Saturday Evening Mail, Volume 8, Number 40, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 30 March 1878 — Page 6

THE MAIL

A PAPER FOR THE PEOPLE.

HE DIDN'T SELL.

I blieve 111 sell the farm, Jane Ann, and bur house in town Jones made an offer yesterday—hell pay tbe money down. He said be wasn't anxious, bat be had the

CMKII to spare,

And rem In Jed me that nowadays caeh sales are very rare. The farm aint worth much, anyway, the soli is mighty thin, And the crops it yields are hardly worth the putlln'of them In Besides that pesky railroad that the*re puttln' through this way. Will cut the old place slap In two-Jones told me so to-day

I ain't afeard of work, yon know—my dadThere ata'ta slngfe \axf hair in Nehemiah's head.' There want no 1 nzy hairs, I know, In that old head ofjils. For he did the work of three hired men In spite of rheumatlz.

No, ne, I'm not afraid to work—of that I dent complain— I've tred to work with wlllln' hands In sunshine and In rain And I've alius wore a cheerful face, except at times, maybe, Wnen tli giddy, head-strong steers of mine would 'haw' when I yelled 'gee!'

Perhaps It may be sic ful for a mortal to find fault With tolling bard both day acd night, if he only makes his salt, But I've thought while cradlin rain-lodged oats oi the side-hill over there. That my crow was most too hefty for_ a small-boned man to wear.

It's alius been my custom when a plowln' stumpy soil ^To hum some goo4, old-fashioned hymn—

It sorter eased my toll

"But I tell you what, Twas pretty hard to smother words of sin Whene'er a spring? root 'ud break and me on th whack met shin.

I mention these 'ere things, Jane Ann, because I'd like to lead A peaceful, blameless kind o' life, from all temptations freed, Bnt as long as Hessian flies exist and tater bugs abound There'll be some tall profanity at times a floatlu' 'round, -"Bo now if you-'re agreed, Jane Ann, IH sell the farm to Jones—

He'll find that what it lacks in soil is well male up in stones— And we'll move Into the town next week—

Wha's that you're sayln', wife— You'll never leave the "good old place as long as you have life

Well, there It goes again, I vum! Go on aud have your say— You'r bound to wear the breeches—in a figeerntlve way But you'll Hud I'll have my way this time, old girl, as well asyou, 80 if you're bound to stay right here, by -s granules—I'll f»tny too!"

SUSIE GARLAND.

TlIE TORY OF A POOR GIRL

BY WIRT 8IKK8.

CHAPTER XIII. THIS YAWNING GULP.

Who went blindly on for some time, liurrying up tbe Bjwwry to the direction Of Ri vlngton street, with no thought, no feeling, but ou« of alarm.

Once or twice she looked back over her shoulder to see if shw was fallowed by one of those terribl« men with a s'ar on bis breast and a o*laok club iu bis hand.

When she came to Rivington srreot, and was about to turn Jnto it, she stopped Short, with aory of palp.

No! she dared not go back to thai place—to confrout Mrs. Movnahan with nothing! All tho long week, w» she had borne iu silence the Irishwoman's taunts aud doubts, she bad said to heiself that it was only for a few days, that she would get her pay sud give tbe woman her money, aud then she should bu tor lured no more.

But now Oh! if there was any miserable rookery in this wide citv that wouki

bide

her from the evos of the dis­

appointed, angry

landlady,

she would

fly to it for shelter! But, go back to tbe poor home she had left? Never! till ahe could carry with her tbe money to appease tbe wrath that lay In wait for her there.

Poor Suslo! She did Mrs. Movnahan it\justic* now. The widow's greatest fault as her love for her bottle. It was •only her rage at her own weak betrayal Of herself that made her torture Susie so. Had she gone back empty banded, and told her story, Mrs. Moynahan would have sorrowed with her. But even that wgultl not have brought the money back, and It was needed in that miserable home, every cent of it—none tbe loss needed because of the blaok bottle.

Susio turned and crossed to the other aide of the Bowery. Despair more deadly than any she bad yet felt was creeping over her now. Where should •he go llore was tho night again—the terrible, dark nl«ht, when tbe citv biased wlt'i a million llghta, and none among th«un all for her.

