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4
TH Y IT.
Could I write, with ink unfading,
One brief code for youths and men;
Could I show its all-pervading
Power in progress, I would pen,—
Try it.
Magic words these, born in heaven;
Down by thoughtful angels hurled;
Blighted, mau to doom is driven;
Heeded, they give man the w< "Id-
Try it.
Luck is judgment wed to Labor;
Pluck, the haudmaid of Success;
Toil to Truth should be a neighbor;
Honor brings her own redress;—
Try it.
Starry orbs yet call the student;
Earth’s past age is still unread;
Nations seek the wise, the prudent;
Th tongs and armies must be led;—
Try it.
How did Watt to steain give motion?
Locke, trace purposes of mind?
How Columbus cross the ocean?
How did Luther change mankind?—
They tried it.
Bow Did Homer write his epic?
How did Scott compose his lays?
f low did Mendelssohn, his music?
How did Shakespeare write his plays?—
They tried it.
Thus it was, will be forever:
If “To be” man has in view,
Man must live with firm endeavor
Well to think, then plan, then do; —
'try it.
—T. C. Judkins, in the Current.
BY THE WAVES.
“And why we named her Muriel, is a
mystery to me,” said good Mrs. Doyle,
folding up her mending. “Mary Jane or
Hannah Maria would have been jest as
good and a sight more suitable; but I
read novels when I was young, and I see
that name somewhere, and it kinder
£ leased me—so I must go and call her
[Uriel,”
And, indeed, Muriel Doyle was little
like her sweet, ethereal name. A strong,
lithe, healthy fisherman’s daughter, with
brown eyes, brown hair, brown cheeks,
brown hands; hands that could wield an
oar or trim a sail as well as her father’s
own. A veritable child of nature, wild
and free as the place she loved so well;
and yet, not ignorant and uncultured.
Muriel Doyle was well versed in the lore
of books, and nature had given to her the
ease and grace of dignity that others get
by culture.
“My sea bird!” her father called her;
and the name was like the wild, glad
young thing. When they could not find
her nb mt the house, they always sought
her by the st% and they always found
her, strolling idly down the beach, sitting
among the rocks, and watching the waves
with dreamy eyes, chasing the surges
like u child. She was a child in guile
less innocence and freedom from art; but
in maturity of brain and heart she was a
woman at seventeen.
Half a mile from the cottage of the
Doyles, a grand new hotel was being
built; another season would see their
quiet home turned into a seaside resort,
and Muriel was not pleased at the thought
of the coming chungAany
wild rocks and lonely bench as they Werm...
and she did not want tqSye th.
to fashionable promeniwfes. .ftuklfcrialX
, tthWi refaction could hot cha/w*' the as
pect of affairs; she kiihw that the sash
tonables were surely cofflfffgr*
She was thinking, rather sorrowfully,
and perhaps n little unamiably of that,
as she wandered down the sands one
day, thinking how she was soon to be
from her favorite haunts, and a
bright tin mo came into her eyes and
cheuks, and she stamped her foot upon
the sand and exclaimed aloud:
“They shall not drive me away! I will
not erile myself from the seu because
they come!” And then she stopped smi
th nly and caught her breath; for turn
ing around a point of jagged rocks, Mu
riel was Upou the vanguard of the in
vaders.
Two young men—one of them a com
monplace, hlmdsomish young fellow—sat
upon a stone, and held a portfolio upon
his knee—a sketeher. The other stood
leaning against a rock beside him, and
lookiiuj dftwn indifferently upon the
half-finish cd sketch on his companion's
knee A tall, grave man. of twenty
eeven, perhaps, with a magnificent head,
Wrom which he had removed Jus hat;
dark, half-curling short hair; eyes blue,
„ v and-Virk and splendid; a fare that was
in beauty, and a commanding,
etatdy figure, half covered by a loose
cloak flung over one shoulder; a very
man, but grave to sadness; a
M man who had suffe red, and not lightly.
Muriel hesitated for a moment whether
* .to gv back or to pass them; then a proud
* hnpuUe Inkle her to go on. Both looked
her light step Crossed the sands,
and both bowed when she slightly
wlancod at them. They were gentlemen.
She inclined her head a little aa she
The next moment she heard the young
er of the t wo whisper
“What a striking face! Wonder if
•hr would let me sketch her!”
