look which I have never seen be
fore on any human face.
“Our engagement is broken off." she says,
with an odd laugh: “we are nothing to each
other—we shall never be anything to each
other any more. He has thrown me over.”
“Charmian!”
“He won’t have anything more to say to
me. lam not fit to be any respectable man’s
wife he says!”
She turns away to the window, putting her
hand up to her forehead in a dazed kind of
way.
“Dear Charmian, he doesn’t mean it—he is
only angry—he will come back again." I ex
claim, greatly frightened. “He couldn't
mean it: and it was harsh and cruel of him to
say it, just to punish you.’’
“He does mean it,” she answers, turning
round to me again with the same odd hyster
ical laugh. “Oh, yes, he was quite in earnest!
He saw us in London more than once. He
{(Slowed us about—he knew everything we
did from the hour we left this house till we
came back again. And he says that I have,
done what no properly brought-up girl would
have dreamed of doing—that I have been
guilty of a disgraceful escapltde—that no
milliner’s apprentice would have made such a
faux pas. and that he wonders, if I had no,
respect for myself, that I had not too much
regard for you to have dragged you into it. ’
“Let him mind his own affairs!" I exclaim
furiously. “He is a horrid cruel wretch,
Charmian, and you are well rid of him I
hope he will never come here again."
■ “Oh, he will never come here —you need
I .■« be afraid of that! He has washed his
' i bands of me for good and all. ’’
j There is a half comical vein through all her
. grief which puzzles me, a kind of hysterical
gaye y, which would have made me uneasy
I if I had not been so childishly ignorant.
“What did you say, Charmian: Wouldn’t
he listen to . >’ excuse?’’
' “I mad.? ... scuses,” she says, throwing up
h# head. “ would not condescend to make
any excuse. And I would not say that I was
sony, though I think he might have relented
if I had sail I was sorry—he as much as said
’ he would forgive me if I would say I was
: sorry. But I would not say it.
' “Perhaps you ought to have said it, Char
■ mian.”
“I shall never say it!' she exclaims deter
’ minedly, the old colt r rushing back into her
' cheeks. He can forgive me or not, just as he
; thinks fit, but he shall never wring a word of
repentance from me. I did nothing wrong,
and 1 am not going to say I am sorry when I
have nothing to be sorry fi.»r! I would do the
1 same thing over again to-morrow—if 1
chose.”
“How did he begin.’ " J. ask seriously. I
am standing before her, holding one of her
burning hands. Now that the color has come
back to her face, she looks more natural,
though her eye? look very bright and wild.
“I don’t remember exactly. I was too
much astonished to ta'ae it ail in at first. 1)o
| you remember what Mark Twain says of the
musing spider when he steps on the red-hot
shovel? ‘First he exhibits a wild surprise;
then he shrivels up.' Well I felt like
that I”
I cannot laugh. My heart aches for her:
and yet I cannot believe that Lord Lorraine
is really in earnest in breaking off their en
gagement. If he really loves her, he will not
let such a trifle separate them —he merely
wants to punish her, and I dare say he was
vexed. Such a fastidious, formal kind of man
as he is would naturally be vexed if he
thought his future wife guilty of a breach of
propriety. And I suppose it was not exactly
the thing for the future Lady Lorraine to do.
“He will come back to-morrow,” I say con
solingly. “He won’t keep away beyond to
morrow, when he knows how much you
care.”
“But he does not know how much I care. I
defied him—l put on as much bravado as I
could muster—l told him he should never
break my spirit—and—and I think I have
broken my heart!”
She stares at me with her great wide-open
eyes, standing straight up, with a curious
flushed look on her face.
“And it was all my fault, Charmian! Why
didn’t you tell him that?”
“As if I would descend to such a subter
fuge! And it was not your fault. It was all
my own doing, from first to last.”
“But you did it for me,” I say, devoured
by remorse.