Ana there was not one dime—not one cent—in berpurse and she was hungry. Hunnrv! in all the wide vocabulary of the lglish language, there is not one word more terrible in its sound than this. Despair is terrible, but It hns its poetical side. Guilt is terrible, but there have been guilty ones beautiful as tbe sirens of a dream. But hunger! therein lies wrapt all that tongue can tell of barren, harsh, tierce and unpoetic wee. For we all know hunger as a dally friend, whom it la our daily pleasure to appease, and we bid him as the most welcome of all guests totur raoet luxurious banquets. And it is so easy ta satisfy hunger!—except—When you -are hungry and cannot satisfy your hunger, then you will know!

She took no further notice which way bar fbtateps tended. What did it matter Tho busy crowd hurried by, with talk, with laughter, notlciug her no more than if she had not been there. It brushed her aarunenta as it passed up and down, and heeded her as little as if the had been an Invisible spirit, wan dering ghost like in her utter loneliness. It swept her onward like'a bit of drift, wood in a brawling stream, and aaldly aa the stream tossea the wood upon •erne jutting rock, it jostled her aside at a crossing, and she turned into one of the darker streets leading to Broadway.

She walked on, still without aim, alone with her stern companions, Hunger and Despair.

She oatne Into Broadway—brilliant, daaallng, ever beautiful Broadway, with It* fkr-reaching rank* of shining lamps Its gay shop windows, tempting every aeaae with luxurious display Its deep, leng shops, where grovea.of gleaming chandelier*, twinkled away Into the Infinitude of ever-repeating mirrors its mines of wealth, its thousand haunla of pleasure and 01 sin—Broadway, with Its roar of omnibuses and carriages, Its aeetblug current of Ufs, and tta loneliness as of a desert to this wandering girl.

Hours she wandered up and down, crossing and re-crossing the street, amid

the oaths of angry driven: panting ud retracing tier etepe without purpoee, aandering almleealy on, till Mr bd were like ice In the melting enow and slush, and her evea were hot like fire amid the slitter or all

the llghta. globes of light the doors of the

The ralnbow-hued

which glittered over theaters, syllabling their namea In letters of magic the gleaming prismatic stars which sparkled like mountainous diamond beapa before minstrel balls: tbe gaudy transparencies which lined the aidewalk on either side, coarse lampa of sin, and shame, and not—all spoke te her sense of unknown Paradise gardens, where there were music and laughter and the perfume of lace* and of flowers, and -no pain. She had never seen the inside of a theater, a negro minstrel hall, nor a concert saloon to her, they were all of tbe same world, and all spoke of pleasure, and of warmth and happiness.

She paused by tbe gleaming portal of a great theater, and saw the pleasure seeking throng stream in. Girlaof her own age there were, with bright bouquets in their hands and happy smilee on their faces, who passed in. leaning on tbe arms of brothers or of lovers and she sighed with weary envy of their sonny lot, and watched them wistfully as they went down the long avenue of ligbt-whicb led to the green doors opening for them on a temple of delights and no one in tbe throng had word or look tor ben No one save a policeman, who pushed her on tbe shoulder and bade her move on, at sight of whom her startled eyes gleamed with newborn terror, ana she fled again, into the darkness or a by-street.

The irresistible temptation of Broadway soon drew her back, to wander again in its dazzle—to look again with her hungry eyes into tbe windows of restaurants, from whose depths floated the perfume of delicious viands, whose odors were like tbe tortures of Tantalus but looking ever over her shoulder, she was away before the man with a shield on his breast could come to bid her move on once more.

And at last her eyes began to dwell with a wild fascination on tbe painted women who passed in rustling silks, and no outward sign to her pure vision of their inward shame. These womea were happier than she (so she thought)— at least they were not hungry at least they bad warm clothing at least they had homes to which they could go when they were tired and she bore in her imagination, as most girls do who have read novels, gorgeous faneffes concerning tbe gilded parlors lined with velvet lounges, and Jmng with vast mirrors, where she dre&mea they dwelt. And while for one wild moment she stood still, with her heart beating in a tumult of desperation—tempted, tempted, she knew not to what—there flashed in her face a blinding glare of light as if the noonday sun bad burst in full glory to the zenith, pouring a fierce flood of flaine upon her trembling form, and she started from that delirious dream with a cry of terror.

It was only a calcium light upon a theater balcony, which had suddenly turned its white glare upon her' to sweep far down tbe street with a radiance so bright that tbe gas lamps paled their flickering light to the semblance of glow-worms.

Still on she wander*d, her ear catching the soundsof mu»io and laughter, the voices of song and the ecbo of ap plause, that c*inu up from out these baseuaent-bauuiing concert saloons, more distinctly heard now that the roar of Broadway was growing more subdued with the waxing of tbe night.