“Hush! She will hear you," warned
the other; and Muriel, turning, saw the
half contemptuous curl of his lip.
“1 have heard,” she said, quietly, com
ing back. “You may sketch my face, if
you choose.”
“Maylt A thousand thanks.”
“None at all, if you please,” returned
Murid, composedly seating herself, and
drawing her shawl about her. “lam
curious to see a picture of in v self. Shall
I take off my halt”
It you will bo so g»x»d,” and Muriel
lifted the broad hat from her sunny
brown etuis, and quietly proceeded to sit
for her protrait
Ihe young man sketched busily away,
making no effort to conceal his admira
of Uis “subject;” an admiration to
which Muriel was quite indifferent
Meanwhile Ute second gentleman, who had
not spoken stood silentlv studring the
fact that Mb companion sketched.
h was well worth studying; no ordi
nary sane, though not wonderfully beau
tihil. Th< bmwn eyes and graceful
features, and wailing, red lips were pretty
and attractive, but there was a certain
power and attrsrtiun in Muriel*# face
Which it did irot owe to its prettinesa,
which would have beau Ihsra 0.111, had
rise grown phis.
It was an expression not easily trans
ferred to paper, and the tall gentleman
looked somewhat contemptuously upon
the finished sketch, when it was handed
to him for judgment; then he remarked:
“The lady is a better judge,” and
passed it to Muriel.
She glanced at, shook her head and
smiled, and returned it to the sketchcr.
He color, d a little, as he asked:
“Well, do you like it ? is it good?”
“Tl a ill do; but I could mike a bet
ter,” said Muriel briefly.
“Do you sketch?” he asked, wonder
ingly; and he did not think she saw or
understood his glance at her dress, and
from that to the cottage, which he
guessed was her home. But she did',-
a..d smiled slightly, as she answered:
, “Sometimes.”
“Will you —” he hesitated, then of
fered her his portfolio, “will you show
me a specimen?”
“Y’our face?” queried Muriel, as she
quietly received the materials.
He assented, and bending over the
paper, she shortly returned to him an
outline sketch of his face; not a finished
sketch at all, but so like that it was
wonderful. He looked from the picture
to her, then laughed and said:
“Upon my word, I shall take care how
I display iny amateur attempts again,lest
I flourish them in the fsce of a genius!”
Muriel smiled carelessly, and rising
from her rocky se it, was about to go,
when the silent gentleman spoke:
“Pardon me, would you sketch me?”
For answer, Muriel resumed her seat
and took up her p ncil again. Now and
then, as she worked, she glanced at the
grave stranger, and her own face seemed
to catch the shadow* from it, growing
almost as grave as his. She gave more
finish and completeness to this picture
than she had bestowed upon the first.
As she was about to hand it to the
“original,” a sudden impulse caused her
to withhold it, an arch smile took the
place of her gravity, and bending low
her head, till the curls fell over and con
cealed her work, she added a few strokes
about the mouth and on the brow; then,
with a laugh dancing in her eyes, she
placed it in his hand.
It was his face, as real, as vivid almost
as its reflection in a glass; but his face
transfigured. The cloud of sadness was
replaced by a smile: such a warm, trank,
glowing smile as gladdens the heart to
see it; “the real sunshine of feeling.”
At first he looked at it in a puzzled
way, as if wondering what she had done
to his face, until his companion, looking
over his shoulder, uttered an exclamation
of surprise, and then burst out:
“Owen, I b -lieve she has second sigV
She has drawn you as you looked six
years ago, in the college days. Old fel
low, if you knew how smiles become you,
you would not be so charry of them.”
“Owen’s dark-blue eyes brightened
for a moment with something akin to the
smile that glorified them in the picture;
then he sighed and his face grew sad
again.
“You are a strange girl,” he said, look
ing curiously at Muriel. “Do you know
what I would give to feel again as you
have made me look?”
“You are rich, I suppose,” answered
Muriel, simply: “and you would give
your whole fortune—at least, I would, in
your place.”
swept across
lie cried, passion-
back and addressing
Muri- ; her tui th * picture: and
then, as|ieh«i was turning rtvWFfre fresr
tatingly asSed her name.
■‘Muriel Doyle,” she quietly repltod*
“And mine is Egbert Owen,” he s«t!d.
“Will you remember my name and me?”
Sht- bowed, smiled, and walked lightly
away, never glancing back, though she
knew they watched her till the rocks hid
her from their sight.