“I did it to please myself. I don’t believe 1
ever think of anybody but myself. But lam
punished for it now—l am punished now for
every selfish, thoughtless thing I ever did in
my life.”
I can not bear to see that look of smiling
anguish on her face. It horrifies me.
“If you could have a good fit of crying, you
would feel better afterward,” I say, at my
wits’ end to comfort her. “It always does
me good to cry until I can’t cry any more.”
“I never cry,” she answers, with a laugh
which hurts me more than her tears would
have done, “I don’t remember ever crying
in my life.”
“We shall be laughing about this to-mor
row, Charmian—you and I,” I say, putting
my arms round her. “This time to-morrow
he will have come to say he is sorry, and he will
have ridden away again; and you and I will
be talking about it in the garden, and wonder
ing how you could have been so silly as to
fret yourself about a lovers’ quarrel, which
somebody says is only a love renewed. ”
“Do you think he will come back, Susan?”
How can I meet those eager bui’ning eyes
with any other answer but that he is sure to
come back—as indeed I think? For how could
any one love Charmian, and find it in his
heart to part with her forever for the sake of
a mere childish escapade?
“You are not saying that just to comfort
me!” she asks feverishly.
“I am saying it because I think it. Lord
Lorraine loves you, doesn’t he?”
“He told me he did,” she answers, her face
softening and brightening indescribably— '
“that evening in Cairo—and a hundred times
since then.”
“And you can imagine for a moment that
a man who loves you would leave you because
you happened to do a silly, foolish tiling that
had no real harm in it!” I exclaim trium
phantly. “Don't think any more about it,
I Charmian; if he loves you he won’t quarrel
with you—you may be very sure of that”
The look of anguish fades from her face,
, the old reckless gayety comes back to it—she
is, as she always was, as valuable in her moods
( as an April day
“I will think so,” she says, putting her
, hands on my shoulders and looking hard into
• my eyes. “I will think so—till I cannot
. think it any longer. And you may be right
, —and, if you are right, how I shall laugh at
, myself—by-and-by! Oh, yes—he is sure to
come to-morrow I He could not have been in
earnest—l was a fool to think he could have
[ been in earnest. He meant it only for a
[ threat—to punish me. He used to punish me
when I was a child if I did anything
naughty;” and she laughs hysterically. “He
would not give me grapes or oranges, or pra
’ lines, or take me to drive in the Bois, or
r to the Park, if we were in London, and I had
. set my heart upon a ride.”
. “Os cqprse hi ? meant only to punish you.
Come out with me now, Charmian, and we’ll
get those peaches; and, if you are very goal,
> I'll get old Knox to cut us a bunch of those
! Hamburg grapes you wanted yesterday—l'm
sure they are ripe enough.”
She allows me to lead her down stairs,
) through the study window, into the dreamy
; old incense-breathing garden. And we
gather peaches from the sunny red-brick
wall, and two or three great bunches of black
Hamburgs out of the vinery; and, so laden,
I think what a picture Charmian would
make for Murillo, if he hail only been alive |
to see.
And in trying to divert Charmian’s mind j
, from its trouble I unconsciously’ divert my ?
own. There bad been a time when to have
■ lost Jack would have broken my heart —or so |
I thought. But now I believe I love Char- j
mian best—l know I love her so well that I
forget my own sorrow in trying to comfort I
. her.
, “He will come to-morrow,” she repeats for |
. I the hundredth time, standing still in the sun-
. shine, with the basket of fruit held before her j
in her two bare beautiful hands. “He is sure j
, to come to-morrow. ”
She is looking over her shoulder at me, as I :
, fill a green plate with great warm golden
plums from the wall near the study window.
“He will come when he cannot bring him- |
, self to remain away* any longer,” I answer, I
j laughing, but keeping my face turned away, |
■ for my’ eyelids are red still. “You may be
very sure of that."
j “I could not bear to torture any one I
i loved, Susan: could you?”