Then came back upon her memory the words of Mrs. Moynahan—came to tempt her terribly iu this bour when she was weakest. Iler curly head! her bright red lips! These were prized in tbe concert saloons, and tbe girls who earned tlieir money with their beauty bad 'nothing to do but to sit at the tables and listen to tbe music, aud wait upou the guutlemen who came in.'

Should *he try that life? Would it be wrong? Deep in her trembling heait she felt the dauger and the wrong, oven as she asked herself the question. She knew that girls who trade in their beauty always do wrong. And yet, there was a wide difference In her mind between simply going down those basement stairs to ask for employment, and adopting boldly the dreadful trade of those walkers in the street on whom she had looked but now. 'At least,' she whispered to herself, 'there can be no barm in trying. If I see danger, I can go away again.'

She turned to the descent with a slew, reluctant movement, and placed her lev foot on the first step of the stairway leading down.

One Instant she hesitated—passed her hand wearily aoross ber throbbing temples—and looked back. Tbe calcium iigbt flashed, dazzling her vision with its brightness again, and as if in sudden fear that she should be seen at that mo ment by the passers by, she descended the stairway, pushed open the green baize door at its foot, and passed from sight.

CHAPTER XIV, HKYSINGKR'S THEORY.

Among the passers by, whose faces were thrown into dark shadow, to Susie's eyes, by the fltshing calcium light, was George Heysinger.

He came up the street in the glare of that stream o£ light, and be saw Susie Garland as she locked back, from the concert saloon stairs.

Heysinger's dog trotted behind him, and on Ileysinger's arm was a friend and fellow artist—though the latter wrought bis work through written words, and not on canvas. •Did you observe that girl, Miles?* 'What girl, most vague Heysinger? The street being full of people, you speak of one girl as if there were noother.' 'The girl who went down into1 that man-trap yonder.' 'You mean the concert saloon, I suppose?' said Miles. 'Concert saloon, moat vague Miles! Yes, if that be a concert saloon where there Is no concert and no saloon—where a rheumatic pianola pologlses for tbe one, and a cramped, ill smellingoellar for the other—where the visitors are one half sharpers, and one half rustic fools— where tbe attraction la not music, and not dancing, but simply vice, in the shape of painted and petticoated waiters, with whom modesty, decency, virtue, and beauty are all alike remlnia sencea merely. If yoa call that a concert aa loon, ft is you who are vague, my friend. I call it a man trap.'

Tbey were walking alowly on aa they

Tbey

talked. •Bnt tbe girl,' said the other—who's tbe girl? An acquaintance?' 'I have met bar twice In ray life.' •Once were enough. Yon never do a taoe.' 1 1 forget more than I remember —like all the reat of tba world. Our memories are rotten thing*, at beet. Time ruba out alcuoet all the marks life makea on memory, and tboae which remain are smeared Into each other, aa I amear tbe eotora of a failure on the eaael with tconoclattic thumb. Thete waa a face I aaw ten yean ago in Arcadia—the face ot a little country girl who to by tbia time

.wife. I fancied I ahouid remember thai Ihoa forever. Well! The Ikea of that

Eaa

lrl we aaw go down Into yonder den robbed out tbe face of the Arcadian child In my memory, every llneJ Some likenees In tbla girl to the little country maiden a truck my fancy when I saw her first, and aince the child free la obliterated. Tblaoneremainatnitaatead.' •Oh!la that all? I thoughtperbapa there was a story connected with the girl.' •Yeu thought? Well, and with what girl who goes down snob ataira la there not a story oonuected?' •Ah! of count! But they are not In teresUng atoriee generally* and do no good.' •To yoo, with whom atoriee are but warea to sell in the market plaoe •Like your pictures?' said the other, meaningly. 'Forgive me, Milea. I did yon wrong. The girl has a story, my friend—I know only two pages in it. 1 saved her from going over a precipice one night.' •A precipice? You're always talking riddlea, Heysinger.' 'A precipice—in Houston street, not for from Greene.' 'Oh! ah—I see. You saved her from thai? Then wbat'a abe doing at this time of the ulght, going down tboae stains?' 'Exactly—there are some pages missing from the atory, you see. Perhaps you can supply them—you've a lively fancy. Because there's a life boat by when one storm is raging, shall there be no more storms? Tbe gulfs which open at the feet of tbe poor girl in New York are as numberless as the devilish devices of libertinism. I saved her from one—she fell straightway into another. Then she tried to drown herself. That was the second time I met her.' •So, you saved her soul the first time you met her—ber body tbe next! In such a case as that, I think I might remember her face myself. You're a curious fellow, George! I don't know what to make of you, I confess. You lead a life as careless, for all your friends can see, as that of any other bachelor artist in the town. We, who know you —or who flatter ourselves we know you —we have an idea that your life is just like ours. If I were asked' to picture your daily existence, I should my there was nothiug in it worth an author's attention. It seems commonplace enough. If I dr« iu at your studio, I find you there, smoking your pipe, painting your pictures—just like any other humdrum fellow—no mysterious absences, no evidences of womankind anywhere—nothiug, in fact, to excite any profounder query than 'How are you?' Then, in tbe evenings, you are always about, among us somewhere—at the opera, the theatro, or Wherever the rest or us go— and, in short, a more commonplace life than yours one would think the city did not hold.'