“What a handsome man he was,” she
soliloquized, walking up the beach toward
her home. “But how sail and grave, and
how sorrowfully he spoke. I wonder what
his trouble, is perhaps he is in love and
she won’t have nim. She must he a perfect
idiot!”
Muriel did rememlier Egbert Owen.
That was her first adventure, and he was
its hero (for she scarcely thought of the
others); but she never thought to meet
him again.
The winter passed away and the sum
mer came again, and witn it came the
crowd of visitors to the new hotel.
Muriel’s quiet haunts were made to
ring with gayety, and since their seclusion
was gone their ehiefest charm was lost
for her. Yet still she sometimes sought
them, at times when she was not likely to
meet the fashionables. On one of these
occasions she was sitting among the
rocks when two women eaiue and sat
down, nearer her, but out of sight, and
talked.
Muriel scarcely heard them, until one
mentioned a familiar name; then she
listened intently.
“Yes,” one of them had remarked. * she
was married yesterday so the banker from
Chicago.
“I expected it long ago.” sagely ob
served lady number two. “By the way,
did you ever hear of the affairs between
her and Egbert Owen?”
“No, indeed; what about it?”
“She was engaged to him,” said the
other. ‘ ‘lt was some years ago, before he
went to California. He just about wor
shiped her. they say, and she pretended
to be very devoted to him; it is likely
she wanted his money. Well, one day,
she got hold of that trumped-up story
about insanity in his family, and she
broke off the engagement all in a flash.
“The poor fellow was half crazy, but
she would not listen to que word from
him. She treated him shamefully,called
him an imposter, and accused him of de
ceiving her, and sent him away, half
maddened. My cousin, Dr. Thorne,
says if there bad been a particle of in
sanity in his veins, it would have shown
iteelf then. But that is all a story. The
only instance of insanity in the family
was a sort of cousin by marriage; but
that was enough to make a rumor, of
course.”
“An that explains Egbert Owen’s mel
ancnoly ways, I suppose?” queried the
other.
“Yes; he has never been the same
man since. He went off to California,
and only came back last year. He is so
changed, poor fellow. Was that the
lunch bell? Dear me! we shall be late!”
and the two hastened up to the hotel.
And Muriel went home, and thought
more than ever of Egbert Owen.
The summer and the early autumn
waned, and the guests, one" •by one.
went home from the great hotel
by the sea, till only two or three
were left; and Muriel took to walking on
the sands and chasing the surges again.
She -was standing on the beach, one glor
ious autumn day, watching the sea-gulls
at their play, when a step came to her
side.
“Muriel Doyle!”
She turned quickly, knowing the voice.
It was Egbert Owen. A smile, that she
was quick to see, came into his face, and
he said, gently:
“You have remembered me, then?”
“I have remembered you, Mr. Owen.”
“Am I changed?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied slowly, looking into
his face, and smiling into eyes that
would smile back now. “Yes, you are
happier.” t
“I am happier, Muriel Doyle,” he re
sponded. Then he talked a little, of the
sea-view and the birds, and went away.
But he came again the next day, and
the next, and Muriel learned that he was
staying up at the lonely hotel. Every
day, now,he came to meet her on the shore
and she walked with him up and down
the long, even stretch of sand; and the
hour when they met came to be brightest
of the long, bright twenty-four to Muriel.
She loved Egbert Owen; she did not seek
to believe otherwise.
“Muriel,” he said to her one day, when
they sat together by the sea; “Muriel, I
am going away next week.”
‘ ‘Going away I” Her cheeks grew pale,
and her hand grasped tightly the bit of
stick she was twirling.
“Yes; will you go with me, Muriel ?”
The color came back to her cheek, and
she looked into his eyes with a shy, soft
light in the brown depths of her own,
but she did not speak.
“Listen, Muriel, while I tell you my
story,” he said.
And he held her little brown hand in
his while he told her the story that she
had heard before. The story of his un
happy love for a woman who had been
so false to him, and made his life so sad.
“She is married now, ”he added. “I
presume she will be happy with her hus
band ; I hope she will. I have ceased to
care for her. ”
Muriel did not tell him then that she
had heard the story before.
“Yes,” answered Muriel.
Mrs. Doyle, who will not go to live in
the city, but likes to visit her daughter
there, insists that the reason she knows
Muriel’s husband is a little conceited
about his handsome face, is because the
only picture in his own room is a pencil
sketch of himself. •
“And the frame cost S3OO, if you’ll
believe me!” she told Mr. Doyle.