; “No. But men are different. ”
. I “I was wrong, of course. I al way’s have I
been wrong whenever we quarreled about !
! anything. But he might know I loved him |
all the tune.”
? | “You love him too much, Charmian.”
I “Too much!” she echoes, looking at me I
! with her great velvety eyes. “It is too late I
.; to tell me that; it was too late years ago. I j
; ; believe I have loved him all my life.”
“But people have lost, the things they love ?
i before now,” I say, piling up the plums on my j
: : plate in a great translucent golden pyramid. I
“I have never lost anything I loved very I
much,” she answers very slowly.
“If you did, you should bear it as—as others
do.”
“I could not bear it.”
“But what would you do? It is very well
to say you could not bear it; but if it was
lost—gone—if you could never have it again
any more so long as you lived?”
“I should not live very long,” she an- j
swers, smiling rather strangely. “If I lost
anything I loved very much I should die—it I
would kill me as surely as if you put a dagger
into my heart."
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
ULLEIN.
The Hvveei gum, as gathered irom a tree ol
.tie same name, growing along the small j
treams in the Southern States, contains a
Simulating expectorant principle that loos
ns the phlegm producing the early morning
jough, and stimulates the child to throw on
vhe false membrane in croup and whooping
,-ough. When combined with the healing
nucilaginous principle in the mullein plant
T the old fields, presents in Taylor’s Cnero
<ee Remedy of Sweet vtum and Mullein, the
Inest known remedy for coughs, croup, |
vhooping cough and consumption; and so
lalatable any child can take it. Ask your
Iruggist for it. Send two-cent stamp for
Taylor’s Riddle Book, which is not only for
the amusement of the little ones, who will
gather around your knee to hear the puzzling
questions, but contains information for the
lealth and welfare of every home.
Manufactured by Walter A. Taylor, propri
etor Taylor’s Premium Cologne, Atlanta, Ga.
If you want a good fitting shirt, either
white or fancy, try L. Fried.
1 MUSICAL ME,
[ 1
[
!
i
THE CHEAPEST MUSIC YET.
3 Pieces for 10 tails.
A Deluge of Cheap Music.
“It never rains but it pours,” and as
a matter of fact a deluge of cheap
music is close at hand. Besides the
40,000 pieces of ten cent music* which
we purchased at one invoice, we have
also purchased 35,000 copies of Stod
dart’s 10-cent Musical Library,
and this.week oiler the same to music
buyers.
This library comprises 200 different
numbers, each of which has twelve
j full sized pages of music printed on
very superior quality of music paper,
I and securely stitched and bound.
Each number contains three full
pieces of music irom the very best
composers, thus reducing the cost to
less than one cent a page, and making
it the CHEAPEST MUSIC IN THE WORLD.
All the numbers are conveniently ar
ranged on our counters so as to be
looked through, and a complete cat
a logue is now in press. Call and see
this music. It is the cheapest yet.
The • took of New 5-Cent Music which
we are giving away as an advertise
ment is now ready for distribution.
Call and get some. There’s enough fur
. all.
Ludden & Bates
MUSIC HOUSE.
I “ A <J 31 E ”
PULVERIZING
HARROW !
Clod Mor wi tnln I
WILL WORK IN ANY SOIL!
Durable and Strong !
For sale by
PALMER BROS.
148 Congress and 151 St. Julian street.
JOHIN 11. FOX.
CABINET MAKER
-AND-
UNDER TAKER,
LIBERTY STREET,
(Under Masonic Temple.)
An assortment of CASES and CASKETS
and a stock of UNDERTAKER'S GOODS,
always on hand. Telegraphic orders prompt
ly filled.
Residence: Gordon and Lincoln streets.
Having secured the services of MR. T. J.
McELINN, I have annexed the
Plumbing and Gas Fitting
to the TINNING BUSINESS, and am pre
pared to execute orders in either branch at
moderate figures. Respectfully,
I’. H. KIERNAN,
President, oetwjen Whitaker aud Barnard
Streets.