How does all this make me curious, Miles?. I thought your theory was that all lives are coiiimonplace, at least, too commonplace to interest you.'

Wait a bit. It is just because your life seems to be modelled on this every day fashion that you puzzle me so, at times, by the things you talk of. Here is this girl. You have just told me, with an iudifferenca of manner as if it were your daily employment to resoue innocence from the spoiler, and drag suicides out of the fiver, of having saved her virtue once and her life afterward.' 'Oh! you're getting it all wrong,' said Heysinger, carelessly. 'It was Turk here who }ulied the girl out of tbe river. Gxd dog!'and he stooped to pat the shaggy head.

Turk uttered an acquiescent bark. 'Turk is only less curious than you are, George. But here is the poin': the dog has no words ia which to express bis views, so he has one advantage of you for you, wbo «to these generous aud uot4e acts, and speak of them so carelessly, you seem to have no sympathy with the erring. You sneer at tbe efforts of philanthropists to rescue fallen women and degraded men—you

Go no further!-' interrupted Heysinger. 'You have stated the case—aud stated it wrong in tbe main. Look you, Miles! A fallen woman is fallen, a degraded amn is degraded, aud a rotten egg is rotten. When those things are. so, ho who trios to remedy tbe irremediable is a fool. I am no philanthropist, you see! Why? Because philanthropy in these days seems to be another name foi idiocy.'

You are complimentary!' 1 am only candid. What would you think of a farmer wbo had a thousand

lambs, and on bis farm a precipice, over which every day one lamb fell and was killed, and who should occupy himself witfc trying to restore to life the lamb who went over yesterday, iustead of driving his flock away to a place of safety, and fencinK them off from the preci-

fdlot?

iet-?

Would it bo harsh to call him an But this is what your philanthro­

pists are doing, year after yesr, in this wicked city. They waste their energies in trying to save fallen women and hardened criminals, and neglect the inuoeeut who are daily lowing their inno cence—the lambs who are going over the precipice. They build Magdalen asylums, and try to coax from sin the painted Jezebels of tbe town, who laugh at them, and fool them while every day there are thousands of poor girls trein bling on the verge of despair, who would need no coaxing to remain pure. For every one they restore from tbe seethicg hell of crime, a thousand fresh young lives go down into it. Do you know what drag* them down?' •Natural sin, I suppose,' said the other lightly, .* 'No!'cried Heysinger, with flashing eyes. 'Poor bumanltv, bow art thou villified! Not oue girl in a thousaud goes from innocence Into sin for love of sin! Hunger dtags them down! Cold drags them down! Dreary daya and nights of toil and pain—acniog bodies, aching souls, dread rut doubts, mad longings, utter hopelessness of the future— these drag tbem down! And yonder the good Samaritan, as men call him. la trying to coddle some loathsome harlot into a pretense of reform, or shedding tbe tear* of maudlin sympathy over some foul wretch in a Water atreet den, whose whole life haa been a crime against nature—yonder ia your good Samaritan on bis knees, with hia back to the vast drove of hungry ejed girls who go and sell their cbaatlty for bread!' •You are very bitter, Heysinger. I know many good men wbo are interested in our city charities, and whatever may be the futility of tbeir efforte to do good, tbey are at least boneat in tbem.' •Who said tbey were not boneat? My word waa idioticl" •Weil, I think yon ought to be more lenient. Yoo ahoold Jiava some reepect for their good intentions." •Ah! bah! Have yon forgotten tbe eort of pavement they have ta bell f' •Oh! well, it'a uaeieas talking with you! I begun by spying yon ware cfcri oue— I end by Baying the same. I torn off here, yoo know. Good night, old fallow.' •Good night, Milaa.' Then be held his friend's band while be added: 'Every man reguiatea bis conduct by th* light he baa, I suppose. I do mina^ I know. I long ago draw tba line, beyood which I sever paaa. Life la abort, and oooe of aa can do much good while ve my

what ,with our own fealfiah concerns and tbe mlatakea we make. I draw tbe line at the edga of tba precipice. There I slop. Tboae wbo go over. I cannot folio*: tboae wbo are tbla aide I will help if I can. Itwaaao with that girl. Her face haa a fascination for me. But I caunot help her—she haa piwi over, beyond my reach. Good night. Come,