Davy Crockett in Congress.
Davy Crockett was the roughest dia
mond that ever sparkled in the House of
Representatives. Reared in the cabin of
his father, a revolutionary soldier, who
was a pioneer settler in Tennessee, he be
came noted as a marksman, a bear :
hunter and an Indian fighter. In due
time he was sent to the legislature, and
in 1827 he”came to Congress. Wearing
a home-pun suit, witlv a, madg,
from the skin of a parser he had
ine attention, and ;
the absurd were UM4 ujf his
Hetvi negoadst&rierf, but
i' -parr <>t t&.ranx
ecM» ■
ever, wt ,( aine arrayed against'
( » on an Indian bill, and
xviien the President sent a friend to him
to tell him that he must support the bill
if he desire ? re election he replied, “I
believe the measure is unjust and wicked,
and I shall tight it, let the consequences
be what they may. I am willing to go
with General Jackson in everything I be
lieve right and honest, but beyond this
I wont go for any man in creation. I
would sooner be honest and politically
blanked than hypocritically immortal
ized.” The Whigs took him up, and he
visited Philadelphia, New York and Bos
ton, receiving marked attention and
many presents in each city. When he re
turned to Tennessee and went into the
canvass he found that President Jackson
was too much for him, and he was beaten
by about 300 votes. He went to Texas,
where he fought gallantly, and was
killed when the Alamo was taken and its
garrison was slaughtered. His son.
John W., served as a whig in Congress
from 1837 to 1841. He then removed to
New Orleans, where he edited a paper
for a while, and then returned to Ten
nessee, where he died in 1852. Several
lives of Crockett were published, written
by others. Os the many sayings credited
to him the most popular one was, “Be
sure you’re right; then go ahead.”—Bon
ton Budget.
Origin of Social Games.
The city of Salem. Mass., is celebrated
for her witches, and their persecutors,
and her East Indian commerce in the
past; and for the Indian museum and
“oldest church” at the pn sent day, and
to these we may arid the honor of pub
lishing the first modern social games that
achieved any considerable popularity in
this country. In 1843 Miss Annie W.
Abbott, of Beverly, a clergyman's
daughter, offered for publication to Mr.
8. B. Ives, of Salem, a new game of cards
which she called “Dr. Busby.” Although
the price asked was very low, there was
no recognized demand for such merchan
dise and the manuscript was declined,
hut later Mr. Ives decided to undertake
its publication, which proved an immense
and unexpected success. This game will
l>e remembered by many of the parents
of the present day as among the earliest
ever learned and posaUriy played at first
on the sly, fearful of a reprimand should
the report reach headquarters that they
were “playing cards."— Good Houeekeep
ts>9 - - -
A Fortune for a Patent.
The JfecAmuW /t. says that Ben
jtunin Lauth, Sr., the inventor of the
process of making nail plate out of old
steel rails, has sold the right of his pat
ent to five Eastern firms. Mr. L&uth claims
that by his process at least $lO per ton
can be saved on the manufactured prod
uct, as compared with the present meth
ods of proauction. Mr. Lauth will re
ceive $l5O per day for one year and S3OO
per day for the remaining sixteen years
of the life of the patent.
A CATTLE RANCH.
LIFE OF THE COWBOYS WHO
GUARD THE HERDS.
The Process of Rounding Vp the
Cattle —A Night Stampede
. of Cattle During a
Blizzard.
Theodore Roosevelt, who has a cattle
ranch near Medora, on the Northern Pa
cific railroad says:
“The cowboy is not sympathetic, I am
sorry to say. If a man cannot ride a
horse, he gets little comfort when thrown
to the ground. The cowboy divides hu
manity into two classes, the sheep and the
goats, those who can ride bucking horses
and those who can’t. He doesn’t care
much for the goats. At the round-ups
and during hard periods of work the cow
t boy is generous, full of good-fellowship,
and brimming over with courage.
“The great round-ups usually occur in
the spring. All the cattle in a certain
section are gathered together, separated
and branded. This is where the hardest
work comes in for the cowboys. My
round-up extends along the Little Mis
souri river for about 150_miIes and is about
twenty-five miles wide. Each ranch
owner has a wagon and relays of horses
for his cowboys. In prosecuting the ar
duous work some sixty or a hundred cow
boys are in the great drive and each has
seven or eight horses. The’wagons with
the loose horses move down the river some
six or seven miles and establish a camp
•there for the day and night. Then these
•hundred or so cowboys stretch across the
cattle region and drive toward the camp.