DENTISTS.
Sirwciißit
MOUTH WASH and DENTIFRICE
Cures Bleeding Gums. Ulcers, Sore Mouth, Sore
Throat, Cleanses the Teeth and Purifies the Breath;
used and recommended by leading dentists. I re
pared by Drs. J. T. & W. R. Holmes, Dentists, Macon,
ft*. I'or bale by all druggists and dentist#
DRUGS AND MEDICINES
~ BARK AIIO Yi
Not that barque which spreads its satlf
the favoring gale and with every caav i
drawlug taut, sails the sea, a thing of life aud
beauty, but that bark which comes from a
cold and hastens the traveler to that port
from whence there Is no return. For thie
bark use
“COUGH AND LUNG BALSAM.”
It is the best medicine ever presented for
coughs, colds and hoarseness, and for four
seasous has given entire satisfaction. Prloa
25 cents. Prepared only by
DAVID PORTER, Druggist,
Corner Broughton and Habersham streets
J. c. c.
Jipar.eje Jtasiig ho
CLEANS CLOTHES,
Removes all Grease, Paints, Oils, Varnish
Tar, Dirt or Soils froiu any fabric
without injury.
FOR SALE BY
J. R. Haiti wan g-er,
Cor Broughton and Drayton streets.
Also sold by L. C. Strong and E. A. Knapp
To Clean Your Last Winter’s Suit or
Anything? Else Use
“Honsebold Cleaning Fluid.”
It removes grease spots, stains, dirt, etc.,
from woolen, cotton, silk and laces, without
injuring the most delicate fabric.
Prepared only by
DAVID PORTER, Druggist,
Corner Broughton and Habersham streets.
and
Gray Eagle
Livery and Boarding Stable,
Corner Congress and Drayton.
Headquarters for fine turnouts. Personal
attention given to boarding horses.
h3"Telephone 270.
B. DeMartin & Son,
Proprietors.
Savannah Club, Livery S Board Stahhs
Corner Drayton, McDonough and Hull su,
A. W. HARMON, Prop’r.
Headquarters for fine Turn-Outs. Personal
attention given to Boarding Horses. Tele
phone No. 205.
LUMBER AND
BACON, ToHNSONTcO
PLANING MILL,
LUMBER
AND
VV OO 1 > YAR D.
LARGE STOCK OF
DRESSED AND ROUGH LUMBER
AT LOW PRICES!
ee-Good Lot of Wood Just Received.
J. J. McDonough. T. b. Thompson.
Ed. Burdett.
McDonough & co.,
Office: 116 J Bryan street.
fellow Pine Lumber.
Lumber Yard and Planing Mill: Opposite
8., F. & W. Railway Depot,
Savannah, Ga.
Saw Mills: Surrency, Ga., No. 6, Macon and
Brunswick Railroad.
D. C. Bacon, Wm. B. Stillwell,
H, P. Smart.
B. C. BALCO3N & CO
PITCH PINE
-AND—
Cypress Lumber & Timber
BY THE CAR<
Savannah and Brunswick, Ga.
P, O. SAVANNAH, GA.
COJLL !
res > i the Mines
PROMPTLY DELIVERED.
Full and liberal weight guaranteed. Order
by mail, telephone or given to our driver
promptly attended to.
Knickerbocker Ice Co.,
144 .BAY STREET.f?
CLOTHING.
Ni. EEV N,
MERCHANT TAILOR,
(Under Screven House).
Gieat Reductions in Suitings for
the Next 30 Days.
Fine English Suiting, made to order, Irom
825 up. Pants to order from 86 W up.
49-t’all and be convinced. lit guaranteed
on all garments made.
MUST MAKE ROOM FOR SPRING STOCK
49- All orders will receive prompt attention
... ■■ , ... . .v-’r <
7