Half an boor later, -Heysinger waa In bis bed. Heooold not sleep. That Ihoa bad indeed a fascination for him. In the darkneaa of his chamber It looked upon him, and be could not drive it away. He toaaed uneaally on hia pillow, and at last saidalond: 'What if it should chance that I am wrong?

Turk, lying outside hia chamber door, gave aloud bark. Moved by a feeling which he could not resist, Heysinger aroae and dressed bimaelf, and went out. It was two o'clock in the morning. 'It may be too late,' he said, 'but I will see her if lean."-

He walked awiftly down Broadway, till he reached the stairway down which Suaie had gone.

It was loo late. The stairway was dark tbe concert saloon was cl [TO BE OONTIINTKD.]

RULES OF HOSPITALITY. Sunday Afternoon. True hospitality Is a thing that touches the heart, and never goes beyond the circle of generous impulses. Entertainment with the truly hoepitable man means more than mere feeding ot the body it means an interchange of soul

Slings

ifts. Still it should have its laws, as ail good must have lawa to govern them.

The obligation to be hospitable is a sacred one, emphasized by every moral code known to tbe world and a practical outcome of the secbad great commandment.

There ahould never be a gueat in the house whoae presence requires" any con siderable change in the domestic economy.

However much the circumstances of business or mutual interests may de mand in entertaining a stranger, he should never be taken into tbe family circle unless he is known to be wholly worthy of a plaoe in that sanctum sanotorum of social life but when once a man is admitted to tbe home fireside, he should be treated as if the place was bis always.

1

Tbe fact of an invitation gives neither host or guest right te be master of the other's time, and does net require even a temporary sacrifice of one's entire individuality or pursuits.

A man should never be so much him self as when he entertains a friend. To stay at a friend's house beyond the time for which he is invited la to perpetrate asocial robbery.

To abide uninvited in a friend's home is as much a misdemeanor as borrowing hia coat without his permission. It is debasing tbe coin of friendship to mere dross when a man attempts to make it pay his hotel bills.

The fact of two men having the same occupation in life gives to neither a so cial right to the other's bed1 and board^ A traveling minister has ne more righf to go uninvited to a fellow preacher's house than a traveling shopkeeper has to go uninvited to the house of his fellow craftaman. Men are ordained to the ministry as preachers, teachers and pastors, and not aa private hotel keepers. They who go into the country as uninvited guesta of tbeir farmer friends should be rated as social brigands, and treated accordingly.

These few social maxims are by no means to be taken as a complete code of social laws. Others quite as important will spring up out of the personal experience of every reader of this article, and tbe justice and equity of all may be tested by that infallible standard of so ciety—the golden rule. There can be no true hopitality that in practioe is a violation of this rule and you may safely rest assured that you have given the fullest and most perfect measure of entertainment to your neighbor if you nave done exactly as you would be done

A little boy who went to church was told to remember tbe text which was: Why atandye here all the day idle? Go into my vineyard and work, and whatsoever la right, that I will pay thee.' Johnny came home and'was asked to repeat tbe text. He thought it over a die, and then cried out, 'What do you stand round here doing nuffiu' for? Go into my barnyard ana go to work, and I'll make it all right with you.'

Josh Billing's Almanac says: "About this time look out for oold weather." And it might have added: Keep Bull'a Cough Syrup in readiness.

Dr.

LUTHER BEXBON AT IT AGAIN. [Indianapolis Evening News.] That counterfeit moralist and drunken temperance advocate, Luther Bens n, made a scene in front of the postoffice building, this forenoon, by a mouth attack ott A. £. Sinks. Sinks, it will be remembered, sued Benson for services rendered in writing "Fifteen years in helL" and Benson meeting him to-day poured upon him a torrent of abuse, emphasised by Yibald blasphemy and bagnio expletives. Sinks refrained from back talk or muscular demonstrations, contenting himself with swearing out a warrant for Bensonb arrest on a provoke charge. The temperance lecturer has been drunk for a week or two, during which time he has been reeling about the streets observed by

He has evidently been buildaddition to his fifteen

hundreds. ing an imposing years in hell.