The line usually converges to a given
point, driving all the cattle into the se
cured section. The bunch of cattle gath
ered are then watched or held together
during the night by a few cowboys. The
rest go to bed after eating dried pork
and beans. The bed to which they retire
is very primitive in construction and is
frequently the bare ground. About 3
o’clock in the morning the voice of the
cook can be heard: ‘Time for breakfast,
boys; turn out.’ Then there is bustle
until the mount is made for the day’s
drive. Sometimes one cowboy will use
four or five horses in one day. He not
only has to gallop nearly all the time, but
frequently put his horse at full speed.
“What they all dread is the blizzard
at night, which frequently causes the
cattle to stampede. I remember the last
round-up. We had all turned in for a
good night’s rest. About midnight the
alarm was sounded for us all to turn out
and mount. The fierce blizzard was
sweeping down upon us; rain, hail and
wind. There were about 2,000 head of
cattle in the bunch. It was a wierd
sight, The boys, with waterproofs on
and hats drawn down, were seated like
specters a few feet apart, just in front of
' the herd, with their backs to it. The
dark bunch of cattle were as close as they
could get to each other, their long horns
striking together like castanets and their
tails pointed to the wind. The bunch
was fan-shaped.
“In front the cowboys spread out
far enough to overlay either flank of the
bunch. When the cattle would get too
restless the cowboys would turn their
i hordes and try to drive them into the
’ n fnry.
There wa a mad bleat f n the terror
’ Ths cowboys whooped
5 madeWwdfspers're effort to I'’”'!’ die
h together, . It was like rushing
gainst the dashing waves to keep them
rah wbk eiWt and nos
trils distended, they broke through the
cordon and rushed on in every direction
with the fury of the wind and the storm.
Each man was for himself then. With
spur and whip, over rough ground, in
the darkness, lit up by great sheets of
lightning, we dashed after, each cowboy
selecting a bunch and following it until
day. The bunch I followed carried me
seven or eight miles from the camp.
When I drove it back the next day I had
to saddle a horse and start again. I was
thirty-six hours in the saddle. Just that
experience convinced me that the cow
boy’s life was not a path strewn with
roses. It might be supposed that many
accidents take place in stampedes and
cutting our cattle from bunches. I only
remember one that was fatal. The cows
and calves have to be cut out every even
ing from the main bunch and put in a
corral, where the calves are branded.
Cutting out is hard work. A cowboy
rides in the herd and slowly drives the
cow out. When he gets her separated,
then he dashes at her and drives her away
as rapidly as possible. Frequently the
cow suddenly turns and rushes back. If
the cowboy is on a trained horse, it turns,
too, without guiding, and heads off the
cow. One of the cowboys was cutting
out a wild cow riding at full speed. Cow,
rider and horse went against a steer,
rolled over, and, well, the neck of the
cowboy was broken. I rode up and
looked at him, as did the other cowboys.
‘He was a good'un;’ ‘Never flunkered;’
‘Dead shot;’ ‘Dead honest,’and ‘Sorry
he is gone,’ were tha eulogies passed by
the cowboys. They see a good deal of
this thing, and of course cannot give
much time to bewailing the many fatal
ties that occur. When cows and calves
are put in the corals the branding be
gins.”
Two Generous Wall Street Men.
; While Mr. Cammack stopped at the
Windsoi he was regularly shaved by a
certain barber there, who was as atten
tive as an Oriental slave. When the bar
ber had a chance to buy a shop and start
in business on his own account Mr. Cam
mack let him have $2,500. This was
generous, but it is not surprising in a
man who, it is well-known, once lent Jay
Gould $2,000,000 without as much as a
scrap of paper as security.
The barber story about Mr, Cammack
recalls one about James R. Keene. One
day, when in the zenith of his financial
power, be hurriedly hailed a rickety look
ing coupe, more intent on getting up town
quick than going in style. The man was
shrewd and attentive, and pleased the
speculator. Mr. Keene became a steady
Patron, and one day dumbfounded the
cabman by presenting him with a hand
some new coupe and a fine, strong horse.
—Pf Cc.felphia P>>au.
One of Uncle Sam’s mail bags at Grass
Valley, Cal., was destroyed by the gnaw
ing of some rata, which had a strong
scent sch wedding cake.
The Pride of the Family.
“The Great Convemebs” is the title
of a book by Dr. Mathews. It does beat
all how even the beat men will jibe and
jeer at the women.
~ ° (y c tY ”
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GENUINE INDIA ®E-'
CURRYPOWDER
I Prosjecus lor “Star.”
BLOW YOUR WHISTLE!
HERE WE COME!
THEWEEKLY STU,
A paper devoted to the interest of
Dou glasville and Doughg County
managed by those who understand
i heir business. It is our aim to make
the Star one of the best papers in the
State—-in fact, a paper for the people.
Ho* is your time to Subscribe!
Itrms, 90 cents Cash pet
annum; on credit, 51.15,
Ok, we will send you the Star -me
year and the Household Beacon, a
Democatic Journal, eight pages, foi
SI.OO. cash.
Advertisers cannot find a better
medium than the Star to let the pe:«.
pie know what they htve for .sale oi
what they are going to get to roll
Como up, fellow citizens, and Uelj
us in this enterprise and we guarantee
to give you value received for youi
money.
Address all communications, &c., b
THE M STAB,
DOUGLASVILLE, CA
.•-S” i
||TTEIS!
r . his inedtoine, combining Iron with p.m,
. ■ etable tonics, quickly and completely
tires Dyspepsia, Indigestion, Weakness,
! tnpiire Blood, Malaria,Chills and Fevers,
~ml Neuralgia.
It is an unfailing remedy for Diseases of the
Kidneys and Elver.
it is invaluable for Diseases peculiar to
Women, and al! who load sedentary lives.
II <loes not injure the teeth, cause headache,or
■since constipation— other Iron medicines do.
It enriches and purifies the blood, stimulates
■(■> appetite, aids the assimilation of food, re
•v.-s Heartburn and Belching, and strength
*.!;e muscles and nerves.
>r I utermittent Fevers, lassitude, Lack of
rgx &c., it has no equal.
The genuine has above trade mark and
- ..'<l red lines on wrapper. Take no other.
, .... ■ :•<:(» tV < IIKXIEAL <O_ KALTIMORK, MU.
LITTLE GIANT
BTDRAtrUC
COTTON PRESS.
AWARDED
Grand Gold Medal
BEING
First Premium on Cotton Presses,
AT THE
NEW ORLEANS POSITION.
We have been malting these presses for several
year*, and for ease of working, perfection
of machinery and sntiwfaetion to the
••er, they are without a rival.
We make them with boxes from 8 to 12 feet deep
With the deep box but little tramping is needed.
We make a bale of from 500 to 650 lbs. weight.
Our presses work by hand or steam power, as
may be desired. Prices vary according to eixe and
kind of Press desired.
Onr LITTLE CUNT HYDRAI LIC PRESS la
THE BEST Cotton Press made.
Write fvr a Circular, Manufactured by
J. W. GA RD WELL A CO.,
ATTESTS WANTED. Richmond, Va,
<~»TVT sso
PHILADELPHIA SINGEH
. n—jT- Including Tucker, r.
nr»x of * Hemtm-r«», and
'er.and tmmd mitt.! osiw
pieces. Warreattd 3 year*
■SjWIa jHrt heii-c before you puv
one cent. Ao ofA*r WK<r.«
yttarhine- tnetnuidef i’ ! ‘
VnUeti Mate* dhiren *. »«•*■-•
IT (M'W' r - The?
All “«wne. durable, itrei Urn'-
- . 'TrniMibie tine a* •’be?
jaaie«charge two t4O te S-. 0
Purehase from ujj and jwj ’reg-. M £-
IMILH WHl’4ta!b
The loudest and
piercingly « bri 11 ’
whistle msv s **. Can
te Lrnrd from one *’*• •
A «’• »
Of a ■!>>-< Sih ’ * r "
tan- -er-1 re W . S ’
CWTritire. tne < : si.
ab * ma e r. a tvsn
N farwe- tbcoui feavs
i • i I'*, b.
tna.il. r or rents in
stßsr-.p.;. Order now.
Cwt, ttemHltt, «U.
ALL-MAW Jk .
•’•.L ADEt.PHI.t. i’LNV. -