1

After his racket with Sinks, Benson repaired at once to the justice office of Esq. Wright and made an affidavit charging Sinks with blackmailing. He alleges that on the 25th day of January, 1870, tne said A. E. Sinks did unlawfully, feloniously and knowingly send and deliver to Luther Benson, the affiant, a written note signed by the said Sinks accusing and threatening to accuse' the affiant of immoral conduct and of conduct which if true would and did tend to disgrace him the said Luther Benson, accusing him and threatening to accuse him-privately and in the public newspapers of being "a dirty dog. a slanderer, a liar, a hypocrite, a drunkard and a swindling, lecherous, lying villain," with intent to compel the sua Luther Benson to pay the said Sinks money.

A warrant was issued for the arrest of Sinks, and 12 o'clock to-day fixed for the hearing of the case, but at 1 o'clock the constable bad failed to find the defendant. Shortly after making the affidavit, Benson returned to the justice's office, and was so violently abusive in his language that the 'squire was going to have him locked up, but several mends promising to remove and take care of him, the justice allowed him to depart in their charge. His arrest was made a half an hour or so later, however.

WHIRLPOOLS.

[Chicago Times Correspondence.] It is amusing to see how many "Mrs. Proudies" there are in Washington. And it is—not—amusing to see how many nice little wives, and good, plain, mothers are spoiled by a taste of gayety in our republican capital. One member's wife, when she came here first, a few months ago,was really homesick for her village. But after the cards came in to her, and she bega/i to, fully realize that she was the wile of a* member of congress, what airs the country mite took on herself. Ladies whose claim to distinction rested upon their innate refinement and intelligence, and not upon the accidental positions of their husbands, were passed unnoticed save by the faintest smilingless inclination: and the grade or rank of a lady's husband could have been told by a looker-on, by the warmth or coolness with which the wife of the new member welcomed them. The change in the toilet of the lady was marked. Her eye eagerly ran over the dresses of her acquaintances. From a modest lady in lain black silk and smooth locks she urst into the less distinque style of li$ht satin and bare shoulders, and pyramidshaped head with the surrounding thatch of frizzes which hides the broad, beautiful brow and makes every woman look like an idiot. The lady now^ trips to her hired cab every day, and gives her orders to the coachman with an icy, fault-finding tone, which she, poor soul, aoes not know indicates her newness to the luxury of a hired team and livery. Her days area round of ceasless, meaningless toadyism her nights wild revels, where neither sense nor comfort ever 6hows its plain, oldfashioned face. This woman, before her husband's election, would have sat up with her neighbor's sick child. She would have made its tiny grave clothes and put flowers in its dead hands, the while her jyes were misty with sympathy. But new she is spoiled for everything. She will fly her round, fritter away her day, drop out of life, and not a ripple on the tide of fashionable society will show where she has gone down. The wheels of folly roll round forever here. There are halfnaked. women crushed in the cram with semi-respectable people, men and women. There are champagne, and punch, and lobsters, and flowers, ruined toilets, lost tempers, and finally, bitter disappointments and remorse.

Painters Paper. Hangers and Varnishers are hard at work repainting, repapering and varnishing both rooms of our Dry Goods and Carpet establishment. We are also cleaning up all odds and ends of goods, and are offering for a few days some fearfully cheap jobs in Trimming Silks, Satins, Hamburg Edgings, Slipper Patterns, Towels, Belts, Corsets, Tapes, Irish Poplins, Shawls and Ruchings.

Many of these goods are marked at not over one quarter of theii value. Bemnants of Dress Goods and Cloths regardless of what they cost.

Come in the morning and avoid the greater crowd of the afternoon. FOSTER BROTHERS'

New Tojk City Store.

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A CABD.

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By its specific action on the Liver, ia admirably adapted for habitual Constipation or Costlvenees. It never falls to bring the Liver to action. It Is particularly recommended to ladles, as It Is mild and pleasant in its action. ...

TARAXINE

Should be used in all cases of Obronio Ague. It never fails to cure it. Derangement of the Liver, Btomach and Bowels Is the chief cause of this distressing disease. TARAXINK, by its action on Liver, Stomach and Bowels, removes the cause of the, disease.

Por Sale by all Druggists.

A. KIEFER, Prop'r

INDIANAPOLIS.

Sold at wholesale In Terre Haute, by

GULICK A BERRY, E. H. BINDLEY, COOK A BELL.